USS SHUBRICK DD-639
SEA STORIES
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Forward
The USS Shubrick was a World War II destroyer that was
commissioned in February 1943, at the Norfolk Navy Yard,
Portsmouth, Virginia. She participated valiantly in numerous
campaigns in the Atlantic, Mediterranean and Pacific, including
the invasion of Sicily in 1943, the invasion at Normandy and
southern France in 1944 and the Okinawa campaign in 1945.
Someone once said that war was about 97% boredom and 3% sheer
terror. Those of us, who were Shubrick crew members, can
certainly attest to that, especially the sheer terror part, for
we remember many grim moments; But we also remember the
humorous and sometimes hilarious episodes that made life
bearable during those uncertain times.
During our August 1991 reunion final dinner in Bremerton,
Washington, George Morley, our erstwhile moderator, asked that
each of us stand and relate an anecdote or humorous story
pertaining to our Shubrick days. Several of our shipmates rose
to the occasion and left us laughing. Others of us who are not
very comfortable at public speaking, to put it mildly, drew a
memory blank and could only mumble words best forgotten. This
occasion did serve, however, as a broom to brush away some of
the memory cobwebs and later bring to mind some of the
anecdotes and humorous events that pertained to that era.
Here are some of those stories:
Lloyd McGhee September 29, 1992.
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When the ship was being fitted out during it's final
construction days at Portsmouth, there was a great bustle of
hectic activity, and much confusion. Ours was not the only ship
in the yard that was engaged in final completion. There were
several others, including at least one cruiser. Materials and
supplies poured into the yard and were stored temporarily in
warehouses until the ships were ready to receive them.
Warehousemen were hard-pressed to keep up with this great flow
of material and the related mountain of paperwork.
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The Chief's Quarters Coffee maker.
Each ship's department was responsible for getting their
equipment aboard and installed in the proper location. Our
canny Chief Commissary Steward became aware that the Chief's
Quarters had been allocated a glass coffee maker, similar to
the kind you see today. This was a situation that could not be
tolerated. First, the pot was much too small to adequately
serve the great coffee thirst of the ship's Chiefs. Second,
since the Chief's Quarters were located well forward in the bow
of the ship, where violent motion at sea was the norm, life
expectancy of a glass coffee pot was minimal. The Chief set
about to correct this vast oversight. He took his people down
to the warehouse to load a truck with a number of legitimate
supplies.
While the loading was proceeding, he noted that a five gallon,
stainless steel, steam powered coffee maker was tagged with the
name of a cruiser that was also being fitted out. He quickly
removed the tag and replaced it with one labeled: "USS Shubrick
- Chief's Quarters", then went to the warehouseman charged with
issuing the equipment and told him that we were ready to
receive the Coffee maker. The harassed warehouseman started
searching through a humongous pile of paperwork, trying to find
the right documentation. After about the second or third search
through the stack, our Chief impatiently told him that he had
to have it now as the truck was about to leave and the yard
workmen were waiting to install the unit. At that point the
poor guy threw up his hands, told him to take it and that he
was sure the paperwork would show up soon and could be signed
later. Of course, later never came. A little butter and sugar
worked wonders with the yard fitters. We had a fine coffee
maker that served us well for the rest of the war.
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Mooring Lines.
In one shipyard warehouse, the equipment for each ship was
segregated and stored in separate wire mesh cages with locked
doors. Ship's crew members were only allowed into the cages
after being properly identified. Warehousemen were far too busy
to monitor activities, once proper authorization was
established. Our Bosun's Mate peered through the cage wire mesh
and, noted that the cruiser's cage next door had a lot of
equipment he could use as well as a beautiful, huge coil of
mooring line whose diameter was much larger than that
authorized for our destroyer. He also noted that tile cage
partitions did not extend all the way to the warehouse ceiling.
He and his crew then stacked equipment high enough to climb
over the partition and into the cruiser's cage and equipment
transfers were quickly made. The coil of mooring line, however,
was another matter. It was much too heavy to move as a coil.
This problem was solved by passing one end over the partition
and coiling the line on the destroyer side. All went well unti1
about halfway through this exercise when crewmen from the
cruiser showed up! Things got a little tense for a while but
the cruiser's Bosun, was out manned so he wisely said, "Put it
back!". Our people did and nothing was noted or said about the
other equipment transfers! However, since that type of
requisition works both ways, you can't help but wonder how much
of our gear went to sea on the cruiser.
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Life At Sea.
Life, at sea, often fell into the 97% boredom category. Still,
this was far preferable to the 3% terror that came all too
often. Boredom was often interspersed with bits of humor that
may only be appreciated by those who lived the experience.
For instance, we soon learned to not let the Chief Electricians
Mate sit on the bench that extended along the outboard bulkhead
behind the Chief's mess table. We always reserved a chair for
him on the inboard side of the table. We learned to do this the
hard way. Anyone sitting on the bench was trapped there until
those on each side of him were through eating. Now, the ship
had an AC generator in each of the two engine rooms. These
generators could be paralleled when load requirements demanded.
