“Stand By for a Ram! Part I”
(See R. A. Maher and J. A. Wise, pp. 24-28, Summer 1993 Naval History)
“Stand By for a Ram! Part II”
(See R. A. Maher and J. A. Wise, pp. 40-45, September-October 1993 Naval History)
David G. Boyd
Your magazine does get around.
Recently, I was tuning my amateur radio station when I heard “. . . my arms folded over one of the bars of the screw guard. . . .” The words “screw guard” caught my attention, because until I read these articles, I had never heard of a screw guard. I listened a bit longer and discovered that an amateur radio operator in Florida was reading the article to an audience of ham radio operators listening in various parts of the world. I tuned in too late to hear how he came to read that story, but I was certainly impressed to hear it broadcast to the world at large.
You never know just how big your audience really is!
Editor’s Note: The Editorial Board of the U.S. Naval Institute recently named Captain Wise and Mr. Maher as the 1993 Naval History Authors of the Year.
“The Navy’s Regal Brig”
(See W. Shugg, pp. 20-23, Summer 1993 Naval History)
Commander Fred G. Spellman, U.S. Navy (Retired)
The practice of confining delinquent midshipmen on board the Reina Mercedes had one last fling in 1952.
A somewhat naive young man from Oklahoma, I entered the Academy on 30 June 1952. My summer roommate was a graduate of the Naval Academy Preparatory School who styled himself as “The Great Robear.” His stated goal was to get out of the Navy. He had figured that he was trapped as an enlisted man; however, as a midshipman, he could get thrown out. Therefore, “Robear” took every opportunity to go over the hill. It got so that I couldn’t relax in the evenings because the officer of the deck kept coming by our room, looking for him.
One time, he had returned without being caught, but was apprehended in the mess hall and escorted out to the cheers of his classmates.
Later in the summer, he disappeared and was picked up in Baltimore. Upon his return, he was confined on the Reina Mercedes, awaiting final disposition. “Robear,” however, escaped and later was apprehended again in Baltimore. Eventually, though, his plan failed; he was returned to the fleet as an enlisted man.
“Among the Best”
(See E. N. Bouffard, pp. 27-30, January-February 1994 Naval History)
Professor John R. Pavia, Department of History, Ithaca College
Were Guillermo de Aledo to change the title of his painting “Late Afternoon the Day before Columbus’ Discovery of America” to something like “Late Afternoon the Day before Columbus Reached Gomera” there would be no technical error. At Gomera, in the Canaries, Columbus had the Nina—the vessel on the extreme right in the painting—rerigged. She began the voyage, as correctly depicted in the painting, a caravela latiria with triangular lateen sails on all three masts, but, at Gomera, she was altered into a caravela redondo, with square sails on the main and fore masts and a lateen sail on the mizzen.
Perhaps, the artist was enticed into this error by the challenge of painting a lateen- rigged vessel running before the wind. But he is to be forgiven, for the Bartolome de las Casas abstract of the Columbus log is in even greater error, saying that it was the Pinta that was rerigged. Of such are historical footnotes made.
“Sonobuoy”
(See J. Merrill, pp. 14-16, January-February 1994 Naval History)
Rear Admiral Harley D. Nygren, National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (Retired)
For many years before World War II, the U.S. Coast & Geodetic Survey (USC&GS) employed an offshore navigational system called “Radio Acoustic Ranging” (RAR). It used anchored buoys equipped with hydrophones and radio transmitters. A surveying vessel would drop small bombs, the sound produced was received by the buoy, and a radio signal was transmitted. Knowing the geographic position of the buoy, the elapsed time of the signal transmitted through the water, and the velocity of sound in seawater, the distance could be computed. Two buoys produced two distances and, hence, a fix.
Many of the early unclassified studies of the propagation of sound in seawater were made by USC&.GS officers. In 1947, I was told by a senior officer that the Navy’s sonobuoys were derived from the RAR buoys which served well and long until electronic surveying and navigating systems were introduced during World War II.
