Memoir of Albert J. Pelletier, USN (Ret.) By Captain Albert J. Pelletier, USN (Ret.)

On the first of September, 1968, I retired from the Navy with the rank of captain, after 36 and one-half years of service. It all started back on January 29, 1914, when I was born in Superior, Wisconsin. I grew up in the little suburb of Allouez, whose claim to fame was the Great Northern Railway's ore docks, where the rich iron ore of the Mesabi Range was transferred from rail to boat for its shipment to eastern iron mills. My dad was a switchman on the docks and, as such, received annual passes for travel on the Great Northern system. While I was a junior in high school, he took me with him on a visit to his sister's home in Seattle, Washington. While there we went to Bremerton and visited one of the Navy's . The die was cast with that visit. I wanted to be a sailor and see the world. I graduated from high school in June of 1931 and got a job as a handyman in the Pontiac Garage. I worked six days a week for the tidy sum of $8.00. I knew that this wasn't for me, and I kept thinking of those friendly sailors I had met the year before. One day, while picking up parts in Duluth, Minnesota, I passed the Navy recruiting office. I went in and made inquiries. In the midst of the Depression, the lines were long and the "kiddie cruise" had been abandoned. The "kiddie cruise" was for boys between 17 and 18 and lasted until they reached the age of 21. In my case the enlistment would have been a few months more than three years, and the recruiter told me to come back when I was 18. I put in my application without much hope. However, I guess the recruiter liked me, because he checked me out. When he checked with the garage, my days there were numbered. They gave me a good recommendation but informed me they were looking for someone who would be around for a while. I was unemployed once more. On the eighth of March of 1932 I was accepted for enlistment. The morning of the eighth I caught the train for Minneapolis. In Duluth two other young fellows, Sholund and Burland, came aboard, also bound for the recruit center in Minneapolis. Lennart Sholund and I became fast friends and kept in touch. However, we lost touch with Burland after a few years. At Minneapolis we were given a physical examination, signed some papers, and were sworn into the Navy. Then it was on to the recruit training center at Great Lakes, Illinois. We caught a train departing Minneapolis at 2100 for an all-night ride, wondering just what the morning would bring. It turned out to be the start of a wonderful life, one that I would do over again in exactly the same way.

Chapter 1 Boot Camp

It was my first ride in a Pullman car; I guess I slept, but I just can't remember. We arrived at Great Lakes at 0630, 9 March 1932 and were marched, if you can call it that, to an isolation center called Camp Barry. We were issued our first uniforms: a suit of undress blues, underwear, socks, and a white hat. They also issued us our hammock, bedding, and a ditty bag containing toilet articles. Next we were taught how to stencil our belongings, roll our clothes for storage in our seabags, rig our hammocks, and a few other essentials we needed to know for survival. That night, my first sleeping in a hammock, will live long in memory. I fell out four times. Fortunately, the hammock was only four feet above the deck--the new name we learned for a floor--so no damage was done except to my ego. The following day each of us was issued the remainder of his uniforms: one dress blue jumper, another pair of blue trousers, two pairs of shoes, one pair of rubbers, four pair of socks, three handkerchiefs, four suits of underwear, three suits of undress whites, one suit of dress whites, two more white hats, one blue flat hat, one watch cap, one jersey, and a pair of swimming trunks. We were formed into Recruit Company 19 and informed that we would be in quarantine for about three and one-half weeks and could look forward to frequent inoculations. We got the first of those pronto. We were also issued some old rifles and told that we would start training in the morning. Our company commander was a chief gunner's mate named Volpe, and he let us know that we could call him "Sir" and would be expected to salute him every time we saw him. He had gold hash marks up to his shoulder and a gold rating badge on his right arm. We had never seen that much gold before, so we assumed that he was some sort of an or more. Up to this time, the only officer we had seen was the one at the recruiting center in Minneapolis. He had sworn us into the Navy, but we didn't pay too much attention to insignia then. Of course, we soon found out differently about our chief. He was much more than an admiral; he was God! Our day started at 0530 and ended at 2200, when we went to bed. Seven and one-half hours of that day were devoted to training. The rest of the time we ate, read, or scrubbed our clothes. After the first night I never again fell out of the hammock and rather enjoyed sleeping in one. Of course, in the beginning I was sort of homesick, but the busy schedule alleviated that. On Saturday night we had sound movies, and on Sunday night other entertainment. We were also expected to attend church services on Sunday mornings. When it snowed, we had to drill indoors, and about all we could do indoors was practice the manual of arms. During our stay, we got a total of three series of shots. As I remember, the food was good, and there was plenty of it. The pay was $21.00 a month, and we were paid on the first and the 15th. However, they paid us only $5.00 on those days, saving the rest so that we could go on leave after graduation. My first payday was only $1.65; the rest of the $5.00 was for a haircut and toilet articles. I wasn't getting rich, but I had much more to look forward to than I would have had if I stayed with the garage. And I was enjoying myself. Finally, on April 2, 1932, we left Camp Barry and moved over to Camp Paul Jones. Here life was more pleasant. We had a Hostess House, where we could lounge around, write letters, and read books and magazines; it was a regular home to us. We could even have visitors, and my relatives from came down one weekend to cheer me up. We also had movies twice a week, and there was a dandy swimming pool and a big gym. However, drilling intensified. You see, we would be included in the graduation parades in only a few more weeks, so we had to work extra hard to get ready. Our company commander wanted us to be the best, and he demanded that from us. We were also allowed liberty on three weekends out of four. On the fourth weekend we stood watches. The hammocks were moved up another two feet. Now they were six feet off the deck, but I was used to them and had no more falls. Training included much more than marching, for we also learned to shoot a rifle, row a boat Navy style, signal with signal flags, tie knots, and many other things the Navy thought we ought to know. We first shot .22 rifles indoors, where safety was emphasized. Then off to the rifle range to shoot the .30-.30s. We shot 15 rounds--five prone, five sitting, and five rapid fire. We had 30 seconds to shoot the rapid fire. I remember that it sounded like a war. Later, to qualify for marksman, we shot 30 rounds, ten in each position, and had to score 120 points. My first try netted me 105. At a later attempt I managed to score 121, and so I became a real live marksman, entitled to wear a patch on my right arm. I was one proud kid. Now the emphasis changed to winning the rooster. The company that scored the highest number of points in competition won the rooster for two weeks. Everything counted: infantry drill, seabag inspection, physical exercise, military bearing, barracks cleanliness, and general- information questions. We didn't win on our first try, but by the time Company 16 graduated, we had the rooster. We were the best company in the parade and were riding high. Our graduation was set for June 8; only three more parades, and it would be over. Company 17 graduated; only one more before us now. Then we took our trade-school exams the next day. As my hobby at home had been making crystal radio sets, I thought that radioman would be the place for me, and so did Chief Volpe. I scored high enough to win a slot in radio school, but I would have to take another test after I got there. Again my company commander came to my rescue. He got me the list of words I would have to be able to spell, as well as other aids for passing the test. Now I really had a goal. Company 18 graduated. We entered our last week, and I caught mess-cook duty. It wasn't hard, but it did mean that I was no longer marching or doing other things with the company. Mess- cook duty was over, and graduation day arrived. We lined up on the parade ground, and the company commander called me over and told me that they had been having trouble with people cutting across the parade ground while the parade was in progress. He then asked me if I would go and stand on the corner at parade rest and discourage anyone who might want to cross. "Yes, sir," I replied, really proud that he picked me. Of course, no one attempted to cross, and I had nothing to do. It wasn't until our return from boot leave that I found out that my mess- cooking duties had degraded my marching ability (which never had been outstanding) to a degree that I could hurt the company's standing. Rather than tell me so, the company commander used that approach. It was something I always remembered, and I tried hard to use the same approach when dealing with subordinates in order not to hurt their pride. After graduation we were granted boot leave, so I went home for ten days. Upon my return, June 20, I found out that our company would be reactivated, and we would march in an exhibition against the Army in Chicago on the 24th. We drilled for three days. Five companies from Great Lakes went to Soldier Field in Chicago, and we got to march for all of 20 minutes. Soldier Field is a large stadium in Chicago. It was the site of the 1926 Army-Navy football game. ¯ We spent the rest of the time watching the Army put on its show. Of course, we got all the cheers, but I don't know if that was because we were good or just that we were quick. Thus ended my stay at the recruit training center, Great Lakes, Illinois.

Chapter 2 Radio School

At 1500 on Saturday, June 25, 1932, we boarded a train at the Great Lakes training center and left for the West Coast. There were 220 new sailors on board a special train of tourist cars with two diners. Our route was the Chicago and Northwestern Road to Chicago. Then we shifted to the Great Western Railroad to Kansas City, where we marched around town, both a parade and exercise. We then took the Missouri Pacific rails to Pueblo, Colorado. At that point we moved to the Denver, Rio Grande and Western rails, which ran through the upper end of the Grand Canyon of the Colorado River. The train ran right next to the river, and the banks were high above; it was a beautiful sight. We stayed with that railroad through the Rockies to Salt Lake City. From Salt Lake City we rode the rails of the Union Pacific through the desert to Los Angeles. Finally we went the rest of the way to on the Santa Fe Railroad, arriving on the 29th of June. It was a scenic trip, and I feel I should comment on the excellent chow the two diners served. The radio school was located on the grounds of the San Diego Naval Training Center, and after Great Lakes it looked like paradise. We had talking movies five nights a week, and on Wednesday night there was boxing and other entertainment. The YMCA in town had free movies on Saturday night, so there was something to do every night of the week. On the second of July I took the examination for radio school, and I just managed to pass. The words supplied by Chief Volpe were not the ones they asked, so I got only 56% right. However, my 100 in math and English put my average above 70, so I made it. I never learned to spell. On July 5 we started school. The first day we learned the Morse code for nine characters, and then we went to night school for two hours, 1800 to 2000, to learn to type. The night school lasted for two weeks. The school days were like any other school day, except we were more than just students; we were also janitors. We had six periods a day--three in the morning with a 15- minute break between, starting at 0900 and ending at 1130. The afternoon sessions started at 1300 and were over by 1530. The next 30 minutes were for cleaning up--five minutes of cleaning and 25 minutes of loafing; what a snap. After 1500 we were free to do what we desired, unless, of course, we had a watch. No homework, though. Then, on the 15th, I made seaman second class, and my pay went up to $36.00 a month. I was rich! The course was divided into seven classes of two weeks each. We were accelerated according to our abilities. if you passed the test at the end of the week, you were advanced into the next one; otherwise, you repeated it. I got through the first two grades in one week each. However, the third week we started copying code on a typewriter, and I took the entire two weeks. I could also have used the other two weeks I saved if it had been necessary. It also took me two weeks to get out of the fourth grade. In the fifth grade the speed was raised to about 30 words per minute, and that was much faster than I could type. However, the passing speed was somewhat less than 30, so I was able to move to the sixth and last grade in two weeks also. The test speed for the sixth week was 24 words per minute. After two weeks in the grade I succeeded, and now I had only five week to go. The next two weeks were "watch standing" and passed by smoothly. I was now a radio school graduate, but as the course was 16 weeks long, I still had to hang around for three more weeks. I was farmed out as a messenger in Lieutenant Avery's office and had a snap for those three weeks. Len Sholund was the only one of us three from Duluth who did not get a trade school. He went directly to the USS Pennsylvania, and I requested to be assigned to that ship as I had a friend aboard her. On October 13 I was assigned to the transfer unit, awaiting assignment. In the T unit I helped install team pipes, keep up the grounds, and more or less keep busy while waiting for the draft. On the 19th all of my classmates were sent to sea. Four went to the USS Langley, three to the USS Milwaukee, and one to the USS Concord. That left me all alone in the T unit, so they made me master-at-arms. Lieutenant Avery said I would get the Pennsylvania but would have to wait until she came to San Diego to pick me up. That happened on 6 November. Andy Borlund, the other enlistee from Duluth, was in the electricians' school, and we were able to make a couple of liberties together. Otherwise, my stay in San Diego allowed me to visit the zoo, Mission Beach, and other attractions in the area. I also got to see the stage play Irene that I had heard my parents speak about. It was my first time at the theater, but now it was time to go to sea.