Paralleling was a bit tricky. The generators had to be
perfectly synchronized before the paralleling breaker was
thrown. Timing had to be precise. If the operation was not
performed properly, breakers would trip and the "load would be
lost"! If the load was lost, the entire ship blacked out and
chaos ensued. No lights, no blowers, no pumps, no radio, no
anything! Getting power back on the had to be done as quickly
as possible, mostly in the dark, with only the aid of feeble
light from battle lanterns. Needless to say, the Captain and
the Chief Engineer took very dim views of this sort of thing
and the Chief Electricians Mate was held responsible to see
that It did not occur. Never-the-less, it did occur on
occasion. If the lights so much as flickered and the
Electrician was trapped on the bench behind the mess table, he
would go right across the table top, on his way to the engine
room! After the first couple of times this happened, he always
had a chair, in the clear, reserved for him.
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Speaking of the Chief Electrician, he told us an anecdote about
something that occurred on a ship he was on prior to being
assigned to the Shubrick. As the story goes, a Chief Boatswains
Mate reported aboard. He soon let everyone know that his
previous assignment had been aboard President Roosevelt's
yacht. The other Chiefs soon tired of hearing him brag about
how he used to bait the president's hook and assist him in
fishing. Finally they devised a way to shut him up. When he
started one of his bragging stories, someone said, "You know,
he certainly isn't a Third Class Baiter!". A second chief
chimed in and said, "No, and he isn't a Second Class Baiter!".
Someone else piped up and said, "He's even better than a First
Class Baiter!". Then in unison, they all shouted, "By God, he's
a Master Baiter!"
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There were countless other stories and jokes told during long,
seemingly endless, days at sea.
Here is one that someone told:
Due to cultural differences, American and British sailors
didn't always get along very well and often bar fights would
break out. The British were usually very devoted to the Crown
and were particularly sensitive about any slur regarding
members of the Royal Family.
Our storyteller said he was once in a club in Halifax, Nova
Scotia where American and British sailors were about evenly
mixed. In an effort to be congenial, he, and his friends,
started socializing with a group of British sailors. They were
all getting along quite well when the topic of conversation
drifted around to the Duke and Duchess of Windsor.
In regard to the Duchess, one British sailor remarked, "She is
nothing but an American prostitute!".
Without thinking, an American sailor quickly replied, "Well you
may be right but she was good enough for the King of England!".
That did it, and, the fight was on!
American sailors soon learned about this sensitivity of British
sailors concerning members of the Royal Family and took great
delight in baiting them whenever they could. One shipmate told
of a time when his ship was docked in an English port. British
sailors usually wore hobnailed shoes that made a lot of noise
when they walked. One evening, a group of American sailors were
gathered at the rail when they heard someone walking up the
deserted dock. Finally a lone, diminutive British sailor
appeared in the one light on the dock. An American sailor
shouted down, "Hey, Limey!".
"What you want, Yank?", came the reply.
"F--- the King!" The enraged Brit then stamped his feet several
times and shook his fist. Finally he said, "Hey Yank. F--- Babe
Ruth!", and marched off into the darkness.
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Not all Brits rose to this kind of baiting, however. One story
was told about similar circumstances wherein an American said,
"F--- the Queen!".
The Limey calmly replied, "F--- her? You can't even approach
her!".
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Surgery At Sea.
Surgery at sea on a rolling, pitching destroyer under
conditions less than ideal required great courage and skill. On
one occasion when we were escorting a convoy across the
Atlantic on a return voyage to New York, one of our Sonar men
developed acute appendicitis. Our doctor had no alternative: He
successfully operated with his young patient strapped to the
wardroom table. That was emergency surgery and you would think
there is nothing humorous about that. However, in retrospect,
amusing aspects can be found.
Bill Hardcastle, our versatile Gunnery Officer, has added some
details that were not previously known to those of us not
present during the operation. Doctor Lovering pressed Bill into
service as his assistant and assigned him the task of
administering the anaesthetic by pouring ether into a gauze
mask. Soon after the incision was made, the patient,
Jim Snakenburg, began thrashing
about.
"Give him more ether, Bill!", ordered the doctor.
"I've already given him one can!", Bill replied.
"Then give him another one.", the Doctor said, and kept on
cutting.
At some point during the operation, Jim's heart stopped beating
and the doctor quickly started pounding his chest and taking
emergency measures until it's rhythm was restored. After the
surgery, Jim was transferred to the lower bunk in the doctor's
cabin. The next morning, Bill visited Jim, who was then awake.
When asked how he felt, Jim replied, "Not too bad but I don't
understand why my CHEST is so damn sore!"
