While the boat was still underway with Warrant Electrician Legge at
the helm and still trolling fishing lines, I dove off the boat. Legge
(smart ass) put the throttle to the gig and left me alone for the length
of time it took to go about a mile away before turning back to pick me
up. I know I came down hard on him. My concern at the time was getting
away from the lines we were trolling and secondly that these were shark
infested waters.
Sometime later there appeared a small speck on the horizon which became a small cloud. This cloud hung to the surface of the ocean like a huge ball and was directly on the course we were steering. Having spent all my sea duty the previous two years in the Mediterranean, I had not seen the atmospheric phenomena before and was curious about it. Yes, I let the helmsman steer directly into this cloud and you can imagine what was inside. I don’t think there was any snow or hail but there was one hell of a lot of rain and wind. I’m not sure how many mattresses were blown overboard but everything was absolutely soaked.
My first concern
was with the Captain as he stormed to the bridge to ask "What the hell
are you doing?" and I really believe he said "Mr. Dick, don’t do that
again". My second concern was with the crew as all their gear was
soaked. However, the sun came out again and things dried up in a
hurry. I am sure the crew had a good laugh at the 90 day wonder.
No matter what you read about one of the battleships being the only U.S. Navy ship to have a bathtub (the Missouri installed one for when Truman was aboard signing the peace documents), the Hilo had two bathtubs. After rising to gunnery officer, I shared one of the rooms so equipped.
One day Major Tommy McGuire crashed his P-38 (most beautiful plane ever) into the ocean and one of our PT boats was nearby. He was brought aboard the Hilo and found to have suffered only two black eyes. In his time under observation, we hit it off and worked out a wonderful deal. Those pilots regularly were sent to Sydney for R&R while we remained on station. Every Wednesday afternoon, Tommy and a friend would visit the Hilo, each with a bottle of scotch beneath his shirt. As repayment, my roommate and I would let them take a nap on our beds, a bath in our tub, and drink all the cold water they chose to drink.
Not too long later, after declining to go home and to fly more
missions, Tommy bought the farm. As one of the leading aces ever, his
name was attached to the air base in New Jersey which I believe is now
closed.
As you may recall, the prisoners were for the most part in pretty bad shape physically. Especially the Australians because apparently they were more defiant toward their captors than the Dutch. Most of them had beri-beri and other deficiency diseases, and there was a steady stream of visitors to the Sick Bay with complaints related to their horrible diet and cruel treatment by the Japs.
It took several long days until I had seen the sickest men, and carried out a kind of triage to hold them over until they reached better equipped medical facilities. When I had just about seen them all, the CO of the group, a handsome tall and straight gray hair officer came in to see me. After being assured all the other men had been "treated", he asked me to kindly look at his neck. When he pulled his collar away, I saw the worst looking carbuncle I had ever seen. It was about half the size of a baseball and almost as hard. I told him it needed to be opened, drained and packed, and he asked if I would do it. Local anesthesia would make it almost tolerable, but a general anesthesia, which we weren’t able to administer, would have been most preferable. He refused even the local anesthetic (which would have eased the discomfort at least a tiny bit) advising me to "save the medicine - just go ahead and open it."
Chief Higgs assisted me by holding the commander’s head still from the front as he sat on a stool facing Higgs. He opted to sit on a stool for the procedure. Using a wide criss-cross incision, I laid the back of his neck open and released a pint of corruption - no anesthesia - and I thought Higgs would pass out. The commander never blinked. What an unbelievable stoic he was. I packed at least ten yards of gauze into the wound and applied a big bulky dressing. After which he rose, thanked me graciously and saluted. And then he left, walking as straight as though he were a military school cadet. Internists ordinarily are not called on to deal with such problems. He was one hell of a man.
I often wonder if all those prisoners made it
safely back to Okinawa or if some of them went over the side in that
terrible storm. I have a feeling they thought they would have been
better off in the prison camp.
The first time the ship shared a port with a hospital ship, I decided that was the place to get a decent haircut since they surely had qualified barbers, plus nurses and all. When the barber had finished, I asked what would make the mustache more noticeable. He broke out a mascara pencil and touched it up. Looked great.
However, on the way back it was rough and we were shipping water. A fair amount splashed onto my face and, when I walked up the gangway, those standing watch began to laugh. When I asked indignantly what was so funny? they suggested looking into a mirror. The mascara had run down both sides of my face leaving me looking a fright. After that, I continued to use the pencil but was careful to stay dry.
Sadly that mustache lasted no more than fifteen minutes after my wife saw
it. "You look like a wolf. Either take it off or I will remove it hair
by hair," she declared. That was the end of ever wearing a mustache.