Chapter 3 USS Pennsylvania

My introduction to the Pennsy was sort of chaotic. It sure was a big ship. Sholund met me and helped me get oriented; then he turned me over to the radio gang. Two strikers were sent back to the deck crew the day I arrived, and I was told that the same could happen to me if I didn't make the grade. However, the petty officers were considerate and took me under their wings. I was assigned a space to swing my hammock and a space to stow my seabag. Then I enrolled in another school--this one to learn how communicating was done in the fleet. I was assigned to the flag complement and put on the watch list. My duties consisted of keeping the coffee pot full, sweeping the deck, picking up incoming messages from the positions and delivering them to the chief pronto. I was also required to copy the fleet broadcast from Radio San Diego. This broadcast was just that; we had no way to request a repeat or ask for a word missed. Two of us copied it at the same time. The other sailor had somewhat more experience than I had, so he was the primary copier. The chief of the watch just checked my copy with his to see how well I was doing. A message for the ship or flag was copied on a message blank, while the remainder of the broadcast was copied in the log only. I was also a messenger boy whose duties were to deliver messages topside when necessary. In a couple of weeks I knew my way around fairly well and was beginning to feel like an old salt. Soon afterwards a bunk became available, and I was able to stow my hammock. The radio gang was the only division on the ship that had bunks. Our division officer was a lieutenant (j.g.) named William B. Bailey. The gang called him "Bosco." He eventually learned of this nickname and asked an old-timer, Victor A. Maling, radioman second class, if it was so. Maling assured him that it was, and that it was the way the crew had of expressing their admiration for him. That was true. Mr. Bailey was a fine officer, and I am eternally grateful that he was my first division officer. His inspiration stood me in good stead all my career. Many years later, after retiring with the rank of captain, I was sent an invitation to join the Old-Timer Communicators of Southern California. With the invitation was a roster of members. A William B. Bailey was on the list. I wrote asking if this gentleman could be the Mr. Bailey of the Pennsy in '33. The answer came back, "You bet, Rear Admiral W. B. Bailey, class of '25, one and the same." I had only one choice, and that was to write him and tell him how he had inspired me to succeed. He replied that he remembered me and that he had once told me that in the event of a war there would be a good chance that I would be an officer. I had forgotten that until reminded. Radioman Second Class Victor A. Maling, to me an old-timer, eventually became my boss. He had charge of the repair shop and was a premier direction-finder operator. He had joined the Navy a long time before and had a meteoric rise to warrant officer at a real young age. The story was that on the Asiatic Station he had thrown a boot ensign, who had been giving him a hard time, overboard into the Shanghai Harbor. He had been given the choice of a court-martial or resignation, and he chose to resign. He worked for RCA and himself until the Depression, then reenlisted in the Navy as a seaman. Once he showed me his folder. On one page would be the specifications for a court-martial, and on the facing page would be a letter of commendation. He was well known by all the senior officers, some of whom had served with him in times past. He was an excellent technician and--except for indiscretions--admired by all. More about this sailor later on. The Pennsylvania was the flagship of the United States Fleet and, as such, flew the four-star flag of Admiral Leigh, CinCUS. In those days the rode the flagship and didn't try to run the fleet from a spot on the beach. I saw him only three times, and two of those were the times he inspected the ship and the crew. I can remember how hard we worked to make a good impression on him, and I guess we did, because we never heard otherwise. His radio officer was Lieutenant J. L. Allen, a mustang. We called him "BT." "BT" was the prosign used to separate the heading from the text of a message. When used without a heading, it indicated an emergency message. Well, Mr. Allen, having been a radioman in times gone by, was an excellent operator. He often sat in on a circuit just to see how well things were going. Since he was the fleet radio officer, authorized to release messages, he could transmit as desired. He would often compliment the operator on the other end. He did this by using the BT prosign without a heading; hence the nickname. I remember one time he asked the name and rate of the operator on watch. Of course, the man couldn't answer without an official message, released by an officer of his ship. When the answer came, Mr. Allen sent another BT, this one ordering that operator to the Pennsy for duty with the flag allowance, and at the same time chiding the ship's radio officer for taking his time answering. Since he was a mustang, he didn't have a class number on his stateroom door, and he seemed to feel that the other officers held him in low esteem as a result. In any case, he decided to teach them a lesson. The Navy used a service cipher system for encrypting messages that were, laughingly, called classified. It was a very simple system that anyone with imagination could break: one letter for another in simple substitution. There were, as I remember, six alphabets, giving them six systems. Mr. Allen asked Maling if he could devise a machine to encipher and decipher this system. Maling allowed as how he could, and so T. J. Ulmer and I were put to work. The machine we made required two yeomen to operate. We made a wiring harness for each alphabet. It was hooked up with a typewriter keyboard and a series of lights which indicated each letter. When a letter was typed, the light would come on to indicate whether the plain-text letter or the encrypted letter, depending upon which way the harness was inserted. One yeoman would type the message, and the second yeoman would type the letter indicated by the lights. With a little practice, they could encrypt or decrypt a message as fast as they could type. We went on maneuvers, and Mr. Allen put his new device into use. Messages flew, and since the recipients had no machine they were at a decided disadvantage. The messages piled up in their spaces, and the longer it took them to answer, they more they received, asking, "What's the delay?" Needless to say, the fleet got poor marks on their performance. In December we went to sea for firing practice. We shot both the 5-inch and the big guns. The three guns of a turret all fired at the same time, and, boy, did the ship jump when they went off. Of course, I seldom got to watch, since I usually was at general quarters five decks down in the radio room. Len Sholund, however, was a primerman on the middle gun of turret one, and he would swell with pride when he spoke about how fast they could shoot. He told me that the rounds weighed 1,400 pounds and that the powder bags weighed 75 pounds each. For short-range firing they used three bags of powder behind the shell, and for long-range firing four bags were used. He bragged that they could have one round on the target, one in the air, and one in the gun. I just had to take his words for this, as I hadn't seen it yet. Once they fired all four turrets, 12 guns, at one time. It made quite a racket and caused more than a little damage topside. One time the spud locker was torn up, a whaleboat destroyed, and the forecastle looked like a battleground as a result of concussion. We also practiced antiaircraft fire. Planes would tow a target, and our guns would shoot. These exercises required that we lower the antennas so that they wouldn't be shot off. That meant that I would have to climb up to the yardarm and crawl out on it to unhook them. That was scary, since it was a long way down to the deck. I got used to it in time, though. Christmas 1932 was my first Christmas away from home, and I was a little lonely. Although I rated liberty, I decided to say on board--no reason to go ashore. We were in San Pedro, and I had nobody ashore. Besides, I wanted to see just how the ship would celebrate the day. We had a group of needy children aboard for a Christmas party. The ship was all decorated. Each division decorated its compartment. For the most part, the decorations consisted of a tree, a fireplace, and a wreath. The first division's decorations included a crib with three wise men and won first place. We also had other visitors aboard for dinner, and they and the children enjoyed a most sumptuous dinner. The cook did himself proud. After dinner Santa Claus came down the chimney in the third division spaces and gave each child a gift box. The box contained one complete outfit of clothing and a few toys. Those youngsters were sure happy, and some of them had a box that was bigger than they were. The fellows were in their glory entertaining them. At 1500 they went ashore, and shipboard life returned to normal. It was a nice Christmas, in spite of being a long way from home. The year 1933 started out much the same. We spent the fourth, fifth, and sixth at sea in tactical maneuvers. None of the big guns were fired. During antiaircraft practice .30-.30 rifles mounted alongside the big guns were fired instead. Pop, pop--no boom, boom. The next week we went back to sea for more antiaircraft practice. This time we fired all the guns, but our hit ratio was very low. They also fired the newly installed machine guns on the fighting top. They didn't do too well either. I remember how majestic the battlewagons looked steaming in formation and thinking what would happen to an enemy if he should happen to come in range. These sentiments didn't apply to aircraft, though. I felt that perhaps an airman would have the safest place in case of combat. Balloons filled with hydrogen gas were also launched and shot at with the machine guns. Two, and then three, balloons were tied together to make a bigger target. If a tracer bullet made a hit, the hydrogen would burn. Ordinary bullets would just put a hole in them and let the gas escape. We could watch the practice from the topside if we were off watch. Usually, though, when under way we were in a two-section watch. That meant we would have six hours on and then six off which could be--and often was--interrupted by general quarters, and that meant right back on watch. The last couple of weeks of January were uneventful. We received five new radiomen from units of the Scouting Force and transferred five of the short-timers to them. The short-timers were fellows who lived east of the Mississippi River, and they would be taken east for discharge in order to save transportation money. Then the Scouting Force sailed for Hawaii and made a surprise attack on . From the information we received, they left it in smoking ruins. The defending and aircraft were all destroyed. We apparently learned nothing from this event, but I guess the Japanese did. Afterwards the Scouting Force stayed there for another week before returning to the United States as an attacking force. Their mission was to attack the West Coast. Our mission was to repel them. On the ninth of February we put to sea for that purpose. We had an area of many square miles to patrol, and that is what we did for seven days. Our aircraft were catapulted off at dawn, at noon, and at dusk. Radio silence was complete. Listening to a dead receiver is not the most exciting to do, but do it we must. Finally, at midnight of February 15, one of our on the picket line sent a contact report. On the morning of the 17th, the USS Saratoga launched her planes to attack the West Coast. I don't know how they made out, but we caught the Saratoga and blew her out of the water. We got her between us and the coast, and the chase was on, at full speed, firing as we went. Then, a couple of hours later, they announced that the war was over, and we could again have movies at night. No more darken ship, and on the 18th we were safely in the port of . All this time Floyd Gibbons was on board as a reporter, and his copy was sent to the RCA station in San Francisco. The week in San Francisco was wonderful. Liberty was great. Most everything was free: the streetcars, the movies, and the parade. Of course, I had to march in that. Again, the Marines looked really sharp, but the sailors got all the applause. Friends of my folks lived in Sausalito, and I went over there a couple of times. On Sunday, our last day in port, they came to visit the ship. It was fun to show them around. Monday morning we bid San Francisco a fond farewell and sailed through the Golden Gate and into the wide Pacific. We were bound for our home port of San Pedro and would take about two days to get there, with tactical exercises en route. To me tactical exercises meant only that I would have a few more hours on watch during general quarters. Monday would also mean that Maling would have another page to add to his notebook, for he was on report again. It seemed that while sending Mr. Gibbons's press to the commercial station in San Francisco, Maling thought he recognized the operator's fist touch on the Morse code sending key. He queried, "Are you So-and-so?" The answer came back, "Yes, and you're Vic." Then Maling replied, "How about meeting me on the dock tomorrow at 1300?" As you can imagine, the papers had screaming headlines, "Fleet arriving tomorrow." Naturally, since all of this was supposed to be hush-hush, the admiral was somewhat unhappy. By the time we left, he had tracked down the culprit and directed the captain to court-martial him. Maling went to mast, and the captain informed him of the admiral's order--that he could expect a court-martial. The captain, however, was an old shipmate of Maling in times gone by and had great respect for Maling's expertise. Accordingly, he told him in private that he had no choice but to order a court-martial, but since the admiral failed to set a time limit, he, therefore, would take his time. In the meantime, however, Maling would be restricted to the ship. This hurt, because he wouldn't be able to see his wife when we got back into port. The schedule for the month of March called for us to go to sea every week for practice. We were to go out on Monday and return on Friday. On Monday we followed the schedule and went to sea. On the ninth, the naval ship parade took place, and on the tenth I went on liberty over to Long Beach to ride the rolley coaster. While I was walking through town, the earth began to jump under my feet, and chunks of masonry fell, missing me by about two feet. I started to run, heading for the ocean. Never did the ocean look so good. The sailors were all recalled, so liberty boats were available to take us back to our ship. Upon arriving I found Maling assembling the field radio set and getting a party together to set it up on the beach. Since he was conveniently aboard, the captain ordered him to get the set ready as soon as he knew what had happened. Maling immediately made me a part of the party. Nine of us took the set over into Long Beach and set it up in the park. Because of Maling's expertise, we were on the air to the ship within the hour. It took the "Prune ," USS California, many hours more to get their set on the air. Since all lines of communication were severed, we became the primary means of communication from emergency parties, and/or civilian authorities on the beach. We set up a three-section watch list. That meant 6 hours on and 12 off. We lived, ate, and slept on the ground around the field set. The Red Cross furnished us sandwiches and coffee. A farmer dumped a truck load of oranges on the ground about 50 feet away, so we also had oranges to eat. Sometimes that was all we had; the ship just forgot we existed. Anyway, it took me years to look another orange in the face. I sure was sick of them. The ship also landed its Marine complement, and the Marines were supposed to protect against looting. They were armed with their rifles and patrolled the streets. One evening one of the Marines shot himself in the foot, so the powers that be took their ammunition away. Then the next night a Marine watched a looter at work and didn't do anything, because he had no ammunition. So the next day they had their bullets back, and things were peaceful thereafter. We were heroes to the populace. Never were they so glad to see a sailor or Marine. The cops even called us "sir." Newspaper reporters and photographers taking pictures of the field station and its operation were a constant bother every day. The of the quake was just a few miles off the coast of Long Beach, and it measured 6.3 on the Richter Scale. Damage was extensive, especially to the masonry structures. It was estimated that 75% of this type of structure was nothing but rubble. About 130 people were killed and some 1,000 injured. The Navy had landed some 3,000 sailors and Marines to keep the peace. Eventually, however, communications were restored, and our adventure came to an end. Maling had been able to see his wife during this operation, and when it was over he was the proud recipient of another commendation to put on the facing page of the court-martial specifications. He also received one other bit of good news: the court-martial was canceled, and he again had a clean slate. We secured the station and returned to the ship on the 17th. Sure felt good to be back where I could take a shower and put on some clean clothing. We returned to our operating schedule and found out that our pay had been cut 15% by President Roosevelt. This cut was to remain in effect at least until the start of the fiscal year beginning 1 July. That pay cut left me with about $15.00 a month, as I was sending $15.00 home by allotment to help out the folks. We also received word that the admiral was to take some of the flag personnel and board the USS Omaha to make a trip to Panama. The flag administration would remain in the Pennsy, so some of us would remain. I decided not to request either trip but just to take whatever came, as the Pennsy was to go to Seattle for the Fourth of July. Both trips appealed to me. In the meantime, Len and I found a 1928 Whippet roadster for sale for $50.00. We could pay for it at $10.00 a month. We bought it. It was a snappy little car, looked nice, and ran good. I had to get a California driver's license, but that was easy. Now we could explore the area whenever we had liberty together. A Duluth living in Wilmington were friends of Len, so we had a place to leave the car and to work on it when required. Of course, the only time we left it there was when we went to sea for any length of time. As long as we remained in the area and could use it, we would park it on the street. My days in the repair shop went fast. Each day something different happened. I was learning radio repair, and my watch standing was limited to general quarters or whenever someone went on leave and a replacement was needed. I started to make a bug. "Bug" is a name given to a speed key. One can send easier and faster than is possible with a hand key. After I finished it, I couldn't wait to try it out on the recruits. First, though, I had to practice with it in order to get the swing of it and not make too many mistakes. Just as I was ready to make the change, Mr. Allen intervened. He had been working some of the circuits and was appalled by what he felt was poor sending, especially by bug users. He sat down at the practice position and told the chief to