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Then there was elective surgery! Once when we were at sea,
someone went to the doctor with a very private problem. The
problem might have been private but the solution was soon known
after the doctor
performed his magic - circumcision!! The poor patient was
ambulatory but couldn't stand the confines of clothing. His
only alternative was to keep his fly open with his bloody,
bandaged standard waving in the breeze for all to see!
Now you might think this event was the end of such surgery but
quite the opposite occurred. Our home port was New York where
close encounters were common. After weeks at sea, everyone
looked forward with great anticipation to liberty in New York.
At the time, we were mostly escorting slow convoys to and from
the British Isles. Liberty, if any, was rare in England or
Ireland and a round trip voyage took anywhere from two to three
months. Consequently, the pressure was tremendous by the time
we returned to that great and shining city by the sea - New
York.
You might be wondering what all this has to do with elective
surgery! Well, apparently there were quite a number of our
crewmen with "private problems" who suddenly realized that a
solution was at hand.
It should be noted, though, that elective surgery was
requested, only, when we were outbound from New York - never
inbound! Why? Think about it. Outbound provided a post
operative period of two to three
months and thus provided plenty of time for healing and
toughening. It was imperative that everything be in good
working order upon arrival back in New York. Wait! That's not
all! One of our noble Chiefs finally screwed up his courage and
went to see the doctor on the first day outbound from New York.
The doctor accommodate him forthwith. Secrecy being what it
was, the Chief didn't know that this trip was quite different
from any preceding voyage. Instead of escorting a slow convoy,
we joined up with three other destroyers and made a highspeed
run to Gibraltar where we picked up a small fast convoy and
escorted them to New York. Total round trip time - less than a
month! What a dilemma for the Chief. Emergency measures were
implemented. Daily, on the return trip, we would see him
sitting forlornly in the head, bathing, bathing, bathing his
injured member in salt water. Did it work? Who knows?
We didn't ask!
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Bill Hardcastle tells another doctor story about a time when he
was Officer of the Deck (OOD) out at sea:
Captain Bryan and Doctor Caldwell (who preceded Doctor
Lovering) were standing on the starboard wing of the bridge
when the captain instructed the doctor, in no uncertain terms,
to get his fanny down to the coding room and get to work
deciphering messages. (It seems that the doctor had previously
informed the captain that in accordance with the Geneva
Convention, he couldn't perform combat duties and thus he was
protected from performing coding duties!)
Captain Bryan further advised the doctor in unprintable terms
that during the next air raid, he was going to take away the
doctor's helmet and life jacket, have Signalman Benson turn the
signal light on the doctor and the doctor could then tell the
Germans that he was protected by the Geneva Convention!
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Signals.
One of our signalmen used to tell this story:
Before World War II, many of the Pacific Fleet Destroyers
were based at San Diego. Fleet training exercises were
conducted almost every week. The destroyers would depart San
Diego on Monday morning and return on Friday afternoon,
rounding Point Loma on their way to anchorages in the inner
harbor.
Signalmen communicated with signal flags, semaphore and the
morse code using flashing light. Flashing light was the most
used system and some signalmen would teach their wives this
art. Point Loma was sparsely populated in those days, but
there was a road leading out to lands end, and many of the
wives would gather there on Friday afternoons to watch the
ships come in. As the ships rounded the point, there would be
numerous flashing lights, both on the ships and on the beach
as husbands and wives sent messages back and forth to each
other.
The story goes that one signalman was standing next to
another and was "eavesdropping" on his buddy's flashing light
conversation with his wife over on Point Loma. His buddy
would signal: F F.
The wife would reply: N (Negative) E F.
Again his buddy would signal: F F.
The wife's reply would again be N E F.
It was obvious that the two were having a disagreement so the
observing signalman finally asked his buddy what the argument
was about.
The reply: "Aw, she wants to EAT First!"!
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Prisoners Of War.
Shortly after the July 10, 1943 invasion of Sicily at Gela,
on the southern coast, an America army, under the command of
General Patton, broke out of the invasion perimeter and swept
westward , then north and then east along the north coast
road. Palermo was soon liberated and the army pressed
eastward against increasing resistance.
In late July, we were ordered to the north coastal waters to
provide submarine screening for a cruiser and assist in
providing fire support for the Army advance. Every night
during this operation, we would return to the harbor at
Palermo and anchor. Every night, there would be a German air
raid. On the night of 3-4 August, the Shubrick received a
direct hit from a 500 pound bomb that penetrated the ship
between the aft stack and the torpedo tubes. Loss of life and
damage was severe. The ship was towed into the inner harbor
and tied up alongside of two Italian freighters that were
sitting on the bottom of the dock with only portions of their
upper decks and superstructure. above water. It is amazing
how quickly we learned to skip across these derelicts in the
dark during subsequent air raids. There was a grand air raid
shelter about a block from the dock!