“The Norfolk War Scare”
(See F. C. Leiner, pp. 36-38, Summer 1993; M. P. Watson, pp. 4-6, September-October 1993; W. M. P. Dunne, p. 7, November-December 1993; R. B. Redon, p. 3, January-February 1994 Naval History)
Dr. W. M. P. Dunne
I am very familiar with the late Stephen Decatur of Garden City, New York, and his relative, William Decatur Parsons. Furthermore, Lieutenant Richard Leahy, U.S. Navy, the grandson of Charles Lee Lewis, worked for several years in my naval-architecture office. He gave me the correspondence that took place over the years between Professor Lewis and Decatur family members, some of which addressed the Daniel Frazier-Reuben James issue.
In direct response to Mrs. Redon’s comments, my principal source was the report of Surgeon Lewis Heerman of the Enterprise who treated the wounded crewmen from Stephen Decatur’s Gunboat No. 4- I mentioned Professor Lewis’s article, “Reuben James or Daniel Frazier?,” in Maryland Historical Magazine as a source for a scholarly explication of the myth.
My research into Alexander Slidell Mackenzie’s hagiographic biography of Stephen Decatur has illuminated the source of his assertion that Reuben James was the man who saved Decatur—i.e., his interviews and correspondence with Commodore Charles Stewart.
As a historian, I have a great deal of respect for family traditions; in this case, however, the report of the surgeon overrules them. Daniel Frazier’s wounds match the incident; whereas Reuben James was one of four unwounded men on board Gunboat No. 4 on 3 August 1804- Curiously, to the best of my knowledge, Frazier never served again with Decatur, while Reuben James served with his beloved commander in the USS Chesapeake (1807- 1809), the USS United States (1810-1814), and the USS President (1814-1815).
“Bloody Tarawa”
(See J. H. Alexander, pp. 10-16, November-December 1993 Naval History)
James M. McCaffrey, Ph.D.
I enjoyed Colonel Alexander’s article; however, I must correct one statement in its fourth paragraph: “Tarawa was [not]. . . the first encounter between U.S. Marines and the Rikusentai, the Japanese Special Naval Landing Forces. [That] distinction belong[s] to Tulagi and Gavutu in the Solomons, battles that took place the previous year.” Although I do not want to take away any of the honors won by Marines in the Solomons, they were not the first to face the Rikusentai. Credit instead belongs to the Marines, sailors, soldiers, and civilians on Wake Island who repulsed the attempted landing by men of the Rikusentai on 11 December 1941.
Murray Dear
I was surprised to learn that Rear Admiral Harry W. Hill completely disregarded Major Frank Holland’s prediction of a prolonged neap tide during the landing. This disregard of local knowledge is strangely at variance with the assistance provided by three other New Zealanders.
Because of their intimate knowledge of the Gilbert Islands and their navigational experience in those waters gained in the merchant service, three officers of the Royal New Zealand Naval Reserve were assigned as pilots for the amphibious force. Lieutenant James Forbes was on board the USS Pursuit (AM-108) which, in company with the USS Requisite (AM-109), swept the channel into the Tarawa Lagoon ahead of the USS Ringgold (DD-500) and the USS Dashiell (DD-659) which were piloted by Lieutenant Gordon Webster and Lieutenant Stanley Page, respectively.
All four ships came under heavy fire from shore batteries as they entered the lagoon; the Ringgold was hit twice by dud shells and suffered only minor damage.
Throughout the Tarawa operations, the three New Zealand officers piloted destroyers and other ships to their assigned positions. All three men eventually were awarded the Bronze Star for their service.
“Our Norman Rockwell”
(See pp. 31-35, November-December 1993 Naval History)
Ivan Musicant
The Mississippi Marine Brigade was not a unit of the U.S. Marine Corps. It was one of several volunteer organizations in the U.S. Army during the Civil War that often were mistaken for units in the naval service—e.g., the Mississippi Ram Fleet, the New York Marine Artillery, and the Union Coast Guard. These formations were organized, trained, and used by the Army for service afloat.