copy and time him. He sent with a standard key at the rate of 25 words per minute for five minutes without a mistake. The chief congratulated him. Mr. Allen in turn said, "If I can do that, all operators should." Accordingly, a directive went out to the fleet that all bug transmissions would be suspended until such time as the operator obtained a "bug certificate." Said certificate was available upon passing a sending test using a standard key at 25 words per minute with no more than two mistakes. A special circuit to the Pennsy was set up for this purpose, and our personnel would grade the test. As soon as Mr. Allen finished his demonstration, Maling, who was in the shack at the time, sat down at the practice position and duplicated Mr. Allen's achievement. He was awarded "Bug Certificate Number 1." As for me, well, I knew I had a long way to go, so I put the bug in cold storage. Training continued. We were at sea from Monday to Friday each week. Long-range battle practice had to be canceled due to limited visibility one week, so we just steamed around waiting for improvement. Now that I was a full-fledged maintenance man, I spent most of my time in the shop. However, I still had to stand watches in the shack or up on the during general quarters. We would fire our guns at a target towed by another ship, and then we would tow a target while one of the other ships fired at it. When all 12 guns of the four turrets were fired at the same time, they used a different color paint on the shells. Each gun had its own color, and when they went through the target the telltale smear let us know which gun made the hit. During our turn to fire, one of the guns of turret two had a hangfire. That was scary for a while, but after 30 minutes, with fire crews standing by with fire hoses, they opened the breech and unloaded the gun. The primers hadn't exploded. As we went into the month of May, we continued tactical exercises, night battle practice, and night spotting practice. The night practice was the worst, because it meant that after working all day we would be at general quarters all night, and that made sleeping difficult. In the meantime, I completed my course for radioman third. Now as soon as I finished the A to N seaman course, I would be eligible for advancement. However, there were many other seamen in the gang with much more time than I had, and, besides, rates were scarce. On Monday, May 15, we went to sea again to fire night battle practice. Then Tuesday and Wednesday were taken up with Admiral Leigh's last battle efficiency inspection. That meant we performed all sorts of drills, even to rigging an emergency antenna. Then we went back to port and on Saturday stood for the admiral's last personnel inspection. Then, on the 29th of May, we tied up alongside the USS Medusa, a repair ship, for minor repairs or casualties caused by firing the guns. About all it meant to me was that now we had two movies each night to choose from, and they had some dandy machine shops to make our chores easier. It also enabled me to make a new gas line for the Whippet, and now it ran again. We were alongside the Medusa for three weeks. June 10, 1933, is a day I will remember forever. It was the day that Admiral Leigh would be relieved of his command, CinCUS, by Admiral Sellers. At 0800 we were ordered to shift into dress blues, and the officers were required to wear their formal dress. Boy, did they look sharp with their cocked hats, swords, and gold epaulets. At 0845 the call to quarters was sounded by the bugler, and we fell in on the port side of the quarterdeck. The USS Antares fired a 13-gun salute, which we answered. The Antares then fired a 17-gun salute, which we did not answer. All this time the admirals and the captains of the fleet were arriving, and soon the quarterdeck was loaded with gold braid. I was afraid that we would list to port, but we didn't. Then Admiral Leigh and our skipper, Captain Giles, arrived on the quarterdeck. The admiral went to the center of the quarterdeck and gave a little speech. His voice broke toward the end as he turned toward the crew and finished with, "God bless you all." He then read his orders, turned toward the captain, and said, "Haul down my flag." The Pennsy then fired a 17-gun salute for him. Upon completion of the salute, his flag was hauled down, and the commission pennant two-blocked. Next Admiral Sellers made a little speech prior to becoming CinCUS, read his orders, and asked the skipper to have his flag broken out and hoisted. The commission pennant was lowered and Admiral Sellers's flag two-blocked. We then fired a 17-gun salute to our new commander in chief. The California then fired a 17-gun salute, and we answered it, concluding the ceremony. The catapult and number-four turret were loaded with newsreel cameras and sound equipment, recording the event for all the world to see. A radioman first class standing next to me said, "After 14 years in this Navy, I finally had a chance to see this event. It was worth waiting for." I had the opportunity with less than two years; I was glad I didn't have to wait. On the morning of 19 June, we got under way to Hunters Point to get the bottom manicured. We arrived on the 20th. We went into the dry dock and scraped and painted the bottom. Len got to go over the side and help with the scraping and painting, but none of us in the radio gang were so employed. The painting took about two and one-half days. Then they started to refill the dock but stopped at about four feet below the waterline. The next day they completed filling the dock, and we left for San Francisco, tying up at Pier Seven. Except for a few small ships in the Mare Island area, we were the only ship in port. It sure was nice to tie up to a pier; we only had to walk down the gangway, and we were on the beach. Of course, the bootlegger with his pint was usually at the bottom of the gangway peddling his wares. Even so, it was nicer than having to ride a liberty boat back and forth. Andy Burlund came aboard, and we had a nice visit. Then, over the weekend, he joined Len and me in bumming around over in Golden Gate Park. Afterward I was so broke that I resigned myself to remaining aboard. Len didn't have much time for liberty anyway, since he was in training for the Seattle Times Cup Race. He rowed three miles before breakfast, got out and did a little running, and then rowed back again. Same regimen again in the evening. He was really working hard, and the crew was optimistic that they could win. We spent the Fourth of July in San Francisco, but it was nothing special except that we had the ship all dressed up for the occasion. I think Superior, Wisconsin, had better celebrations, but then that was our one day of summer, and everyone had a good time. On Thursday, June 6, 1933, we got under way for Puget Sound. All the destroyers left first, then the cruisers, and finally the battlewagons. The Scouting Force left Seattle at the same time, and we were to meet halfway. The first two days out of Frisco were rough. Never had I been in seas like those. The sea came over the boat deck, and number-one turret was underwater most of the time. When the sea can toss a 30,000-ton ship around like a cork, well, "rough" isn't the word. I didn't get sick, but a lot of the sailors did, and some of them had more than one hash mark. We met the enemy, the Scouting Force, on Saturday, but they gave us Sunday off to recover. So we really didn't start the fight till Monday, and by Tuesday it was all over. We beat them again, and on Wednesday we anchored in Puget Sound. I was on the gangway ready to hit the beach. I had an uncle and aunt in Seattle, and I wanted to see them once more. I hadn't seen them since that year Dad and I came west to visit the Navy yard. My relatives were not at home when I got there, so I looked up another fellow from Superior. He was home, and he proceeded to show me the sights. I left in the evening to return to the ship, after explaining to him that I had the duty the next day and getting him to promise to visit the ship. He never showed. The following day, however, I tried again to see the relatives. They were at home this time, and my aunt invited the girl next door over. Her name was Edna, and I just fell in love. Saturday I had the duty, so Edna came aboard, and I had the pleasure of showing her my ship. She was impressed, and from that time on we were together whenever it was possible. Edna wanted me to bring a friend ashore to meet a friend of hers so we could be a foursome. However, Len was in training for the boat race, so he couldn't get liberty. My best friend in the radio gang was T. J. "Speedy" Ulmer. I wanted to ask him but was sort of reluctant. You see, Speedy couldn't say three words without using four-letter expletives. It was so natural for him that we just ignored it, but I was afraid it wouldn't do in mixed company. Finally, although apprehensive, I invited him along. I needn't have worried. Speedy was the perfect southern gentleman. He charmed all the ladies and never once used one of his epithets. The following week my aunt, her children, Speedy, his girl Edna, and I went to watch the Seattle Times boat race. The Pennsy didn't win; we came in third, just a nose back of the Prune Barge. The Tennessee won. Len sure was one tired guy. It was kind of tough, being in training with no liberties and then to lose. He was so tired he could hardly walk. Oh, well, there was always next time, and that would be in Tacoma a little later on. We left Seattle on the 26th at 0800 and arrived in Tacoma about 1100. I waited until Saturday to go ashore and decided that Tacoma was nothing to me. Sunday was a day to parade, and I saw the town all over again. We had been practicing every third morning for about 15 minutes, and we were becoming a little bored. However, the cheers the sailors received made up for it. We would have two more parades before this cruise would be over, and by the time we returned to San Pedro I would have paraded in every port on the West Coast. Staying aboard was rewarding in one way, though. I helped Maling make a new radio frequency unit for the receiver on the NAA (Washington) circuit. I was sure learning a lot about radio design and repair. Maling was an excellent teacher. I was lucky in getting a 72 for the weekend of August 4. I hightailed it for Seattle to spend one last weekend with Edna. We had a good time together and were sorry to see it come to a close. From now on a letter or two would have to suffice. I got back to the ship on Sunday night, and then on Tuesday we left for Port Angeles. The entire fleet was concentrated there prior to the dash for Frisco. The town was too small to be interesting, so I just stayed aboard studying, because there was always the hope that there would be some vacancies for third class the next quarter. There had been none for the quarter starting July 1. We left Port Angeles at 0430, Wednesday, August 9. About 1000 we left the fleet and proceeded independently because of a hospital case on board. There wasn't a ripple on the pond, and we arrived in San Francisco Bay about 1130 and dropped the hook in the stream. The docking party and the hospital case were sent ashore in the motor launches. Then about 1430 we entered San Francisco and tied up at Pier Seven. Liberty commenced for those rating it. I stayed aboard. Thursday was parade day. In San Francisco we only had to walk one way as the streetcar took us to the end of Market Street, but the walk back to the Ferry Building was a long one. But, as usual, the cheers made the marching easy. Saturday night the city hosted a dance for the sailors, but, being broke, I stayed aboard. San Francisco sure treated the sailors swell. How nice it would have been if that were our home port. On Saturday the good ship Pennsy hosted a reception for officers, lieutenant commanders and above. All enlisted men that could be spared were given liberty, and half of those got a 72. Since I wasn't going ashore anyway, I took another man's duty so he could have three days off. The ship was decorated with flags, awnings were stretched on the weather decks, and a stage was set up on the forecastle for the ship's band. The ship sure looked nice--nothing at all like a man-of-war. The artists in the crew painted the Frisco skyline on the canvas that set off the stage. I don't know how many guests there were, but there were a lot. Sunday night they threw a dance for the crew, but as my girl was in Seattle, I just drank coffee and ate the refreshments. Our master-at-arms was a chief petty officer named Murphy, and so we called the brig Murphy's Hotel. He filled it up that night. Usually a man coming back aboard under the influence was waved below if he was not belligerent, but this night Murphy took no chances. If you were drunk, it was straight to jail. Our stay in San Francisco came to an end, so now we could look forward to our return to San Pedro. It had been a wonderful trip, and I enjoyed every minute of it, even the marching, though I did gripe about that. If I wasn't seeing the world, at least I was seeing the West Coast of the United States. The northern cruise was over, and we again returned to San Pedro and anchored in the harbor. The month of September was notable for a new job. I was a mess cook. My boss, Mailing, tried to keep me off, but Mr. Bailey said it was my turn. However, it would be for only one month, not three as was the case in other divisions. I was paid an extra $5.00 for the month, and it turned out to be a fairly easy job. I had to get up at 0600. At 0630 I set up the mess tables and at 0700 served breakfast. It was all over, including the cleaning up, by 0830. There was nothing more to do until 1100, at which time I started setting up for the noon meal. That was finished by 1300, and then I was off until 1630, when I served the evening meal. At 1800 it was all over for the day. Friday morning, however, was a little different. Friday was field day, and I had to get all of my gear ready for Saturday morning inspection. I rated liberty every night and had no other duties. As a result, I had plenty of time in both the morning and afternoon to study or to help out in the shop. There were rumors that the October quarter would see the rates open up, and I sure wanted to be ready just in case. Mess cooking was a job made for the liberty hound. As soon as you secured the evening meal at 1800, liberty started. The 0600 liberty boat had you back on board in time to set up for breakfast. About every third day you had liberty commencing at 1300. It really was a racket. The first 13 days of the month we remained in port, but I stayed on board and completed my A to N seamanship course with a mark of 3.93. The A to N course on seamanship was a requirement for eligibility for take the examination for advancement. The top score possible was 4.0, so I didn't do too badly. At least it was over, and I would not have to worry about it ever again. The third week of September saw us going to sea again for firing practice. We rehearsed short-range battle practice and also fired the 5-inch AA guns. We fired the AA guns for score, and we did well this time. I was on the boat deck between guns number three and five and so was right in the thick of things. Gun number one made an E. An E required that the gun put eight shots into the bull'sÿ2Deye in 35 seconds. That was shooting. Gun number seven also got eight hits out of eight, but they missed the E by a couple of seconds. The gun didn't eject one shell, and the gun captain had to pull it out by hand. The extra time spoiled their chances. Guns number three and five also had good scores, but, again, time defeated their chances for an E. The 5-inch antiaircraft guns were the only big guns that used fixed ammunition. All the others used shells and powder bags. It was sure nice to watch them fire. The ring of fire around the muzzle when a gun fired was awesome. The following Monday, September 25, we went to sea again to fire short-range battle practice with the secondary batteries and the turrets. Monday and Tuesday we just practiced, but on Wednesday at 0600 we commenced firing. The California towed the target, and we kept at it until 1600 when we finished. On the first run, with the officers manning number-four gun, we fired trials. On the second run we fired the port battery, and I was secured from general quarters. I was up in the number-ten to watch them fire number ten. A casemate was a compartment at the outer edge of the hull. It doubled as a berthing space and as the place from which the 5-inch/51- caliber broadside guns of the secondary battery were operated. You would think those guns were automatic, as fast as they were fired. Shell and powder were put into the gun, the breech was closed, and the gun fired--all in six seconds. No wonder the crews were tired when it was over. On the third run we fired the starboard battery. Two of our 5-inchers won an E, and now we had four. Next it was the turn of the turret crews. Again the first run was the officers' run. They fired the middle gun of number-two turret. Next it was the crew's turn. Number-one turret was first. They fired two sets of three salvos each. The salvo consisted of firing all three guns at once. Len was the primerman on the middle gun, so I was rooting for that turret. One the first set they had nine hits out of nine and did it in one minute and ten seconds, equaling the all-Navy record. In the second set, however, the first salvo had bad luck. Two of the shells kissed in midair before they reached the target, and as a result they went through the wrong target. An E required 17 hits out of 18 fired in two and oneÿ2Dhalf minutes. They had the time beat, but they had only 16 hits, so they got no E. All three shells had to hit the same target, and I think that is pretty hard to do when the shells are traveling that close together. If the target had been an enemy ship, it would still have had 18 holes in it, so I, for one, thought that that was pretty good shooting. Three more runs, three more misses, and short-range firing was history for another year. None of the turrets got to display an E. We all felt bad for the gun crews that had tried so hard. You could see the shells throughout their , and when they hit the water they would skip along, just like stones we used to throw to make them skip on the water. It sure was a pretty sight. Afterwards we towed target for the California while she fired. You could see the ring of smoke around the muzzle, then watch the shell as it came toward the target. As the shell hit the water, the BOOM would arrive. We returned to port Thursday night and remained for the weekend. The following Monday we provisioned ship, and then on Tuesday we were back at sea for tactical exercises. We had a dandy war for three days, but the third day was bad for the Pennsy. About ten minutes after the zero hour, a sub torpedoed us abreast number-two turret. A couple minutes later, a major-caliber shell hit us below the waterline. A little later an airplane wiped out the signal gang. My general quarters station was in the foretop, so I had a good view of the war. However, it wasn't long before the foretop was shot off, so I finished the war as a dead man. During the war, the Saratoga lost four planes, so for one afternoon we had a truce while all hands worked at plane recovery. We succeeded. Friday morning real early we dropped the hook in Pedro Bay and looked forward to a weekend of leisure. I spent Saturday afternoon bumming around Long Beach. The next week we were at sea again to practice antiaircraft fire. We were to fire at targets towed by planes. This required unrigging antennas again, which meant that I had to