The ship was later towed to Malta for repairs but during our
stay in Palermo, we encountered our first face to face
contacts with enemy troops. Since we had lost all shipboard
power, a field kitchen was set up on the dock. One person who
was assigned to assist our cooks, wash dishes and serve as a
general handyman was a cheerful, smiling, blonde young man
who appeared to be about 18 years old, or less. He was German
and a POW. He didn't seem to be at all threatening and
certainly nothing like we had expected a German soldier to
be. In fact, he seemed quite glad to be there. I wonder what
ever became of him.
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Every day, during our stay in Palermo, the Army would bring
several truck loads of Italian POW's down to the docks to
pick up debris. One lone American G.I. would be left to guard
them. Usually the guard would sit in the shade with his
helmet down over his eyes and doze. We thought this was very
odd and one day asked him if he wasn't afraid they would run
away. His reply: "Hell no! We don't have any place to keep
them at night, so, we tell them to go find a place to sleep
and come back in the morning. For every 100 we let go in the
evening, a 150 show up the next morning. What happens is they
go out into the hills and tell their buddies that they are
being well treated and well fed. The war is over for them.
These guys aren't fighters, they're lovers!".
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Another encounter with POW's occurred during the invasion at
Normandy. Several days subsequent to the initial invasion, we
were posted to the picket line several miles north of the
supply and troop ships anchored off the beachhead. The picket
line consisted of a number of destroyers that were spaced in
a line stretching from the Cotentin peninsula eastward for
some distance. Our task was to prevent German "E" boat
raiders, submarines and destroyers from penetrating into the
unloading area near the beachhead. There were German air
raids every night. One night after an air raid, flares were
periodically noted off in the distance. After daylight, the
Destroyer Division Commander ordered us to pullout of the
line and investigate. What was found were two skinny,
shivering German airmen in a very small rubber raft. Their
aircraft had been shot down the night before. These two were
quickly pulled aboard and stood cold and trembling on the
quarterdeck, surrounded by American sailors who rapidly
relieved them of anything that smacked of a souvenir.
Insignia, buttons and belts were ripped off and disappeared.
It is amusing to speculate what these two miserable human
specimens were thinking. They had no way of knowing that
American sailors were avid souvenir hunters who seldom got a
chance to satisfy their hunger for tokens of a historic
war.
The rubber life raft? There was a bit of a hassle regarding
it's disappearance, but no one owned up to 'having it’.
It was revealed quite recently, that the raft wound up in an
attic in a Midwest home where it stayed for many years!
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Boats.
The Shubrick was rough on boats. I am not sure how many boats
we were issued during the life of the ship. A 23 foot, wooden
motor whaleboat was the standard issue for a destroyer in
those days. Initially, we received two, one of which was
designated the Captain's gig. During the fitting out process
in the Portsmouth Navy Yard, the boats were tied up at the
stern of the ship. One morning it was discovered that one of
the boats was missing. The Naval authorities were notified
and our boat was later found sitting in the mud flats, at low
tide, miles away, out at N.O.B. A set of tracks through the
mud from the abandoned boat to the beach was the only sign
left by the perpetrator of that dastardly act! The boat was
damaged beyond immediate repair so we were issued a new
boat.
Off we went to sea with a motor whaleboat rigged in davits on
each side. That didn't last long. Soon the standard was
changed from two to one. There went the Captain's gig. The
boat and it’s davits were removed and turned in for
reissue to some other vessel. So much for boat loss #2.
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The sequence of boat losses is blurred in memory.
Once we were escorting a convoy on a return trip to New York
during a terrible winter storm. This was one of those times
when we went "over two and under one" or maybe it was the
other way around. This very apt term was used when the going
was especially rough. The destroyer, being long and lean, had
a tendency in rough seas to ride up on the crest of a wave,
then bury it's bow in the following trough. When the bow was
down, the stern would rise into the air and the twin screws
would whirr as they momentarily broke clear of the water.
With the nose down, the next wave would crash over the bow
and the entire ship would be inundated, as she shuddered and
struggled to rise up and meet the next onslaught. Thus the
term "over two, and under one"!
Another term often used during these periods was "dipping
water with the stack" which referred to violent rolls from
side to side. An actual roll that far would more than likely
doom a ship, but, quite often, a particularly violent roll
would seem that bad, as everything not lashed down would go
flying about, and anyone, not hanging on. was in dire danger
of severe injury. It was not unusual for this type of severe
weather to go on for days as the exhausted crew subsisted
mainly on soup, coffee and saltine crackers.
During this particular voyage, the water breaking over the
ship turned to ice and built up to dangerous proportions.
Finally, a break in the weather came, and some of the ice
could be chipped away.
The boat?
Well, it didn't fare too well. The crashing water had
ruptured the cover, the drain had plugged with ice, and the
boat filled with water that turned to ice. The pounding of
the ship drove the boat chocks up through the wooden bottom.
They gave us a new boat when we reached New York.