The Mississippi Marine Brigade began life as the Mississippi Ram Fleet, a volunteer organization of the U.S. War Department raised by Colonel Charles Ellet, Jr., a civil engineer from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Colonel Ellet purchased nine river steamers, reinforced their hulls with oaken timbers, and placed them in service as unarmed and unarmored riverine rams.
On 25 May 1862, the Ram Fleet—with Ellet in command of the Queen of the West—joined the Army’s Western Gunboat Flotilla, commanded by Captain Charles Davis, U.S. Navy, that then was bombarding Fort Pillow on the river highway to Memphis. On 6 June, the rams spearheaded the attack that annihilated the Confederate River Defense Fleet defending Memphis. Interestingly enough, the Confederate fleet had been formed by the Confederate War Department.
The Western Gunboat Flotilla also had been created by the U.S. War Department and was under its operational control. Unlike the Ram Fleet, however, it was commanded by Navy officers—first Commander John Rodgers, then Flag Officer Andrew Foote, and, finally, Captain Davis. The ships’ commanding officers were regular Navy officers, and their crews had a sprinkling of blue-water sailors. On 1 October 1862, the Flotilla and the Ram Fleet were ordered transferred to the Navy Department as the Mississippi Squadron, to be led by Acting Rear Admiral David Dixon Porter.
Colonel Charles Ellet, Jr., died of wounds that he received at Memphis. His brother, Colonel Alfred Ellet, assumed command. He raised an immense stink and refused to be bound by the decision, citing picayune legalisms of congressional intent to protest the fleet’s inclusion into the Mississippi Squadron. For a time, Admiral Porter had the rams confined to their moorings at Mound City, Illinois, and ordered the gunboats to fire on them should they move.
The argument reached to the Cabinet and White House. Admiral Porter wrote to Navy Secretary Gideon Welles suggesting that Ellet’s Ram Fleet was a family fiefdom and, therefore, should be dissolved entirely or designated a “marine brigade” under naval command, for operations against guerrilla forces infesting the river banks. A full Cabinet meeting considered the matter in early November 1862. Secretary of War Edwin Stanton typically denigrated the Navy’s position. Secretary Welles remained silent, depending on President Lincoln to see the Navy’s side of things. With masterful politics, the President promoted Alfred Ellet to Brigadier General of the “Mississippi Marine Brigade” which would remain in the Army but serve under naval command “until otherwise ordered.”
Commenting on the affair, Assistant Secretary of the Navy Gustavus V. Fox wrote to Admiral Porter: “Stanton lost his temper, so we beat him. Let me press upon you to be incontrovertibly right in case of a difference with the Army. The President is just and sagacious. Give us success; nothing else wins.”
As to the “three-to-four-day . . . skirmish” in 1864 at Lake Chicot, Arkansas, the Official Records of the Union and the Confederate Navies in the War of the Rebel- lion mention nothing besides some 1863 cotton-foraging expeditions.
Editor’s Notes: Mr. Musicant is the author of Divided Waters: The Naval History of the Civil War scheduled to be published by Harper Collins in late 1994.
“Historic Fleets”
(See A. D. Baker, p. 61, September- October 1993 Naval History)
Lieutenant Commander Boyd P. Brown, U.S. Naval Reserve (Retired)
Mr. Baker incorrectly states that only four ships—the USS Carpenter (DD-825), the USS Robert A. Owens (DD-827), the USS Norfolk (CLK-1), and the USS Northampton (CLC-1)—were armed with 3-inch/70- caliber guns.
In fact, all four of ships of the Mitscher (DL-2) class had two 3-inch/70-caliber mounts installed in 1957-58 to replace their original 3-inch/50-caliber guns. Later, the after mount was removed for installation of the hangar for the drone antisubmarine helicopter (DASH).
Furthermore, in reference to the Fleet Rehabilitation and Modernization 1 (FRAM I) and FRAM 11 programs, only the Gearing (DD-710)-class long hulls received the FRAM I conversion with the ASROC launcher between the stacks and the DASH hangar. The ships of the Allan M. Sumner (DD-692)-class and Fletcher (DD-445)-class received the FRAM II conversion with the DASH hangar and the variable-depth sonar.