lay out on the yardarm to wrestle with the long-wire antennas. The following week we were out only two days, but we finished all our AA firing. Now we had to get ready for a visit by SecNav. However, on Monday, 23 October, we went to sea, from habit I guess, because we returned in the evening. On Tuesday the 24th SecNav came aboard. All hands were in full-dress uniform. Of course, for the crew that only meant dress blues, but for the officers it was cocked hats and the works. They sure looked sharp. Guns roared salutes. The admiral's flag was hauled down and SecNav's broken at the main. Then the admiral's was broken at the fore. We were all at quarters. SecNav was piped aboard by the chief boatswain and greeted by 12 sideboys. When his visit was over, the guns roared again, his flag was hauled down, and the admiral's was again hoisted to the main. SecNav then went over to Long Beach and made a speech. It made the papers, but I have forgotten what it was all about. Wednesday afternoon about 1700 we returned to sea. We were trying to fire night battle practice, but the fog was so heavy you couldn't see the jackstaff from the bridge. Maybe here I should explain the difference between night battle practice and night spotting practice. They were both fired with the secondary battery, the 5-inchers, but night battle practice was lit by star shells fired from the AA guns, while night spotting practice used the searchlights to illuminate the target. In any case we didn't fire--still much too foggy. November came, and with it rumors as to our Navy yard sojourn. We were to go up in December, but things changed. SecNav sent a message authorizing the fleet to go to the East Coast in the spring of '34. Our yard period was canceled as we were to go with the fleet. The East Coast cruise was to be for about five months, and we would visit most of the East Coast ports. The schedule was as follows: April 8, under way for the Canal Zone; April 22-May 4, at Canal Zone, Panama; May 4-22, exercises in the Sea, then to Guantanamo; about June 1, arrive at . It was going to be a dandy cruise, and I was looking forward to it. On the sixth, we left for an Armistice Day visit to San Francisco. Upon arrival we tied up at Pier 39, a long way from anywhere but still a lot better than being anchored in the stream. The word came that there would be an examination held for radioman third, and since there were some 20 seamen qualified to take the examination, I decided that study was the better part of liberty. Our division officer, Mr. Bailey, planned a written test, and the top six would be eligible to take the advancement exam. We were due to depart San Francisco on Monday, November 13, but ComBatDiv 3 died, so the fleet was held up an extra day. The Nevada carried him back to San Pedro. The rest of us left early Tuesday morning and held exercises en route. At 1530 Thursday, they decided to cancel the exercise; we headed for San Pedro and anchored about 2200. I took Mr. Bailey's exam and was one of the top six, so I was allowed to take the examination for third class. They were to rate three, but as I was almost the junior seaman in the group I didn't have too much hope of being one of the three. On Saturday, November 25, my dad came aboard ship at about 1330. The quarterdeck watch passed the word for me, and when I got up there he was standing at the rail gazing over the side. Was I glad to see him. I got permission from the officer of the deck to show him around the ship, especially below decks. I had him running up and down ladders, and he almost got lost behind blowers and between the transmitters in the transmitter room. However, when we got to the radio shack, he only got to peek. The officer on watch wouldn't let him in. He was only a boot ensign fresh on his first assignment and reluctant to go against the rules. Dad saw the ship anyway, although after that experience he kept saying, "Do you think it is all right for me to go in there?" About 1700 we went ashore and met Len over on the beach. He had brought the Whippet, and we were off to show Dad the sights of Long Beach and San Pedro. We ended up at the YMCA, where we got Dad a room for the night and the remainder of his stay. We also stayed at the Y that night. Then Sunday we continued to tour the area's various beaches and showed him around Hollywood and Los Angeles. Len and I were so tired that we decided to go right back to the ship. On Monday I had 1300 liberty, so I returned to the Y and showed Dad a few more areas of interest. On Tuesday stormy weather delayed my liberty until about 1600, but Dad was waiting, and we just talked and went to a movie. Wednesday I had the duty, so Dad came out to the ship, and Len and I explained more of shipboard life, introduced him to shipmates, and tried to keep him out of the fresh paint. Thursday we walked around Long Beach and talked; then on Friday he left for home. It was nice to have him with me and to have been able to show him around the ship. He was impressed, and from what Mom said, he did a lot of bragging on his return. The results of the third class exam were released, and I came in fourth. It was a lot higher than I thought possible, but not high enough to get one of the rates. I managed to beat out 16 of the seamen, many with hash marks,, so I felt pretty good and said, "Next time." In fact, they rated only two instead of the three they had planned. The top man and the number-three man were rated. Number two was skipped over for some reason not stated. Anyway, I was content to study hard for that next time. On Friday, December 4, we were back at sea to fire night battle practice and night spotting practice. On Monday and Tuesday nights we had practice runs. Then on Wednesday night we fired night spotting and on Thursday night fired night battle. We returned to port and were at anchor early Friday morning. My battle station was changed to manning a battle telephone in the . The third class who had had that job got paid off, and I was promoted to the job--without the rate, however. The conning tower would have been a safe place in case of war, as it was surrounded by heavy armor plate. Not a bad job, and I was right in the midst of all the action. For the remainder of December we just swung around the buoy as our seagoing maneuvers were all over for the year. All there was to do was work in the shop, making things or repairing them, to keep the good ship Pennsylvania on the air. We got busy again just before Christmas, decorating the ship and getting ready for the Christmas parties. Again we had a group of children aboard to help us celebrate. This time, however, Santa came aboard in the ship's airplane. He came down out of the clouds to splash land close aboard and was then hoisted to the quarterdeck. Santa jumped out with his bag of goodies, and the kids wore grins from ear to ear. It was a party to long remember. For the remainder of December, holiday routine was the norm, with work to a minimum except for watch standing, and so ended 1933. Nineteen thirty-four started much as 1933. We spent time at sea in various exercises, one of which was a dandy. It was my first experience with high-speed turns. The ship really leaned, and it was impossible to use a typewriter in the radio shack. The carriage would skip, or not move, or the mill would slide right off the position into my lap. We even had a couple of lads get a little sick. No, I wasn't one of them. It was also a little difficult to walk. Fortunately, I was seated at the position and only had to keep the chair from sliding across the deck and keep the mill (our word for typewriter) in its place. I wasn't topside when we were making the turns, so I am unable to say what happened there. Len had the helm, and he said it was lots of fun. The inboard deck would be awash. I'm just as happy that I wasn't up there. Len and I decided that it was about time to try and sell the Whippet, since with the East Coast trip coming up we would not have too much more time to enjoy it. With a yard overhaul scheduled soon after our return to the West Coast, we would be away from San Pedro for almost a year, so it was better that we unload it. In February Len was admitted into the sick bay with what he thought was a cold. He missed the exam for seaman as a result, and I was stuck with selling the car. One Friday night I finally sold it to a man from Long Beach, but I don't remember the price. On Monday, February 12, we went to sea for two days for a gas-attack drill and machine gun firing by the Marines. Then the third week we were at sea for three days for battle maneuvers that tested our mettle. The fog was so thick you could have cut it with a knife and served it for soup. The first day we lost five planes. The SOS's were thick and fast. Tuesday was the "day of the war." Reveille was at 0430 with chow at 0445. I had the morning watch, so I reported to the radio shack afterwards. The morning watch was over at 1200, but general quarters sounded right after mess call. As a result, I stayed right where I was, although I did get a couple minutes off at about 1230 in order to eat. The battle lasted until chow time in the evening, at which time I had to go right back on the evening watch. The evening watch got relieved at 2300, and I had been on watch, except for a few minutes to eat, from 0445 to 2300--a long day. On Wednesday it was a little easier. We didn't start until 0600 and finally got relieved at 2000. I did get a couple hours off in between, though. We also lost five more planes on Wednesday. All this gave me a taste of what a war would mean, but I was confident that if war came, we would blow an enemy out of the water so fast he wouldn't know what hit him. We could hit a target while moving at full sped, rolling and pitching, as far as 18 miles away. There were ships in the fleet that could shoot even better than the Pennsy, but we were good, and we knew it. We just had a pity for any ship that came within our range. As for the downed planes, I never found out what happened, but I assume we rescued all the fliers involved. During the month of March, I spent my time remodeling the RG receivers. It took two weeks just to modify two receivers. However, after the first ones the pace picked up, as we had a better idea of the job. March also saw the loading of stores and fuel for the trip east. The ninth of April was the big day, and we were awaiting it with excitement. We also received the schedule of events for our Navy yard overhaul upon our return. New generators would be installed, as well as new AC receivers. No more battery locker, since the battery-powered RG receivers would be a thing of the past. We would also get an entire new battery of 5-inch guns which would be mounted on the boat deck and the main deck. It looked like a lot of work for our three-month stay. On the ninth of April the band played "Anchors Aweigh" after the bugler sounded a long blast on his bugle. We pulled up the hook and were off to southern waters. I had to buy three more suits of white, because in a couple of days we shifted into them. The temperature climbed, and we took to sleeping on the weather decks. The striker with the duty of calling the midwatch now had a problem. We were no longer in our bunks but could be anywhere on deck. Fortunately, I was no longer the junior striker, so it wasn't my problem. I did sympathize with him, though. The sun sure was hot. I had never experienced anything like it. If you weren't careful, you could be burned to a crisp in a short time. My arms and face got it, and they were really sore. We were practicing battle maneuvers all the time. My watches were six hours on and six hours off. During one of my off periods, I witnessed one of the most brilliant--to me, anyway-- examples of seamanship I had ever seen. Two destroyers came alongside while we were doing 16 knots. A line was shot over to them, and a hose extended while we refueled them. Man, was that an experience. Then, later on, we took a in tow. The tin can was not in trouble, just another part of the exercise. The sea was calm, as they said, "Not a ripple on the pond," and sleeping topside was wonderful. The night breeze was cool, and in the evening sitting on the forecastle watching the flying fish was a beautiful way to spend some time. Finally, about the 21st, we arrived in Balboa, Panama. We didn't stay in Balboa long. There was quite a ruckus ashore, and the admiral decided to take the entire fleet through the canal at once. Accordingly, all commercial traffic was held up for over 48 hours, and we put the fleet through in 47 hours. We left the dock at Balboa at 1100. I was on watch at the time, but I got a relief in time to watch as we entered the Miraflores Locks. It was just like a big elevator that lifted the ship 85 feet. The next time I got off watch we were in the Culebra Cut. That cut was a real feat of engineering, I'm convinced. Finally, I got off watch at 1730, and we were in Gatun Lake, one of the largest artificial fresh-water lakes of the world. About 1900 we entered the Gatun Locks, a series of three locks that lowered the ship to the level of the Atlantic Ocean. The canal is just a giant bridge of water between two oceans--a marvelous sight. We then laid over in Cristobal until the fifth of May. I went ashore in both Panama City and Cristobal, and that is something I will never forget. There was no Prohibition in Panama, and a couple of beers, or a few shots of rum, then the hot sun all equaled dizziness. Fortunately, liberty was up at 1800, but even in that short time some of the men drank enough to pass out. They were carried to the liberty boats, tossed in, and taken to a ship, not necessarily their own. Cargo nets were used to unload the liberty boats, and the men were just laid in the scuppers, where they stayed until morning. The first thing in the morning, liberty boats would make the round of the fleet, returning sailors to their own ships. The towns were filthy, and people lived in hovels. Len and I mainly walked around, bought a bunch of bananas and some coconuts. We did sample the beer, too, and it was good, but two was our limit. We got the entire stalk of bananas for 25 cents, and the coconuts were two for a nickel. We were only too happy when the fifth of May arrived and we got under way to continue maneuvers en route to Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. Captain Smyth of the Tennessee became ill, and our skipper assumed command of Division Two. Now the Pennsylvania had the Chief of Naval Operations, the big boss of the Navy; Commander in Chief U.S. Fleet; and Commander Battleship Division Two embarked. That made it some war for us, and we were extra busy in the radio shack. The Milwaukee and the Simpson collided, our number-two turret jammed in train, and a lot of the crew got seasick. The Tennessee and the hospital ship Relief closed so that the skipper's son, who was making the trip with his dad, could be with him for a while before he died. We got the turret fixed the next day, and then on Thursday afternoon, May 10, we anchored in a little bay off Culebra, one of the Virgin Islands. On Friday the Tennessee put to sea to bury her skipper. On Saturday we got under way to finish the problem. At 1500 that afternoon, Fleet Problem XV was officially finished, and the fleet went into cruising formation en route Gonaives, Haiti. Shortly thereafter, the Buchanan came alongside and took off the Chief of Naval Operations, so now only CinCUS was left on board, and we were scheduled to lose him about the first of June. Things were quieting down. First, however, we had to pass the underway section of the admiral's inspection. We did that on Monday, the 14th, prior to arriving in Haiti. We stayed in Gonaives only a couple of days and then proceeded to Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. We were looking forward to New York City. In fact, we were counting the days. The Pennsy would be there for only a few days, until June 15, at which time we would get under way for Bremerton and the yard overhaul that I was looking forward to. I just wanted to see Edna again. In reality, we had a pretty good time in Guantanamo Bay. Our radio gang challenged the Prune Barge's gang to a game of baseball. We went ashore a few times to practice, which consisted of a little baseball, a few beers, and lots of fun. Afterwards we would return to the ship and swim over the side. I was the only one in the gang who would catch, so I made the team without competition. We lost, but I had lots of fun arguing balls and strikes with an ensign from our ship's communication division who was umpiring behind the plate. We left Guantanamo Bay on May 24 for Gonaives, where we joined the remainder of the fleet. The next morning we got under way for New York. We didn't have any exercises scheduled for this leg of the trip, and we moseyed along at ten knots so that we wouldn't get in ahead of time. We were busy, however, getting the ship into A-1 condition for our arrival. We arrived to a tremendous welcome. President Roosevelt was in the USS Indianapolis to review the fleet as it passed in review. The other reviewing ship was the USS Louisville. As we steamed past the Indianapolis, all hands manned the rail to honor our President. As we came abreast, our guns roared a 21-gun salute, and then the band played the national anthem. We then passed the Louisville and made a big circle to come up alongside her. The rest of the fleet steamed past, led by the Lexington and Saratoga. I still get goose bumps today when I relive that time. What a sight--battleships in formation, their crews manning the rail, and covered with smoke from their saluting batteries. After the fleet passed in review, we fell in behind and entered the harbor. As we got into formation, planes from the carriers put on a show overhead. Just as they finished, the Helldivers came down out of the sky. From tiny dots side-slipping into a dive, them came straight down. Their motors were screaming, and they finally leveled off, just missing the tops. What a show! As we entered the harbor, a flashing sign on the top of one of the buildings said it all: "Sail, Hypo, William"--the signal for "cease present operation." It was kind of late when we dropped the hook into the Hudson River opposite the 96th Street landing, May 31, 1934, so Len and I decided to wait until Friday to go ashore. New York City was a sailor's dream. Len and I went to the top of the Empire State Building, walked around Times Square, and went out to baseball games. We saw the Giants play the Brooklyn Dodgers in the Polo Grounds. Then, when the Yankees returned to town, we were privileged to watch the great Babe Ruth. He struck out the first time to a tremendous roar, but the next time up he hit one out of the park, and the roar was even more tremendous. The games were free; all it cost was the ten-cent city tax. In fact, it was very hard to spend money anywhere in the city. We had all kinds of theater tickets, and the girls we showed around the ship on the days we had the duty were only too happy to accompany us to the show. Oh, yeah--the girls. I guess Victor Herbert said it best in "The Red Mill:" "You cannot see in Gay Paree, in London, or in Cork, the queens you'll meet on any street in old New York." I didn't even have to march in a parade. I didn't miss a liberty while we were there, and there was always something different to do. Finally, June 15 arrived, and early in the morning--0745, to be exact--my tour in the USS Pennsylvania came to a close. I was transferred to the USS New Mexico as part of the CinCUS flag allowance. That meant no Bremerton Navy Yard, no more working in the maintenance shop, and--worst of all--no Edna.