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There was another time when we were on a torpedo firing
training exercise in Casco Bay, Maine. We would make a run on
a target and fire off a torpedo with a dummy warhead. After
the torpedo exhausted it's run, the air in the nose would
cause it to rise to the surface, nose up. At this point, the
motor whaleboat crew would be dispatched to recover the
torpedo by placing a line through a ring in it's nose and tow
it back to the ship. During one recovery attempt, the ground
swells were particularly severe and caused extreme bobbing of
both the boat and the torpedo. The crew had a very hard time
getting a line on the torpedo but finally succeeded. Before
they could snub it though, the torpedo went down and the boat
went up. Then the boat dropped down and the torpedo bobbed up
- smack into the bottom of the boat! Oh well! Just
another boat!
If I remember correctly, the shrapnel from the Kamikaze
attack, off Okinawa, made swiss cheese out of the hull of the
boat we had at that time.
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Let it be said that the endangerment of crew members and loss
of equipment is never humorous at the time it occurs. Still,
in retrospect, humor can be found in many situations. We lost
another boat in the Mediterranean and some aspects of that
situation had it's humorous elements.
After the invasion at Normandy, we were ordered to the
Mediterranean for participation in the invasion of Southern
France. After Normandy, our involvement in the action during
the Southern France
invasion seemed like a "piece of cake". Most of our time in
that area was spent out at sea screening Jeep carriers which
were dispatching aircraft to cover the beachhead attack.
When the carriers had aircraft up, we kept a rescue team on
standby
near the motor whaleboat which, in turn, was kept hanging
from the davits and level with the rail. Thus, we were ready
for any eventuality - or so we thought!
One fine, beautiful day when the sun was shining and the sea
was calm, we were steaming along near the carriers and the
war seemed far away. Suddenly one of the carriers radioed
that one of their aircraft was returning with his landing
gear flucked up and he was going to ditch. Almost immediately
after this message was received, the aircraft appeared,
flying low across our bow. The pilot had his canopy open and
grinned and waved as he went by. A few hundred yards to our
starboard, he dropped his plane in the water. The aircraft
went down and the pilot bobbed up. His ditching procedure was
faultless.
Our part of this drama didn't go quite so well. For reasons
of his own, the Officer of the Deck rang up flank speed and
called away the rescue boat crew. The rescue crew piled into
the boat hanging at the rail. The boat officer, who had been
down below when the excitement began, climbed in last. No one
seemed to notice that the ship was speeding up instead of
slowing down so the two seamen manning the rope falls were
ordered to lower the boat into the water. They did!
Now the boat could be launched with the ship moving provided
the ship’s speed did not exceed about six knots. he
procedure was as follows:
A line, called a sea painter, extended forward from a cleat
in the bow of the boat to a bitt on the bow of the ship. This
line was used to tow the boat alongside the ship, until the
engine could be started, and the boat could pick up enough
speed to gain slack in the tow line. At this point, the sea
painter would be unhooked from the boat cleat, and the boat
would then pull away under it's own power.
Anyway, this was the way it was supposed to work!
Unfortunately for our hapless crew and the boat, this time it
didn't work that way. When the boat hit the water, it was
estimated that the ship was traveling at a speed somewhere
around 19 or 20 knots. The sea painter cleat was ripped from
the wooden boat bow and the boat swerved outward at right
angles to the ship with the rope falls singing through the
blocks. At this point, the boat crew was literally scooped up
by the water rushing through the boat and were deposited
unhurt into the sea. All were wearing life jackets and
floated astern as the ship sped away.
As for the boat, the forward fall snapped and the after fall
ran out until it fouled. There we were, steaming along,
towing our boat alongside the ship - under water!
Meanwhile, the boat crew gathered together and held on to
each other so as not to get scattered. The pilot later
related how things were progressing from his point of view.
After getting clear of the aircraft, his life jacket kept him
afloat, although low in the water. He could see the ship
steaming away in the distance and waved repeatedly, thinking
that no one could see him. He was starting to feel very much
alone and forlorn when suddenly he thought he could hear
voices. At first he was worried that he may have hit his head
and was hallucinating. He was alone in a big ocean and yet it
became clear that he could hear people talking. Finally, he
bobbed up on a swell and there, to his amazement, was a group
of people in the water nearby. He swam over to their vicinity
and as casually as he could, under the circumstances, he
said,
"HI! Where's your boat?".
Our boat coxswain, who was thoroughly disgusted with this
poor show of seamanship, shot back:
"Boat, hell! This Is the way we always pick 'em up!"
As a sequel to this story, Bill Hardcastle has added this
related followup:
We had recovered a life raft, adrift in the Mediterranean.
Later when we anchored off shore near Ajaccio, Corsica,
Captain Blenman had the Boatswains Mate, who lowered the
motor whale boat into the water, when the ship was traveling
at 20 knots, row him ashore in the raft!