“Sentimental Mission to Memphis”
(See E. L. Beach, pp. 16-20, September- October 1993 Naval History)
Bert J. Nederhiser
The gunboat, the USS Castine, was the other U.S. warship involved in the disaster at Santo Domingo Harbor on 29 August 1916. My great-great uncle, Lieutenant (junior grade) Sidney Bright, U.S. Navy (Retired), was on the Castine that day as a yeoman second class, captain’s writer, and the ship’s mail clerk.
In 1975, he wrote a book for our family—Is the First Thirty the Hardest?—in which he included an account of the disaster at Santo Domingo:
“We .... were waiting for the tide to come in. Once the tide was in, we could cross the sandbar at the river’s entrance.
I had an appointment with Junius, the Navy Mail Clerk on the Memphis. When my boat got to the Memphis, heavy swells were rolling in. It was so rough, the Officer of the Day ordered me back to my ship. When I got back to the Castine, they had to take me around to the lee side. Once I got there, I climbed up a Jacob’s ladder to get on board. The boat was ordered to cruise out to sea beyond the breakers. That was the last time we were to see that boat....
The waves were getting bigger and bigger, and they started breaking on the deck. Men were climbing the mast to escape, but I had to remain on deck, holding on to a deck winch. Every time a wave would break, my feet would go high in the air. I managed to hold on, except for one time .... I started overboard, when Paul Minor (a very husky Marine) grabbed me, and saved my life ... .
We had a terrible time of it. The waves were breaking on our deck, and we were all helpless. It looked so bad for us, the word was passed ‘All hands, stand by to abandon ship!’
The Marines and Dominicans on the beach watched with horror, many of them on their knees, praying. . . . From the way the waves were breaking on the deck and rushing into the compartments below, we actually were about ready to sink. I believe that our prayers, combined with those on the beach, really saved us.
Captain Bennett was trying to hoist our anchor so we could steam out to sea beyond the breakers . . . but the force of the waves breaking on the deck would not permit it. Through the superb seamanship of Captain Bennett, Lieutenant (j.g.) Schuirmann, Chief Quartermaster Harry Higher, and Signalman Abe Michaels, the anchor was slipped, and we backed out to sea until we could turn around. Then we headed for the deep water, where the breakers were not hitting.
As we passed the Memphis, she seemed to be riding nicely, and we were all wishing we were on her. Our steering engine was flooded, so we had to steer by hand. When we got safely beyond the breakers, a bucket line was formed to bail out the steering engine room and some of the lower compartments.
That night, we got word that the Memphis had dragged anchor, and that she was high upon the rocks.”
“Amelia Didn’t Know Radio”
(See A. A. Gray, pp. 42-49, November- December 1993 Naval History)
Richard E. Gillespie, Executive Director, The International Group for Historic Aircraft Recovery (T1GHAR)
Captain Gray’s expertise in radio is undeniable, and the logic he uses to reach his conclusions is sound, but a logically sound conclusion is true only if the facts upon which it is based also are true. Where Captain Gray has based his conclusions on fact, they are correct. Where his information is bad, however, his conclusions are invalid. The errors he has made in sorting fact from fiction exemplify many of the problems that historically have plagued inquiries into the Earhart disappearance.
First, Captain Gray eschewed accepted scholarly format and provided no footnotes and few sources for the information upon which he bases his conclusions. We, therefore, do not know where he learned that Amelia Earhart’s Western Electric receiver was replaced with an experimental Bendix unit during repairs at Lockheed Burbank following the 20 March 1937 ground loop in Hawaii. However, the Bureau of Air Commerce paperwork and Lockheed repair orders describing that work make no mention of such a change. Furthermore, in an interview given in Karachi during the world flight, Earhart herself said, “The receiver for the Western Electric radio is under the co-pilot’s seat and the transmitter is in the cabin.”
Second, anecdotes (no matter how well- intentioned) must be regarded as folklore unless verified by real evidence. Captain Gray accepts John Ray’s 56 year-old recollection that he removed the Lockheed’s trailing wire antenna in Miami. Photographs in TIGHAR’s collection that were taken at Burbank on 20 May 1937, however, clearly show that the trailing wire was gone before Earhart left for Miami.