Chapter 4 USS New Mexico

The USS New Mexico was just recently recommissioned after a modernization program, and she was still somewhat unorganized. She looked like a fighting ship, a real man-of-war. She was a proud ship from times past, and I felt that she would be a formidable one in a short time. In fact, she had been known as the "wonder ship." To us that meant only "wonder what will happen next." The radio gang slept in hammocks, just like all other division. Hammocks were good sleeping; however, they had to be stowed in the nettings after reveille, which meant that they could not be used for sleeping late after a midwatch. That took a little getting used to, because curling up in a corner somewhere was not too much fun. The radio shack of the "New Mex" was smaller than that on the "Pennsy", but it was a lot easier to get to. It was still on the first platform deck, as was the "Pennsy's". However, we just went down a ladder from the berthing compartment, and there you were. On the "Pennsy" you had to go through the dynamo room and an airlock. We also got a new CinCUS, Admiral Joseph Reeves, a real distinguished-looking man. With his goatee he looked like the admirals of the past. He brought a new fleet radio officer, too, Lieutenant Kenneth Loring Forster. Lieutenant Forster was no Lieutenant Allen. In fact, he was just the opposite. He appeared to be a forbidding person, and he spent all of his waking moments in the shack. Since he was usually there on every watch I stood, I wondered if he ever slept. He would stand behind you, never saying a word, but occasionally he would plug his red headphones into your circuit and listen. Usually, though, he just wore the headphones around his neck and paced the deck. This was going to be a different kind of duty. One of his first directives was to forbid the practice of "break-in communications." In this mode if you missed a word or letter, you hit your key to stop the sender and give him the last word received. Then he continued from there. This saved much time, especially when static was really bad. Mr. Forster decreed that each and every transmission would include his call sign and then your call sign: New Mexico calls: ship, NADX; flag, F8Z. This extra transmission slowed things down drastically. Regular procedure called for a callup such as "M5N v F8Z BT" then your request, "IMI all after [word missed].” The sending ship would then have to reply the same way: "F8Z v M5N" and then start with the word missed and continue. When static was heavy, this extra transmission took extra time and could cause you to miss again and again. On the 19th of June we departed New York, and after a week of maneuvers we arrived in Newport, Rhode Island. We dropped the hook in the bay at exactly 1805, June 22, 1934. Newport sure was a ritzy place. From out in the bay you could see all the fancy homes--or should they be called palaces? It didn't look to be much of a liberty town; in fact, it didn't even compare to San Pedro. We were there a month. I did go ashore a few times, especially on Sundays. This was primarily to go to church, as the "New Mex" didn't have a Catholic chaplain on board. During a couple of those excursions, I was able to tour some of the homes. They sure were fine, although all the furniture was covered up with tarpaulins. I will say this for the town, though--it sure was a pretty place, green lawns and lots of nice trees. The bay was full of pretty yachts, some of them as big as ocean liners. I also missed Len. We had made so many liberties together over the past two years that things just didn't seem the same. My best friends in the radio gang of the "Pennsy" did not come to the "New Mex" either. Now all we had to look forward to was a return to New York sometime in August when we were scheduled to manicure the bottom in the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Since Newport wasn't a liberty town, it gave me time to study for advancement. I felt my chance of making radioman third was only fair, since I was on a new ships and was still lacking enough time to bring my multiple high enough to beat out the old-timers. The "New Mex" didn't have a typewriter repairman aboard, so I told the chief that I was an expert. He took my word and gave me the job. After cleaning them all up, it took only a few minutes each week to keep them that way. It was a soft job, but I had to learn all about typewriters. Finally, on the 19th of July, we went to sea for a few days on maneuvers. This broke the monotony, and on our return the town was getting ready for the Lipton Cup Race. It seemed like the bay was filling up with a few thousand yachts. They were big and beautiful. However, I was unable to see the race from our anchorage and was unable to get to a place where I could see it. Newport didn't have public transportation of any kind, and it was much too far to walk. As time went on, the folks of Newport began to thaw. More and more of them came to visit the ship, and I even got an invitation to visit ashore. The last weekend in July was different, and, as usual, I had the duty. On Saturday the New Mexico was decorated for a reception, and they did a bang-up job. The forecastle and quarterdeck were closed in with signal flags and plants. Big trees and shrubs in pots were placed around the sides, and awnings were spread over the entire area. It sure was a pretty sight. It lasted only a day, though, and then they took it all down. They didn't have a dance for the crew on board, though. Instead, the dance was held ashore. I guess they figured that it would be easier to transport the sailors ashore than to transport guests to the anchorage. As a result, I couldn't go ashore and was unable to enjoy the occasion. Of course, if they had held it aboard, they couldn't have served free beer. Then on Sunday I was due on watch at noon. In the morning the church party was sent to the USS Mississippi instead of the beach. Another radioman and I joined the group going over to the Mississippi. When we got there, we visited the radio room and then attended Mass. Afterwards we stood on the quarterdeck, waiting for our boat to return to the New Mexico. After a while we asked the officer of the deck to send a request to the "New Mex" for a boat. One came, but it broke down upon arrival. By now it was chow time, so we ate on board while they repaired the boat. Finally, about 1430, we left, arriving back about 1500. Needless to say, I was a little concerned, as I was very late for watch. Fortunately, there was another man in the section, and he took the watch. When I explained the situation to the chief, nothing more was said. On Friday, August 3, we departed Newport for New York. We took our time and arrived in the Brooklyn Navy Yard about 1800 Saturday. About 1930 liberty call was sounded, and it looked like abandon-ship drill rather than liberty. We had been in Newport too long. I went over for the weekend. We had a 20-minute ride in the subway to downtown New York. I had two more liberties in New York on Wednesday and Friday. The last weekend I had the duty, but I was broke so it didn't matter. The first time I got lost in Brooklyn trying to find the subway station, but after that I had no more trouble. While in the Brooklyn yard, I sent all of the typewriters over to the repair shop for a good overhaul. They really needed one. Now my job would be even easier as a cleaning would be all that was necessary for quite some time to come. Monday morning, August 13, we departed Brooklyn for Norfolk. We had full-power trial runs and short-range battle practice runs on the way down. They really took up a lot of time. The ship was beginning to shape up, though. We arrived at on Friday the 17th. It was a glorious day. I was informed that I had passed the examination for radioman third and was promoted as of the 15th. I was a petty officer--what a difference. No longer was I the junior man in the gang; now all the strikers were junior to me. But what was even better was that my pay became $60.00 a month, less 5%. We stayed in port over the weekend, and I had the opportunity to visit Norfolk for a short time. It didn't impress me any. I was just as happy to leave, which we did at 0200 Monday morning. We spent the week at sea, returning to Norfolk for the weekend. We fired short-range practice with the antiaircraft battery and put E's on three guns. Good shooting for a green crew; this was going to be a man-of-war after all. Monday the 20th was also pay day and very welcome for a sailor who had spent all his money in New York and Norfolk. I wanted to go home on leave in the worst way, but it just didn't work out. My first goal had been to make third class, so I put it off until after the examination. Now that I was a third class, leave was out of the question. In order to have any time in Superior, I would have needed at least 20 days plus travel time. However, it was now gunnery season, and there would be no leave until the 30th of August, and it would expire on September 12, prior to getting under way for Guantanamo Bay, so I was out of luck. I hated to disappoint my folks, but that was the way it was. Being a third class petty officer was quite a change. No longer did I have to take orders from everyone. In fact, I was left alone and expected to do my job. Now I could give orders to the strikers and get their assistance. I guess it was because I was trusted more. It sure was a nice feeling, and it made me more determined than ever to get ahead. I ordered a course in mathematics from the Columbia University and started to hit the books for the examination for second class, which I would be eligible to take in one year. The requirements for second class included the ability to send and receive American Morse code over a land-line telegraph system at 15 words a minute. The sound was so much different--no nice clear dots and dashes, just clicks. I could see that I would be spending a lot of time at a telegraph key in attempting to master that mode of operation. Saturday, September 17, at 1000 we finally left Norfolk and got under way for Guantanamo Bay, with tactical exercises en route. That meant that we would be on watch half the time. In the radio shack, that was six hours on and six hours off. It was a little better, because the division officer got us permission to keep our cots down so we could sleep when off watch. That was just another of the perks that set radiomen aside and earned them ridicule from men in the other divisions. Perhaps it was only envy. As a result, I didn't see much of the topside during that cruise, but we had quite a war. I never heard who won or what sort of score our ship earned. The new admiral was keeping things secret. Perhaps we lost. We arrived in Guantanamo Bay on Friday the 21st. The next week we rested, and then we would finished uncompleted exercises before leaving for the canal. I managed a liberty in Guantanamo City, a little town inland a bit. We rode a boat from the ship to a place called the Red Barn that was on Cuban soil. It was noted for its railroad station on a narrow-gauge railway with old U.S. equipment. We boarded a train that was made up of a couple of coaches, plus many flatcars with benches built on them. It took us about three-quarters of an hour to reach the town. It wasn't much of a place, but they had nice cold beer and hundreds of peddlers who descended on us. Mostly we walked around and decided we really didn't want to live in a place like that. At 1700 the shore patrol rounded everybody up and herded them back to the station. Two of the sailors took over the cab, and it took a while to get them back on the flatcar where they belonged. On the ride back, we were all singing and having a ball when, out of a clear sky, the rain came. We all got soaked, but that didn't stop the singing. Even the officers joined in. We remained at Guantanamo Bay for about a month. It was a pretty place, had a radio station, NAW, and it seemed like it would be a nice place to have duty. The radiomen stationed there agreed but said it was kind of dead when the fleet was away. The weather was nice and warm, and the swimming was good. Baseball diamonds and a big recreation hall in the barracks gave one the opportunity to keep busy and enjoy life when off duty. Our stay in Guantanamo Bay was over. The fleet left for the canal, and no one except for a few folks in Washington--and, of course, we in the fleet--knew where we were headed. We sent false movement reports indicating that we were just out to sea for a few more maneuvers. We floated around in the Caribbean Sea most of the day, and then, as soon as darkness fell, we changed course for the canal and boosted speed to 18 knots with all the ships darkened. We arrived early morning, and by daybreak about a third of the ships were through the canal. We started through about noon and were in Balboa by 2100. At Balboa we tied up to a dock. Armed guards came aboard, and armed patrol boats were patrolling the harbor. We stayed there for four days, and I went ashore one afternoon to see the sights. I visited the Church with the Golden Altar. It was pretty, and if it was solid gold, as they claimed, it was worth a pretty penny. Upon leaving Balboa, we began 12 days of maneuvers en route to San Pedro. Again, it was a watch-on and watch-off situation. For 12 nights we repelled destroyer attacks. Toward the end, during one of these night attacks with all the ships darkened, the USS Ellis rammed the USS McFarland while they were under way at 30 knots. The radio room came to life as emergency messages flew. The firerooms of the McFarland were flooded, but fortunately no one was badly hurt. We also lost a few planes, but again we didn't hear how the battle ended. Security was beginning to be tightened up. Admiral Reeves even issued an order that cameras would no longer be allowed aboard ship. All cameras were to be turned in to the master-at- arms for safekeeping. You would be allowed to take a camera ashore, but no longer could you take pictures aboard ship. At about 2100 the ninth of November we finally dropped the hook in San Pedro Harbor once again. Were the good folks of San Pedro happy to see us! I sent a message to Len in the old ship "Pennsy" and asked him to meet me ashore. We celebrated the fleet's arrival with Len's friends in Wilmington. The next night I had the watch and was guarding the batdiv circuit. [Batdiv--battleship division.] It was one of those nights when the static was unbearable, and you were lucky to get a couple of characters in a row without being knocked out. The other ship had a message for the flag, and we agreed to use break-in communications in order to speed things up since the message was of priority precedence. Unknown to me, Lieutenant Forster was standing behind me. When the message was complete, Mr. Forster tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Did you make transmissions without sending your call sign?" What could I say but "Yes, sir"? I tried to explain that the message was priority and that was the fastest way to receive it. Explanation did no good. He said, "Where do you want to go? I'll send you anywhere in the fleet you want to go." I replied, "Will you leave me on this ship when the flag returns to the 'Pennsy'?" He replied he would, and he did, so my days on the flag were numbered. When the flag shifted back to the USS Pennsylvania on the 16th of November, 1934, I became a member of the ship's company of the USS New Mexico. It was nice not to have a busy radio room for a change, but it didn't last long. Soon thereafter, the Prune Barge, USS California, was scheduled for a Navy yard period, so ComBatFor brought his flag to the "New Mex". Again, we were busy. M5N, the call sign for ComBatFor, guarded Radio San Francisco, and that circuit was every bit as busy as the Washington circuit. M5N also guarded the Battle Force radio station at San Pedro. This station gave us the privilege of communicating with family and friends ashore. It was also a busy circuit, especially upon our return to port after a day or two at sea. Everyone in the fleet that wanted to send a message to someone ashore had to send it to M5N for relay. In any case, the shack was a busy place once again. As a result, we had enough business to keep us awake on the midwatches. The M5N gang was headed up by Chief Radioman