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Anchor Away.
Once, we steamed into the harbor at Naples, Italy, and
dropped the anchor. Boy! Did we ever drop it.
It is probably still there, along with a lot of anchor
chain.
The Captain liked to train his younger officers by assigning
them to various departments and have them perform, from time
to time, some of the tasks normally performed by enlisted
crewmen. This hands on experience usually worked out very
well but not always.
Anchor chains are usually painted black with white markings
at various points along their length. These markings are
coded so that the amount of chain paid out can be noted as
the chain rapidly moves up out of the chain locker, through
the anchor windlass, across the deck and out through the
hawse pipe. The amount of chain paid out is dependent upon
the depth of the water at the anchorage. When the proper
amount of chain is out, a brake on the anchor windlass is
applied and the chain stops it's rapid descent into the sea.
The man assigned to note the markings is said to "Call the
shots". It is not always an easy task. Usually, the anchor
chain is rusty and the markings are not easy to see. In
addition, the chain moves out very rapidly in a cloud of
rusty dust and dried mud. It takes experience, a good eye and
rapid decisions.
One of our young ensigns had been assigned to the deck
department anchor detail. As we prepared to anchor at Naples,
word came from the bridge for him to "call the shots"! Well,
he called them as he saw them. He just didn't see them right
and the chain was not stopped off in the chain locker. Life
can be cruel sometimes. Others on that detail saw what was
happening and did nothing. They Just left him "swinging in
the breeze"! Captains take a dim view of losing anchors and
great fathoms of chain! I wonder if that poor ensign ever got
promoted,
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Fear.
Franklin Roosevelt once said, "The only thing we have to tear
is fear itself". Obviously, he wasn't riding in the Shubrick
at Okinawa, when he said that; But that is taking his words
out of context; Like love, fear comes in many forms. The
fellow who said, "War is 97% boredom and 3% sheer terror",
was oversimplifying. The 97% part could more accurately be
broken down into smaller parts, such as nervousness, fear of
the unknown, and more often than not, worry. I think that we
all worried a great deal, about where we were going next,
what was going to happen when we got there, and would we
survive this time. In campaigns prior to Okinawa we expressed
the hope that "--we wouldn't get hit this time", Conditions
at Okinawa were so bad that soon after our arrival in that
theater, we changed that lament to: "When we get hit, I hope
it isn't where I'm at!".
Anyone who has faced combat knows that it is not demeaning to
be afraid. In fact anyone who afterward says he was not
afraid has a mental problem, is a consummate liar or has a
very convenient memory. The important thing, of course, is
how one conducted himself during times of extreme stress.
There were many very brave individuals in our crew, whose
conduct was exemplary, even under the most extreme
conditions.
Even during the most trying of times, humor can be found. It
was part of the fabric that permitted us to endure.
Personally, I was always a bit envious of those whose battle
station was out in the open as opposed to those of us whose
station was inside. At least those who were outside could
better judge when to shift from worry to fear to terror!
Those of us in the inner spaces were subject to "fear of the
unknown" all the time during General Quarters!
My own battle station was in Main Radio where there were no
portholes and our knowledge of what was going on was limited
to sounds rather than sight. Imagination is rampant under
these conditions. You imagine far more is happening than
probably is.
Although my assigned station was Main Radio, during the
Okinawa campaign, I had a further assignment. During the dawn
and dusk GQ's, nothing usually happened and battle stations
were manned as a precautionary measure during these
vulnerable periods. Therefore, I had an unofficial
subassignment to the tiny coding room, which was Just across
the corridor from Main Radio where I spent many hours alone
decoding messages.
Now the only space between the coding room and the number two
five inch gun mount was the Executive Officer's cabin. Every
time that mount made a movement, it could be plainly heard in
my location. The hum from the training and elevation motors
were especially pronounced. I knew the movements of the gun
mount were usually controlled by the Gunnery Officer sitting
in his little jump seat high up in the fire control director.
In my mind's eye, I could see him with his head and shoulders
out in the open behind his slewing sight. He would search a
sector, then move his sight horizontally to the adjacent
sector, search that, then on to the next one. I could follow
this movement by the sound the training motor mmmmmmmmm,
pause, mmmmmmmm, pause! When this was happening, there was no
particular cause for concern. But suddenly someone would call
in a target! The training motor would go into extended
operation mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm - and I would know he
had a target. Then the elevation motor would go
rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr! After that there would be intermittent
mmmmmmm's and rrrrrrrr's as he tracked the target. Suddenly
the five inch guns would open up Baroom - Baroom - Baroom!
(Try to continue typing under those conditions! I would sit
frozen in my chair!) Next, would come the 40MM's - Blam -
Blam - Blam - Blam Blam! (Oh, Hell, He's getting closer!)
Then the 20MM's would start chattering "- Tack - Tack - Tack
- Tack! That did it. It was my signal to make a dash for the
Radio Shack. Misery loves company!