Third, when Captain Gray does cite historical documents he often misquotes them. For example, his representation of the message heard by the USCGC Itasca (WPG-321)at 1912 Greenwich Mean Time is a combination of two differing versions.
Perhaps the most serious flaw in Captain Gray’s work is his selective use of evidence. His description of the radio bearings taken by Pan American Airways’s direction-finding stations on Oahu, Midway, and Wake after Earhart and Noonan disappeared is incomplete and misleading. By choosing to represent graphically only two of the five bearings reported by Pan Am, he presents the impression that the transmissions “probably were coming from the eastern or southeastern Marshall Islands,” when, according to a Pan Am memorandum of July 1937, four of the five bearings cross in the vicinity of Gardner Island. Similarly, his assertion that the experimental direction finder on Howland Island was incapable of taking a bearing on Earhart’s frequency is directly contradicted by an entry in the Itasca’s radio log that a bearing of north-northwest/south- southeast was taken by that unit on Earhart’s frequency on the night of 4 July 1937. Gardner Island is 350 nautical miles south-southeast of Howland Island.
Where Captain Gray applies sound logic to accurate information and draws upon his own considerable expertise in radio, his article does reach some valid conclusions. Amelia Earhart’s selection of 7500 kilocycles as the frequency upon which she would try to home on the Itasca undoubtedly was a major factor in her failure to reach Howland. His conclusion that the aircraft’s inability to hear voice transmissions most logically is attributable to a failure in the receiving antenna system rather than in the receiver itself probably is correct. His assessment of the probability that the distinctive radio signals heard after Earhart’s loss were from her aircraft also is entirely reasonable, as is his assertion that the Lockheed was on land and relatively intact for a period of time following its disappearance.
Research into the post-loss radio signals is continuing. Messages with intelligible content believed to be legitimate at the time, but later dismissed as hoaxes, are being reexamined in light of new evidence. There now appears to be an excellent chance that some of the messages were from Earhart, and the information they contain is being considered in the planning of TIGHAR’s next expedition to Gardner Island.
“Looking Back”
(See P. Stillwell, p. 2, September-October 1993 Naval History)
Lieutenant Fred B. Herring, U.S. Naval Reserve (Retired)
The article about the USS Newport News (CA-148) brought back many wonderful memories. 1 first saw the Newport News anchored in Venice, Italy, in 1957. After graduation from Officer Candidate School in 1962, I requested an assignment to her and served in her until 1965.
A communications specialist, I was attached temporarily to the staff of Vice Admiral Alfred G. “Corky” Ward, Commander, Second Fleet, during the Cuban Missile Crisis—when the Newport News was flagship of the blockading force and would have been the command ship for the invasion of Cuba. She never fired her guns in anger during that time, but she did train her 8-inch guns at a 400-ton Cuban freighter that had slung a huge banner— emblazoned with the slogan, “Death or the Fatherland”—over her side.
Her air conditioners worked well in the summer—when we were steaming north of the Arctic Circle—and the heaters performed splendidly—when we were anchored in Trinidad.
“To Italy From the Sea”
(See pp. 31-32, January-February 1994 Naval History)
Lieutenant Moreton J. Ensor, Supply Corps, U.S. Naval Reserve (Retired)
There are two types of amphibious vessels in the bottom photograph on page 31—but no tank landing ships (LSTs).
The smaller vessels are landing craft mechanized (LCM), probably Mark 3s. The LCMs were 50-feet long overall and were designed to move one tank, one or more motor vehicles, or supplies to the beach. They also could carry about 60 troops.
The other vessels are tank landing craft (LCTs), probably Mark 5s. At 117.5 feet overall length, they were built to carry 3 to 5 tanks, 9 or 10 trucks, or 150 tons of cargo. Because they had no facilities, they rarely were used to ferry troops.
There is, however, one LST connection with this photograph. A LST could embark one LCT. To launch it, the port or starboard ballast tanks would be flooded. As soon as the proper list was achieved, the LCT was launched broadside over the rail.
Robert M. Carr