Thomas Reeves, and he was a legend. He ran the gang with an iron fist and allowed no one, officers included, to encroach on his domain. He disciplined his troops, he rewarded them, and he was universally admired. He was the best chief I had the privilege of serving with. He had found a home, and he stayed there till he died. He was killed during the Japanese attack on the California at Pearl Harbor, December 7, 1941. He was missed by all who knew him. He also had some characters in his gang who really made life interesting. One of these was a seaman striker who joined the ship somewhere on the East Coast and was assigned to the deck force. On the return trip to the West Coast, as the story was related to me by one of the flag radiomen, a seaman who looked as if he had slept in his uniform--dirty, long hair, and unshaven--entered the radio room. Reeves looked at him in disgust and asked him what he was doing there. The man answered that he would like to get into the gang. Well, Reeves figured he had to get rid of him fast. First he asked him if he knew anything about radio, and the answer came back, "Nothing, but I know the code." Reeves sat him down on the fastest circuit in the house, alongside a first class who was being pushed to his limit. The guy put on the headphones, looked around a little, tried out the typewriter, rolled in a log sheet, and waited. All of a sudden, the circuit came alive, and he just sat there for a minute watching the first class to see what he did. Then, realizing it was a message for the ship, he rolled in a message blank and started copying. He was a couple of lines behind by then but soon caught up and turned in a perfect copy. Reeves was dumbfounded. It turned out the man had been a telegrapher for the railroad and just wanted to get into radio. Well, Reeves told him to go bathe and shave, shift into clean whites, and report back. He was in the gang. Of course, he knew nothing of Navy operating procedures, so he was delegated to copy press for the remainder of the cruise. He did very well and still had that job on the "New Mex". He was one of the few radiomen I knew who could copy press on a stencil, ready for the mimeograph machine without editing. He was a terror ashore, however, and Reeves was forever having to get him out of trouble. Thanksgiving Day came and went, and my mother and sister arrived in Long Beach for a visit. They stayed with my aunt, who was now living in Long Beach, and I used my liberties to show them around the area and had them aboard ship for a visit. One day we went out to the amusement park on the pier, and my sister had a ball. Then, on the fifth of December, we got under way for San Francisco. Mother and Sister preceded me and went over to our friends in Sausalito, where I joined them on five days' leave. We had an enjoyable time in the area. Then, on the evening of Friday, December 14, she boarded a train for the return trip to Superior. Len had joined us on that day also; it was nice to have him with me once again. Len and I visited, and we spoke of our future. I told him that if I were lucky enough to make second class, I would ship over. Len, however, wanted to go back to Duluth and marry his sweetheart. She wanted him home, he said, and that is what he would be doing. He also related a story going around the ship about the new CinCUS. In fact, Admiral Reeves was fast becoming a legend. It had to do with a scruffy seaman who was in the third division on the "Pennsy". Admiral Reeves had the habit of walking on the quarterdeck every morning, and one day he came up a little earlier than usual, and the young lad was still sweeping down. He went up to the admiral and asked him if he would have his picture taken with him so he could send it to his mother. The admiral answered, "Yes, son, go get your camera." Commander Denebrink, the flag secretary, had a fit when the lad came back with his camera [Lieutenant Commander Francis C. Denebrink, USN.] After all, the admiral had ordered all cameras to be turned in to the master-at- arms while aboard ship. In any case, the admiral handed the camera to Commander Denebrink, put his arm on the lad's shoulder, and told the commander to take the picture. Commander Denebrink kept the camera and had the film developed and made sure the lad had a few words from his chief. When the picture was developed, the admiral wrote a letter to the lad's mother telling her how proud he was to be serving with her son, enclosed the picture, and mailed it off. Of course, the admiral's writer made sure that all hands knew of this event, and the admiral soon came to be revered throughout the fleet. While in San Francisco, Chief Reeves's new striker went ashore, rented a shotgun, and after a few drinks went out and started shooting at the moon. Of course, the police took a dim view of this sort of conduct, and they arrested him. The shore patrol brought him back to the ship, and he was on report. This was one episode that the chief was unable to fix. The striker was aboard ship for a long time after that. We returned to San Pedro for the Christmas holidays, and this time I had a place to go ashore since my aunt was now living in Long Beach. She gave me a key to the house so that I could get in in the event that she was out. I now had a place to hang my hat ashore. Then, after the holidays, it was back to sea almost every week. We would go out on Monday and return on Friday. The Battle Force radio circuit into the landing in Long Beach was one busy circuit on Friday. Once I handled three messages from the same officer, each to a different woman. Two of them said he had the duty and wouldn't be ashore, and the third said he would meet her on the dock that evening. I hope the right message got to the right woman. The year 1935 started as all the others. We were at sea almost every week, getting ready to shoot long-range battle practice. Then, the last week of January, we were ready to fire. Wednesday, the 30th, was our day. Long-range battle practice was supposed to represent actual warfare. However, the cable towing the high-speed target needed docking for repairs. It was sent to San Diego for repairs, and they sent us out a replacement which arrived Thursday morning. However, that target capsized, so we were put off one more day. Finally, on Friday afternoon, we were ready to shoot. For long-range battle practice a tug towed a target at a range of about 20 miles, which represented the enemy's main body. Then, at about 19 miles away, a destroyer towed the high- speed target at 24 knots. This target represented the enemy's scouting force. The good old "New Mex" steamed toward the enemy to get within range, and all the time the destroyer was making thrusts toward us. At a range of about 18 miles, turrets one and two cut loose and blew the high- speed target out of the water. Turrets three and four couldn't bear, as we were firing over the bow. By the time the high-speed target was destroyed, we were getting fairly close to the main body. We started shooting with the secondary battery until the range shortened further; then we swung broadside and let them have it with the . In nothing flat the target was a mass of holes. All the time we were steaming at 18 knots, and the targets were also moving along at a pretty good clip. Well, anyway, at those speeds the exercise didn't take long. It was over in some 20 minutes. We were out all week for 20 minutes of shooting, but we did finish, and we returned to port in the evening. On the fifth of February we again went to sea, this time to fire antiaircraft practice. We did pretty well, but now we were getting ready for another bit of maneuvers en route to San Francisco. We returned to port for the weekend again, and then on the 12th we left for Frisco. We had two days of maneuvers en route, and I had the afternoon and midwatches on the bridge. On the bridge we handled all the maneuvering signals, while other traffic was handled in the main radio room. I could hear all the signals, just didn't have to copy regular traffic. All of a sudden, a message came from the Macon. Then I really got busy. All the messages had urgent prosigns, so I was no longer bored. The radioman in the Macon was one of the two crewmen who were lost. He stayed at his radio until the captain gave the abandon-ship order; then he jumped without looking. He was 125 feet in the air and didn't survive the drop. The other casualty was the Filipino mess attendant. Otherwise, they said the maneuvers were a complete success. We entered Frisco Harbor the 15th of February and stayed for ten days. Our return to San Pedro was a rough one. The ship rolled and tossed like a cork. On the bridge it was impossible to use the mill. The carriage of the typewriter either jumped ahead or refused to move, depending on which way the ship was leaning at the time. Consequently, it was necessary to do all the copying with a stick, as we called a pencil. Sending was as bad. You just had to hold your hand steady, and the bouncing ship made the dots and dashes. We did make port, though, and all ended well. In March we tied up alongside the USS Medusa for minor repairs and stayed there for two weeks. ComBatFor shifted his flag back to the Prune Barge, leaving us all alone again. We had the shack painted, so we stood our watches in the Medusa's shack, and all at once I was promoted to supervisor of the watch. That was much better than pounding brass. On the 30th of March, we moved back to our own shack, and the next day ComBatDiv 3 brought his flag aboard. This was a small flag with only a few extra radiomen and no extra circuits. It was a change, though, because the men of this flag complement bragged about how important they were. That was a laugh. ComBatFor's staff, an outfit that handled the most traffic of any seagoing group in the Navy, and one of the most professional groups I was privileged to serve with, just went about their business without the bragging of this one. I was supervisor of the watch the morning they came aboard and started to tell me how they did things on the flag. They had me angry in only a few minutes, and after a few words I ran one of their so-called hotshots out of the shack. Fortunately, their chief had fallen down a ladder upon reporting aboard and so was in the sick bay getting it fixed. Nonetheless, I had an enemy, but I had made points with our gang, and that is what counted. We were beginning to get excited about our next cruise: San Francisco and Hawaii. We remained alongside the Medusa until the fifth of April. The admiral decided to inspect us, and he did. It took almost a week, and it was some inspection. The first thing was the landing party ashore. That took place on the 12th of April. As usual, I was on the party that set up the field set, and we managed to set it up and get in contact with the ship in a very short time. Then I had the weekend duty. On Monday we held field day; that is the day we cleaned up the ship for the admiral. We had it sparkling. Tuesday was material and personnel inspection. We really did ourselves proud. The skipper was so proud of us, in fact, that he gave all hands a special liberty, starting the following Monday. Wednesday we got under way for a battle efficiency inspection and emergency drills. We did pretty well in that phase too. We wound up all up on Thursday, when we had more of the battle efficiency problem with a gas drill. We were decked out in gas masks and gas suits, fondly known as "goon suits and muzzles," as a protection against mustard gas. When the gas alarm sounded, tear gas was released, and, of course, I was a little tardy getting the mask on, and did my eyes burn. After it was all over, the gas lingered in corners and other isolated spaces, and I burned my eyes all over again. Then it was all over, and we got a really good score. Now I knew why it was called "the Wonder Ship." We returned to our anchorage and stayed there for a week or so. On Sunday I went over to the USS for Mass. The Idaho had just rejoined the fleet, the latest battleship to be modernized. She looked a lot like the "New Mex" and "Missy." She had a dandy chaplain on board. On Monday morning, April 29, we got under way for San Francisco and points west. The problem really started at midnight, but we didn't get under way until early in the morning. We didn't stay in Frisco very long this time, as we left there early Friday morning, May 3, for Hawaii. The first few days, the sea was cutting up a little, and we were taking waves over the bow. I was glad we were observing radio silence. That way the mill just sat there idly, and we could write "no signals" when the sea was quiet. After a couple of days, however, the sea calmed down, and the Pacific lived up to its name. Now radio silence was boring. All we did for the entire week was have an occasional skirmish with submarines. However, an epidemic of spinal meningitis broke out on the Idaho, and our ship took precautions to keep it away. I never did hear how the Idaho fared or whether they left the maneuvers and proceeded independently. Finally the war was over, and again I was not privy to the outcome. But in the early morning, Sunday, May 12, we were lying off the prettiest island I had ever seen. Words could not describe it--my words, anyway. The "Jewels of the Pacific" are well named. Of course, nine days at sea could have had something to do with that description. As we entered Pearl Harbor, the water changed from a deep blue to a light green, and about 1030 we tied up to our buoy, and liberty started. As usual, I had the duty. We had a five-section watch, though, so I had plenty of time to look over the island of Oahu. In fact, I made a couple of liberties in . On Monday I had my first chance. Liberty started at 0900, and I was off the ship by 0910. From the dock in the Navy yard I caught a bus into town, about an 11-mile ride through fields of sugar cane. I arrived in Honolulu about 0930 and just wandered around the town, ate lunch, and then went out to Waikiki Beach. It was a pretty beach, and I decided to go swimming. I was somewhat disappointed, though. The water was really too shallow for swimming, and I wasn't about to try surf boarding. The beach was pretty, but I don't think it was any prettier than the beach at Moccasin Mike on the south shore of Lake Superior. But the water was quite a lot warmer--about 40 degrees warmer, I would say. If it only had been deeper. A visit to the Hawaiian Village, supposed to be typical of a voyage of Captain Cook's time, was informative and interesting. Otherwise, I wonder just what it was that made Hawaii such a vacation paradise. Maybe people bragged about a visit just to impress others, while not admitting they were suckers. We didn't remain in Pearl very long before getting under way again. This time we went as far as Midway Island and then returned to Lahaina Roads off the island of Maui. I got a chance to visit the old town of Lahaina. Lahaina had been a whaling port that rivaled Honolulu and was noted for its bawdy atmosphere. However, that was a thing of the past, and the town was sort of run down. It was interesting, though, and soon we were on our way back to the United States. Soon after our return, my request for 30 days' leave was granted, and I was off to visit my old hometown. The bus trip across the desert was awful. Never was I so uncomfortable. No air-conditioned buses in those days. There were a couple of other sailors on board, and we promptly shifted into tropical uniform--that is, undershirts only. It was not really regulation ashore, but we were a long way from the ship. My leave was long overdue, and I sure was happy to be back home with the folks. I was just in time to take part in my cousin's wedding. She had put if off for a couple of weeks just in the hope that I would be able to make it. I helped send her off on a short honeymoon and then visited the friends I had left behind. In fact, I felt that I was so much batter off than they were that I made up my mind that I would reenlist, or at least extend for two more years. The leave didn't last long enough, though, and soon I was on my way back to San Pedro. The return trip was a lot nicer. Two young lady schoolteachers on their way to the West kept me company on the trip. They were very interested in the Navy, and I got to entertain them with many a sea