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During the early morning hours of June 6, 1944, we were at
our station Just off the Normandy beachhead firing at
assigned targets. All around us were other vessels, also
blasting away, providing covering fire for troops landing on
the beach. Everywhere was a bedlam of flame, smoke, and
noise.
Those of us in the Radio Shack would take turns going outside
to see this astonishing sight. Once, when my turn came, I
went out on deck near the forward stack. There, sitting on a
ready box, was a young seaman telephone talker/observer. His
eyes were like saucers and pointing off to starboard at
intermittent splashes in the water, he said, in the most
injured tones imaginable, "LOOK! Some son-of-a-bitch is
SHOOTING at us!"
I couldn't help but burst out laughing. I couldn't imagine
what else he expected. It certainly wasn't a one-way street!
Fortunately, we were out of range.
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Passengers
If you have ever been a passenger on a Naval vessel, you can
truly appreciate this old story that has been kicking around
in the annals of the Navy for many years. Passengers on a
Naval vessel earn their keep. I know from experience, having
been a passenger on two different occasions on the old
ammunition ship, USS Nitro prior to World War II. Paint
chipping, painting, bilge cleaning, oil wiping and any other
less desirable chores were assigned, with fiendish delight,
to passengers, by the regular crew.
Marines were usually employed as guards on the gates at Naval
installations. They delighted in giving sailors a hard time
when they were returning from liberty. Relieving sailors of
their booze at the gate was a favorite pastime of the Marine
guards. Obviously, this practice did not endear the Marines
to the sailors. When a Marine became a passenger on a Naval
vessel, "Vengeance is mine!" said the sailors. .
The story goes that the old Naval Transport, USS CHAUMONT,
picked up a contingent of Marines at one of the China
stations or other Far East port. After a long and dreary
trip, the ship finally docked in Pearl Harbor in transit to
San Diego. Pearl wasn't much of a respite for the weary
driven Marines. Even in port, they were forced to continue
their ceaseless labors while the regular crew sailors went
ashore on liberty. Just before the ship departed Pearl Harbor
for San Diego, a young Marine was put over the side in a
bosuns chair with a bucket of black paint and a brush and
told to touch up the raised letters. forming the ship's name
on the hull on each side of the bow. He completed his chore
and was hauled back up on deck just minutes before the ship
set sail for San Diego.
Several days later, the ship rounded Point Loma and started
the long transit up through the harbor to it's dock in San
Diego. As the vessel made it's way between other Naval
vessels anchored in the harbor, the Captain of the Chaumont
became increasingly incensed when he noted that as he passed
another ship, the crew would man the rail, laugh and point.
It was obvious that his ship was the object of great
hilarity, the cause of which could not be seen from his
vantage point. As soon as the CHAUMONT docked, the Captain
sent the Executive Officer ashore to fathom the cause of the
ridicule.
Here is what he found, the handiwork of the young Marine:
C H A U M O N T
H E L S A N A R
R L L R V A
I P I Y N
S N S
T E P
S O
R
T
S
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The Gunner’s War
Our Chief Gunner's Mate was a feisty little guy named L.E.
Bishop. The Gunner was a little older than most of us and was
well into his naval career when the war started. He said he was
a crew member of a small wooden mine sweeper based at Little
Creek, Virginia, when the war started. Why a gunners mate was
assigned to a mine sweeper, whose heaviest armament was a few
.45 caliber pistols, was hard for him to fathom, but
“strange” are some of the ways of the Navy. He was
content. He had a home and a wife in Norfolk, and the minesweep
was assigned to sweep Chesapeake Bay. His participation in
combat seemed remote.
One night in February of 1942, his ship was performing it's
sweeping duties in a snowstorm in company with a sister ship.
The vessels were steaming abreast, several hundred yards apart.
The weather deteriorated and visual contact between the sweeps
was lost. The Captain of the Gunner's ship changed course in an
effort to regain the lost contact. Contact was made but not
visually until it was too late. The other minesweep rammed them
amidships.
The Gunner, the Chief Bosun's Mate, and the Chief Engineer
immediately started pumps and tried to institute damage control
to save their ship. The rest of their crew clambered aboard the
other minesweep which sailed off into the darkness, bound for
the dock in Little Creek to effect repairs to it's damaged
bow.
It soon became obvious to the Gunner and his mates that their
efforts were not going to be enough to save the vessel. There
was a life raft on the fantail, so the three of them climbed
into it, cut the lines and waited for the ship to settle from
under them. It did and they drifted off into the night, sitting
in waist deep, very cold water.
The Gunner said he wasn't too worried. He felt sure they would
be picked up when daylight came. They were rescued soon after
dawn and transported back to Little Creek. Things were not too
well organized at the base and no one seemed to know what to do
with them. Consequently, the Gunner took matters into his own
hands. Cold, wet, and hungry, he boarded a streetcar and went
home to find warmth, a home cooked meal and dry clothes.