story. I even invited them to come visit me aboard ship. They did visit but then left for San Francisco before I had any liberty. It was just as well, because now I really had to get down and start hitting the books if I wanted to get anywhere with the second class examination that would be coming up in August. A requirement for second class was the ability to copy 15 words per minute in the American Morse code over a teletype line. A radioman second class named Hurwitz spent many hours with me. The sound was altogether different: just clicks instead of nice sharp dots and dashes. Hurwitz made sure that I could copy 15 words a minute, and I am eternally grateful to him for the pains he took to each me that system. I passed the examination but never had the opportunity to use it. The only place it was used at was the shore stations that had a tie in with the Western Union telegraph lines. The international Morse code requirement was 18 words a minute, and that was no trouble as I could copy double that. The "New Mex," as well as a couple of other ships, were engaged in a gunnery school for the fleet, so we missed out on fleet week in Seattle and points north. Edna would just have to wait again. The New Mexico had the antiaircraft branch of the school, while Idaho had the broadside branch, and some cruiser had the main battery branch. The school meant that every Monday morning we went to sea and fired our guns for a couple of days while they made moving pictures of the firing, which they then studied during the last part of the week while we swung around the hook in the bay. We usually returned to port on Wednesday, and liberty was great. I, however, went ashore once a week. I had made up my mind to make second class if at all possible. This was also my first summer in southern California, and I was pleasantly surprised at how nice the weather was. No longer did I have to take my peacoat ashore if I was returning to the ship after dark. The heavy fog of the winter nights was also missing. The New Mexico didn't have a repair shop as did the "Pennsy." All repair work was handled in the transmitter room, and I finally made it back there. Now I was in my glory again. No longer did I have to stand radio watches; instead, my job was to keep the transmitters on the air and tuned to the right frequency. In between times I got to do repair work on the rest of the gear as it was required. The job made studying much easier, and I figured I had better study hard, because they were going to rate only 100 second class in the fleet. There were many third class with hash marks who would have an advantage over me since credit was also given for time in rate. As we moved into August, I began looking forward to our Navy yard overhaul. The gunnery school wound down, and we got under way for San Francisco, where we joined the rest of the fleet. Len came aboard on the 18th, and we both headed for the beach. One more liberty with Len, and we spent it with our old friends who used to live in Sausalito but now lived in Fairfax. It took some doing and a lot of walking to find them, but it was all worthwhile. The weekend was over, and we got under way for the Bremerton Navy Yard at last. I had taken the examination for second class, and I thought I had done pretty well. Now it was just a matter of seeing how well. On the 23rd of August we arrived at the Navy yard, and soon thereafter I was at Edna's door. I presented her with my old third-class crow and proudly showed her my new one. Not only did I get to see my girl again, but I also had been promoted to radioman second class effective 15 August 1935. I was walking on air. However, it didn't last very long. I guess I had been away too long. While Edna had written to me very faithfully over the previous two years, she had found someone new. In any case, my third visit with her was my last. I never saw her again. Second class petty officer was quite a step up, and I really felt good about making it on my first cruise. I was now pretty sure that I would at least extend my enlistment for two years if I didn't ship over. My pay was now $72.00 a month. However, transportation for dependents didn't come with the rate. You had to be first class for that, and that would be a long time in the future. So maybe it was just as well that Edna and I split up. In any case, the new rate made me feel good. The ship was a mess. Workmen were all over her, tearing up this and rebuilding that. The radio room was being completely renovated: new receivers, new positions, and even new swivel chairs. It was going to be an excellent work area. The noise was awful. Chipping hammers and other noise makers were providing a constant din, and this went on till late at night. Finally, though, the job was getting finished, and it was time to dry-dock and manicure the bottom. This was supposed to be an all-hands evolution, and the radio gang was to supply all strikers and third-class petty officers. As the junior second class, I was put in charge of the party. I got the gang together and charged them to show those deck apes that we in the radio gang could do a better job than they could. We went into the dry dock and started our part of the job. It sure was messy work, but we were making good progress. The morning passed, and we broke for chow. The group then started complaining to me about the lack of other petty officers in the work party. It seemed that the radio gang was the only crew with petty officers. The coxswains and other third- class petty officers were supervisors for gangs of seamen and firemen. I checked it out and found it true, so I told my gang to stand fast. By this time the word was being passed for the radio gang to lay below. My group was beginning to get worried, but I ordered them to relax while I sought out the division officer. As I started out to find him, Ensign Hatcher, our division officer, came into the compartment, called me over, and asked what was going on. I told him that the radio gang was the only division that was supplying petty officers to the work force, and I thought that the third class should be excused. I told him I would take the strikers below and carry on, but I would like to have the others left out. He said that we should just wait a moment, and he left. When he came back, he said that the radio gang would not supply any personnel to the working party. Oh, boy, was I relieved. Even better was the fact that from then on I had that gang of sailors in the palm of my hand. It was a heady feeling. I decided that I had had enough of battleships and would like to try out the destroyer navy. I put in a request for new construction with destroyers as my first choice and submarines my last. I received word back from the Bureau of Navigation that my request was approved, my name was placed on file, and I would be informed as soon as a man of my rating was needed in new construction. In the meantime, I did manage to visit some of the Superiorites then living in the Seattle area and even got a 72-hour liberty so I could get down to Portland and visit an uncle of mine there. Gradually our yard time was running out, and soon we were on our way back to San Pedro, arriving there the first of December; on the 15th CinCUS would be aboard again. Now I knew I wanted off. Aft in the transmitter room I would be out of the sight of Mr. Forster, but still I didn't want to take the chance. In the meantime, the ship had a request from Washington to nominate a radioman second for duty in the embassy in Addis Ababa. I asked Mr. Hatcher to nominate me, and he did. I was accepted and received orders to the USS Chaumont, sailing from San Pedro on the 23rd of December for Norfolk, Virginia, via the Canal Zone. I was really happy and decided to press my luck. I asked for permission to travel across country at my own expense, and it was granted. Len also had orders to the Chaumont, but I was unable to convince him to come across country with me. Len had made coxswain on the last examination, but his decision to leave the Navy cost him the rate. They gave it to another man. I saw him before he was transferred, and then I left on 21 days' leave. My tour on the New Mexico had come to an end, and now my future was unknown. I caught a bus for home, and this time the bus ride was much more comfortable. It had a heater and was warm enough, even though we were driving through snow. I got home for Christmas and New Year's, and then on 12 January I caught a bus for Washington, D.C., and a new duty.

Chapter 5 East Coast

I was able to spend the Christmas of 1935 and New Year's of 1936 at home. Soon thereafter I boarded a bus for the capital of the United States. I spent a couple of days in Milwaukee with my uncle and aunt, whom I had not seen since my Great Lakes days. They greeted me joyfully and were happy to see me again. My uncle even loaned me his car for a ride around the city. Then it was on to Washington. I arrived on 9 January, which was a Friday. I reported in to the receiving ship at the Washington Navy Yard too late in the day to report to the detailer at the Bureau of Navigation. That would have to wait until Monday. In the meantime, I hooked up with an old Allouez girl now working in Washington, and on Sunday she showed me around the city. Then on Monday I hightailed it downtown to see the detailer. He had bad news for me. It seemed that one of the radiomen on duty at NAA, Radio Washington, was available. Since they wanted a replacement in Addis Ababa immediately, he was sent to fill the billet. The detailer was sorry, but he said that if I would reenlist he would try to give me the duty of my choice. I was disappointed but asked him if a new-construction destroyer would be out of the question. He said he was at that moment picking the crew for the USS Drayton then building in Bath, Maine. He had a billet for a radioman second class, and I took it. He also said that the crew would not be assembling until late May. In the meantime, he would send me to the USS Babbitt (DD- 128), stationed in Annapolis, Maryland. That sounded good to me, so I agreed and went back to the receiving ship. I was paid off on 13 January and reenlisted for four more years on 14 January 1936. I was even paid a reenlistment bonus of $200.00. Now I was rich. They kept me around the receiving ship for a couple of weeks. It wasn't bad duty; there were no watches to stand, and I had liberty every night if I wanted to see the sights. The hometown girl didn't want me to come to her apartment in uniform, so I just stayed away from her unless she met me downtown. I had no civilian clothes and no intention of getting any. I was on a couple of burial details, one of the men firing the salute. It wasn't too pleasant, but it had to be done. Finally, though, I got a set of orders, and my time in D.C. came to an end. I was sort of glad, because we were having zero-degree weather, and with the dampness it was quite uncomfortable. I also received a letter from Len, telling me that he had been paid off and was on his way back to Duluth to marry his school days sweetheart. I made out a $30.00 allotment to the bank and took out an insurance policy on my life so the folks would have something just in case. On my last Sunday, however, I located another friend from Superior, and he and I called on a third schoolmate, Alphonse "Tuffy" Leemans at the George Washington University, where he was playing football. Tuffy went on to the pros with the New York Giants and sort of helped put Allouez on the map. On Monday I boarded a train for Annapolis and the USS Babbitt, an old four-pipe, flush- deck destroyer. I was soon informed that 128 was not her hull number but her temperature. As a training ship attached to the Naval Academy, our job was to show the middies what the real Navy was like. In any case, it wasn't what I had been led to believe tin-can life was like. When I reported, there were already ten other radiomen on board who were also waiting to join their ships, which were also being built. Most of them were first class, and I was the junior second class. In fact, I was the junior radioman. We had no third class or striker. As we were tied up at the dock most of the time, the shack was secured and our messages were delivered by phone from the academy. Consequently, I was assigned as the jack of the dust. What a comedown. The jack of the dust assists the ship's cooks, of which we had two. It was a heck of a job for a radioman, but the cooks were fine fellows, and they treated me well. I could use the galley whenever I wanted, cook myself a steak or some eggs whenever I got hungry. My main duty was concerned with issuing stores and keeping track of supplies. My other duties consisted in standing "officer of the deck" watches while in port. I was learning something else I would need to know sometime in the future. We had about 100 men in the crew with four officers. The captain was Lieutenant Edwards, and the XO was also a lieutenant. In the meantime, there wasn't much to do in Annapolis. It was quite an old town, and I had been given to understand that the city would not issue permits to build modern buildings downtown. They wanted to keep the town just like it was. Charlie's Dine and Dance was sort of a hangout. They had fair beer and lots of good seafood. The Naval Academy was a showplace, however, and I wondered if I had missed a bet by not applying for admission while I was still young enough. Our duties consisted in taking the middies out in the bay to teach them ship handling. At least it relieved the monotony. On Monday, 9 March, we got under way for Norfolk for our quarterly material inspection. The inspecting party went over the ship with a chipping hammer to see if they could find rust, loose paint, or any other defects. Wednesday afternoon the inspectors inspected, and we did all right. I was looking forward to our return to Annapolis, as upon our return all the first class radiomen awaiting new construction would be transferred, and I would be back in the shack. The gang would then consist of a chief, an old-time second class, and me. Since I would be junior, I would get to stand most of the watches while under way. Then I was informed that the Drayton's completion date would be delayed until 18 May. The following week, while sailing in the bay training midshipmen, I had the radio watch and copied the following: "Transfer all men on board for temporary duty and ultimate assignment Drayton to Navy Yard Portsmouth NH for temporary duty connection fitting out Drayton and on board when commissioned. Commercial transportation granted. Transfer men not later than 10 May." Now I had an idea when I would be leaving and felt better. In the meantime I used some of the transportation money I received upon reenlisting to buy a 10-inch table saw for my dad. My dad was a first-rate cabinet maker, and now he would be able to start up a shop again and do what he enjoyed. Subsequent letters from home informed me that he was doing a lot of cabinet work. He was busy again and enjoying himself. About three days a week we would go out into the bay a few hours for midshipman training cruises. We would have all kinds of drills--man overboard, fire, collision, general quarters, etc.--for the middies. We didn't have to take part. I spent my time in the shack--reading, writing, and hoping the radio would light up and a message would come in. I wrote off to Washington to see if I could get any up-to-date information on my transfer, but they responded that they were unable to speed up my orders. So I resigned myself to waiting. Then, bright and early on a Friday morning, 3 April, we got under way for Norfolk with 50 midshipmen on board. We transported them to Norfolk, where they would pick up a bunch of ketches and sail them back to Annapolis. The ketches were converted 50-foot motor launches that had cabins built on. They sure were honeys. I would have liked to have one. The trip to Norfolk was uneventful. We had nice weather all the way and made good time, arriving ahead of schedule. We tied up at pier six, Norfolk Navy Yard. Saturday morning we got under way for Hampton Roads while the middies sailed the ketches to Newport News. Upon arrival we were in time to witness the launching of the Navy's newest , the Yorktown. Soon thereafter we pulled up the hook and started back to Annapolis, escorting the ketches. They really slowed us up. I stayed up on Saturday night and copied some press so the crew could have the latest news. On our way back on Sunday the captain stuck his head in the shack and complimented me on the nice paper I turned out. That would never have happened on the old "New Mex." Another nice thing about tin-can duty was that if you wanted to see the captain, you just stuck your nose into his office and talked. No unwieldy chain of command like the wagons. Life in a destroyer was pretty good, and I would not have minded remaining in the Babbitt. The trip back was very slow. We were making barely enough speed to give us steerageway. However, we did get back about 1630 Sunday and secured the shack. We received a message requesting a volunteer radioman second for duty in the Berlin embassy. I hurried it down to the captain and told him I was just the guy. He agreed and recommended me, but the bureau didn't agree, as I was under orders to new construction. It looked like I was committed to the Drayton for at least 18 months, but then on Sunday morning, 26 April, while I was over on the beach going to church, an officer from Naval Intelligence showed up on board and wanted to see me. The duty officer, an ensign, called the captain, who told him to find me and then let him know. So while I was sitting in Charlie's Dine and Dance, having a beer and breakfast, the first class showed up and told me to return to the ship. I did. When I returned to the ship, the ensign asked me where I had been. I told him I was on liberty, which I rated. Then he told me that an officer from Naval Intelligence was in town and wanted to see me, and he asked me what it was all about. I was unable to answer, because I was as much in the dark as he was. In any case, he informed the captain that I was back on board, and then he called up the intelligence officer. In the meantime, I waited. Soon the captain returned, and he asked me if I knew what was up. Again I had to confess my ignorance. Soon a man dressed in civvies came aboard and introduced himself to the captain as Lieutenant Harper of ONI. The captain introduced me to him and then, much to my embarrassment, Lieutenant Harper turned to the captain and said, "Okay, Edwards, you can go below." Then he turned to me and said, "Let's take a walk on the dock." He then asked me about my request for embassy duty and wanted to know my reasons. I told him that I wanted to see foreign ports. He then said to me, "I have just the job for you, one you would like, lots of foreign duty, with a great group of men. Are you interested?" I replied, "What is it?" He answered, "I can't tell you, but I can assure you that you will like it." I told him that it sounded good, but the captain might be a little put out. "Forget about the captain." So I said, "Okay," especially if he could have orders for me fairly soon. He said he could, and he did. I had a set of orders to Washington, D.C., soon thereafter. Finally, on 4 May, I caught a train for Washington, D.C., arriving in the afternoon. I once again reported in to the receiving ship at the Washington Navy Yard and spent the night. The next morning I reported in to Lieutenant Harper, OP-20G, in the sixth wing of the old Navy Department building on Constitution Avenue. Mr. Harper greeted me with, "I see you haven't changed your mind. Welcome aboard." Then he turned me over to Chief Radioman Malcolm Lyons. The chief informed me that the job called for civilian clothes and that I should obtain them without delay. He recommended a tailor named Dave Margolis up on G Street. He also told me that quarters were not available and that I should find a place to live and eat. Again, he recommended a boarding house run by a Mrs. Travers, also on G. Street. I headed for G Street and Mrs. Travers, as I felt that a place to live was more important than civvies. Mrs. Travers, who was called "Ma" by all the sailors living in her boarding house, told me that she could feed me but that all the beds were taken and she would be unable to put me up until such time as she had a vacancy. She got out a newspaper and found a rooming house on I Street with a room for rent and suggested that I try there. I did and promptly rented the room Mrs. Malone had vacant. I moved in, complete with seabag, which intrigued Mrs. Malone no end. I guess she had never seen a sailor with full gear before, but she sure made me welcome. Afterwards I went to Dave's tailor shop. I was broke and didn't know just how I was going to buy civilian clothes, but not to worry. Mr. Margolis sold me a complete outfit on credit. His trust in me, plus the quality merchandise he provided, made me a lifetime customer of his shop whenever I was stationed in the city of Washington. No one could have had a better welcome into the city of Washington than the one provided by Mrs. Travers, Mrs. Malone, and Mr. Margolis. I was going to like this place. I also found out that my pay would be augmented by $1.90 a day for living expenses. Room and board came to about $40.00 a month, so I was ahead by about $19.00. Now that I was all settled in, I went back to the Navy Department and was all ready to go to work. My temporary job was to stand watches at Radio Washington. The watch list was made up of three day watches (0800 to 1600), followed by 24 hours off; then three evening watches (1600 to 2400) and another 24 hours off; and finally three midwatches (0000 to 0800). Then there were three whole days off, at which time the cycle repeated. No other duties, no reveille, no drills, no quarters- -what a snap. The only problem was that it got to be boring. The three days off with nothing to do were the worst, especially the times when the Washington Senators [baseball team] were playing out of town. The Malones did their best to see to it that I was happy. They always wanted to know if everything was okay, and they were continually pointing out the beauty spots of the city and suggesting places of interest. My brother's old girlfriend was in Washington, too, and she introduced me to another Superior girl, so there was a touch of home about the area. Now that I had civilian clothes, I was even welcome at the apartment of the girl that wouldn't let me come see her in uniform. There were also a couple of girls living right in the rooming house; one of them was a ticket seller at local movie theater. She worked in the evening, so we were able to play tennis and bike ride in the daytime. The rooming house also had four or five one-room apartments that were occupied by couples, most of whom were older than I. One couple, the Allburns, however, were my age, and we became firm friends--in-laws, in fact. Ma Travers fed me, and I got to know some of the sailors who were living in her house. I had served with a couple of them in the fleet just a short time earlier. Whenever I asked them what they were doing, I got a run-around. They either ignored the question or commenced telling sea stories. One of them was R. R. "Bill" Williams, whom I had been with in the "New Mex." He was part of a close-knit group that usually hung together. Whenever I asked him what he was doing, he, like the others, changed the subject. It was sort of strange--sailors not talking about their work. The weeks went by fairly fast, and the weather got hotter and hotter. Then, on the Fourth of July, the city put on a celebration to end all celebrations. It started with a doubleheader at the ballpark, the Senators against the Yankees. Of course, the Yanks won them both, and rookie Joe DiMaggio of the Yanks put on a show. In the evening the Marine Band entertained at the Washington Monument grounds, and as soon as it got dark, there was a fireworks display to end all fireworks displays. The paper said 100,000 folks watched. It was quite a celebration. The weather was heating up and becoming most uncomfortable. Two additional men reported on board without a place to live. It happened that Mrs. Malone had one of her one-room apartments vacant at the same time. This room was in the front of the building, right next to mine, and she rented it to them. Frank "Chick" Weiland and L. O. "Sam" McCurdy moved in. Since we now had kitchen facilities, we decided to do our own cooking. It worked out really well, and we had plenty of help from the ladies in the house when it came to planning meals. The wife of my brother-in-law-to-be even prepared some of them for us. My time as a watch stander was fast running out, and by the middle of July we found ourselves enrolled in school. The subject was Japanese naval communications. The place was a block house on the roof of wing six of the old Navy Department building on Constitution Avenue. We became part of the "On the Roof Gang," or ORTG for short. My class was composed of eight radiomen, second and third class. Besides Chick and Sam my classmates were the following: Chester Bissel, Walter Johnson, Rex Jule, Roy Sholes, and Fred Thompson. We all graduated. Now I knew what the other group of eight had been doing, and we couldn't talk about it either. We also became a close-knit group. It was heady business. We started with the symbols of the Japanese kata kana and the Morse equivalent for each one. There were 49 in all, and it took some time to learn them. The kata kana characters were easy to write with a pencil. In fact, that is the only way the Japanese had to copy them. As a result their circuits were usually much slower than ours. However, their radiomen were excellent operators. Instead of making V's when tuning up, they used the poem made up to fit their symbols. The poem goes like this:

I RO HA NI HO HE TO CHI RI NU RU WO WA KA YO TA RE SO TSU NE NA RA MU U WI NO O KU YA MA KE FU KO E TE A SA KI YU ME MI SHI WE HI MO SE SU

Of course, they never went through the entire poem; usually the first two lines were enough to make contact. The kana symbols, however, were much simpler to make than the letter equivalents. In fact, if we had been required to copy using the Roman letters above we would have had a lot harder task. Learning the symbols was fairly simple. When we were able to copy at about ten words per minute with a pencil, we were introduced to the RIP5, a typewriter of the Underwood family that had been modified for kata kana. Where the Morse equivalent of a kana character was the same as the Morse equivalent of a letter, the kana character occupied that space on the keyboard. Since there were 26 letters in our alphabet, the 26 kana that used the same Morse combination were on the corresponding keys. For instance: the letter A, dit dah, was replaced with the kana I, also dit dah. B, dah dit dit dit was the same as the kana HA. All the numbers and punctuation keys were also used in the lower case. That left three characters to occupy the upper case with the numbers, letters, and some punctuation. Now it was just a matter of practice to get our speed up to the required level for graduation. Our day began at 0700 and was over at 1300, Monday through Friday. Then on Saturday the hours were 0800 to 1200. We had a lot of time off. The summer passed, and as fall approached the weather cooled. That was a welcome relief. It sure was hot in the summertime. Now, however, I began to think how cold it was the previous winter, and I didn't have an overcoat. I decided I didn't want to buy one for the short time I would get to wear it, so I asked my brother to send me his spare to use until I came home on leave in December. He did, so I was spared that expense. Then in October Nez Allburn invited his sister to visit. He introduced me, and I lost my heart. All my off time was now spent with Dorothy Allburn. The next-to-last Friday in November I was informed that I would be transferred to Station Cast, located in Cavite, Philippine Islands. [Cavite, on a peninsula about a dozen miles south of , was the site of the U.S. Navy Yard serving ships in the area.] "Cast" was the word for the letter C in the phonetic alphabet at the time. In that same vein, the communications site in Hawaii was known as Station Hypo. That night I told Dorothy and asked her if she would wait for me to return in three years. She was reluctant to promise that and said she would rather go with me. Well, I pointed out that I was a second class petty officer in the Navy and, as such, didn't rate transportation for a dependent. In fact, I couldn't even get married without the permission of my commanding officer. I also said that marriage would be for life. Then I said that as a Navy man, the Navy came first. The Navy wouldn't ask her if it would be all right to transfer me somewhere or to send me to sea. In fact, she would come in second, as the Navy would always be first. When she understood that, I asked her to think it over further, because that step would change her life forever. I went to my room and thought about it also. I had already lost my first love, a girl named Edith whom I had met in high school and was unable to find on my leave the previous summer. I lost my second love, Edna, by being away too long. Did I really want to lose this one too? I decided that I didn't. Besides, I had a feeling that this was the girl for me. The next morning, Saturday, we met, and both of us agreed that it would be nice to get married. If we waited until I was detached, I wouldn't have a CO then. We went down to St. Stephen's Church on Washington Circle and met with Father Henry W. Sank. His first comment was, "It is Advent, and the church doesn't celebrate weddings during Advent." But when I pointed out that I was leaving for the Philippines in a couple of weeks and that Dorothy was a Methodist, he agreed to perform the ceremony in the rectory, as a Mass would be out of the question. He also required Dorothy to sit in on a few lessons on the Catholic faith and agree that any children born of this union would be raised as Catholics. Dorothy agreed, and I sent for my baptismal certificate and other papers required by the church. We set the wedding date as 0600, Saturday morning, the 14th of December. In the meantime, I still had to finish my course and be graduated, or it would all be for nothing. The big day finally arrived, and on Friday, 13 December 1936, I became a full-fledged OTRG graduate. The next morning, after a short stop at the church, Dorothy and I were on our way to her home in Erie, Pennsylvania. When we walked into the house, a very suspicious mother-in- law demanded to see the marriage license. When I produced it, everything was fine, and we had a lovely time. Our visit there was a short one, and then it was on to Superior, where a very timid young lady was introduced to her in-laws. My roommates were also in love. Sam had orders to . He met his girl in the rooming house also, and they planned to get married before he left. Chick had orders to Hawaii and planned to marry a hometown sweetheart if she would go to Hawaii with him. Roy Sholes married a hometown girl and had orders to Hawaii also. As for me, I just wondered how I was going to get Dorothy to the Philippines. We got to Superior and were royally greeted by the folks. They immediately made Dorothy a part of , and Dad knew just what to do about her transportation to the Philippines after admonishing me, "Why do you want to take her to that heathen country?" I protested that it was a Catholic country, but that didn't satisfy him. In any case, he took me downtown to see the agent for the Great Northern Railway, and he arranged everything at a price I could afford. He even applied for her passport. Now we were set, so we decided to enjoy a Wisconsin Christmas. After Christmas the agent called to inform us that the Dollar Line was on strike and would be delayed in its sailing from Seattle. Dad said not to worry; he would see that Dot got to Seattle and on board. In fact, he would send Mother to Seattle with her, and, of course, they had friends in Seattle where they could stay while waiting for the ship to sail. Since that was the best I could hope for, we decided to enjoy the few days we still had together and just let matters take their course. The days passed much too quickly, and soon it was time for me to leave. I caught the train for the coast on 11 January. Chick and his new bride boarded in Omaha. In San Francisco we met up with Sam, and we went to Mare Island to board the Henderson, which sailed on the 15th.