Several days later, a friend dropped by and told him that they
were looking for him at the base, so he returned and reported
in. However, the long hours spent in the cold bay water had
affected the nerves in his legs so he wound up in the hospital.
After a period of treatment, he was discharged and, much to his
delight, was issued a "limited duty" slip that was placed in
his records. He was then assigned to a U.S. Coast Guard station
at Yorktown, Virginia. He thought he had it made, but the Coast
Guard didn't know what to do with him and before long, he
received orders to report for duty aboard a troop transport
that was undergoing conversion in the Philadelphia
shipyard.
The Gunner reported aboard, waving his "limited duty" slip,
showing that he was not eligible for sea duty. The harried
Executive Officer informed him that he was badly needed and if
he would just make one trip with them, he would see what he
could do to get him transferred to a shore station. Gunner was
not happy with this, but decided that a half a loaf was better
than nothing.
Before long, his ship was off the coast of North Africa,
playing a key role in the invasion. It was a busy time for the
Gunner. Landing craft were constantly returning from the
beachhead with their machine guns overheated and fouled with
grit and sand. He worked endless hours in the armory, cleaning
weapons and returning them to working order. Every night, he
would take his mattress up to the highest point he could find
in the superstructure where he would get a few hours of rest
and sleep. All around them, other ships were being torpedoed
and he wanted to be up as high as possible when it happened to
his vessel.
His prophecy came true. One evening, shortly after dusk, his
ship received a mortal wound and started sinking. The Gunner
rushed aft and started cutting loose 50 man life rafts. People
were jumping over the side, right and left.
Later, when he joined them, no raft was available, so he
started swimming toward the beach. Along the way, he passed a
battleship and their crewmen started throwing life preservers
down to him. He ignored their efforts and kept swimming towards
the nearby beach. He reasoned that they, too, might get
torpedoed and he’d had enough of that. The beach looked
firm, safe and solid.
The Gunner, and many of his shipmates, made it safely to the
beach, but were a sad, oil soaked and bedraggled lot. They were
herded together and housed in an abandoned warehouse with no
facilities. Eventually, the Army issued them khaki uniforms but
there was no way to shower or remove the oil. After a day or
so, they were loaded aboard a transport that was sailing
immediately for Norfolk. The transport only had saltwater
showers and again there was no way to remove the oil from their
skin and matted hair. Finally, they docked at N.D.B. Norfolk
and in the ensuing confusion, Gunner slipped away, got on a
streetcar once again, and went home. Five gallons of kerosene
and a long soak in the bathtub finally relieved him of most of
the crud.
Unfortunately, the Gunners "Limited Duty" slip went down with
the transport and he was soon ordered aboard the Shubrick.
Sicily, Normandy, Southern France and then Okinawa
followed.
The Gunners battle station, on the Shubrick, at Okinawa, was
Gun Captain for the two 40MM gun mounts aft, just forward of #3
main battery gun mount.
It was here, on the starboard side, that the kamikaze dove into
us. The gunner disappeared along with a number of other
shipmates.
It wasn't until later that we learned of his fate. Fortunately,
he saw the aircraft approaching and, at the last moment, jumped
off of the deckhouse, and landed on the port side of the main
deck aft. As the aircraft crashed into the ship, he jumped over
the side. By some miracle, the port screw missed him, and he
was left tumbling, rolling, and struggling in the ship's wake.
Finally, he surfaced and floated in his life jacket until
picked up, by another vessel, after daybreak.
About a week later, several Chief's were morosely sitting in
the Chief's Mess drinking coffee, when they heard someone
descend into the bunk room on the deck above. Then the ladder
chains rattled and there stood the Gunner . They were stunned
by his sudden appearance and, for a moment, no one said
anything. Finally, the Gunner said, "Well, haven't any of you
bastards got anything to say?"
Finally, someone replied, "Get to hell out of here, Gunner.
You're dead. We've mourned you for a week and that's all your
gonna get!"
The Gunner grumbled, poured himself a cup of coffee and sat
down.
It was a long war.
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Here is an anecdote that Bill Hardcastle relates:
(To my knowledge, it never made it's way to the mess
decks.)
It seems that the Chief Boatswain's Mate was returned to the
ship one night, passed out, and was put to bed in the Captain's
Cabin. When he discovered him there, Captain Blenman tossed him
out.
Several months later, Captain Blenman returned to the ship,
quite loaded himself, and failed to realize that the Shubrick
was moored outboard of our sister ship, Herndon, his old ship.
The Quarter Deck Watch knew him and greeted him as Captain. He
then proceeded to the Captain's Cabin and turned on the light.
There he found someone in the bunk and, much incensed, tossed
out the occupant. Then, to his great embarrassment, found that
he had debunked Captain Moore, his former Commanding
Officer!
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