We were all on cloud nine and couldn’t wait to take Eleanor to the Officer’s Club which was an Army tent built on a small hillside. There were wooden walks consisting of 2x4’s nailed to 4x6 stringers connecting the tents, making up the mess hall and Officers Club.
We put Olson to bed about 9 p.m., then returned to see if Eleanor
was okay. The piano player had shown up. I love to sing the old
favorites and would feed the piano player the next tune. The
unfortunate part is that I can’t carry a tune, but we sang up a storm
and continued visiting with Eleanor.
First of all, there was a sign posted showing the number of drowning to date. This was caused because the boats moored four and five abreast which required sailors to walk over as many boats as necessary to get to theirs. Some, with too much to drink, would lose their balance and fall into swift current, never to be seen again.
Another thing that stands out in my mind was the deplorable conditions under which the Marines were treating those sailors who were out of their minds from rotten Philippine booze. There was a confined area where sailors in the whites were groveling in the dirt. Most depressing.
A few days later we used the train again to go to a town about half way between Yokosuka and Tokyo to a special Geisha house for a kind of party. I fell asleep and my so-called buddies left without me. I woke after midnight, passed the eleven o’clock curfew. I was, as can be understood, very upset.
The Army was now in possession of the place and they made me make a fast retreat. I made my way to the train station only to find that the trains were shut down for the night. There were two men in the control tower and after a lot of hand talk and being persistent, they brought out a train to take me back to Yokosuka. I gave them some yen and got on the train.
It was dark in the car, no lights, but I could see four men plus the engineer. It didn’t look very good to me. They were talking and staring at me, making gestures with hand motions. Not funny talk, no laughter. My heart started thumping as I realized I was the only one who knew I was aboard that train. As the train rattled along I became very, very scared. I tried to look unconcerned - tough like. I kept thinking about where these Japs were from - were they ex-soldiers, had they lost a brother or someone in the war. I lit a cigarette, and offered them to the Japs. Only one accepted my offer and as I lit it for him, I saw the face of the whistle blowing conductor. He was staring right at me, glaring. Now I thought I would never make it back to Yokosuka.
I tried to make a plan of what to do if they tried to jump me. Tried to pick which one to hit first. As I was getting myself ready to be killed, holding my water in, the train rolled into the station. The relief was tremendous. When the door opened I gave them all the yen I had and flew off that train. I ran all the way to the Naval yard and two Marines pushed me over the gate in the way and into a bunch of broken boats and trucks. But I didn’t care. I was glad to be alive.
.
We managed to con the ingredients from the cooks and started the project, placing the finished product in large glass jars, five gallons or less, then stashed the jars in the signal locker behind the flags.
The brewing process went on for some time and I will never understand why we were not discovered, the signal shack being located by the mast and only a few feet from where you came off the flying bridge.
The smell of the stuff cooking was strong and I'm sure some of the officers must have noticed, but none spoke up. One day, after getting word there would be an inspection the next morning, we decided to have a party that night and get rid of the evidence.
The signal shack was small, about 6'x 9' with a table and chair taking up a good deal of the space. Yet, after dark that night, it was the most popular cubicle on the ship, standing room only inside and some having to do their sipping outside.
I beat the crowd by sitting under the table, as did another of the brewmasters. When ready for another drink, we'd simply tap someone on the leg, pass up the empty glass and be treated to a refill.
The party broke up just before daybreak and we all were feeling mighty mellow. Still alert enough, however, to realize we had to get rid of the one bottle of raisin jack that hadn't been consumed. The Cabildo was underway at the time so we decided to drop it over the side. When the jar hit the water, there was a mighty bang as it exploded, giving us the biggest laugh of a glorious night.
A few hours later, with heads that felt the size of blimps, many
sailors lined up for and passed the inspection
Yet, the Supply Department of the United States Navy, in its infinite though often misunderstood wisdom, saw fir to allot a hundred gallons of castor oil in one gallon tins, to the USS Cabildo when she was outfitted at Newport News, Va. Our quota of Leroux brandy for "medicinal purposes" was also misjudged - on the high side - but somehow we foundways to deal with that error. But, with virtually no pregnant women aboard and very little wooden furniture, there was serious doubt we would need all that castor oil.
In today’s world, such mistakes are commonly blamed on computer error. In 1945, it was called SNAFU, as in Situation Normal, All F.U.
Before such practices were declared illegal, certain vegetable oils were used quite effectively in bar rooms everywhere. Plant extracts with proper Latin names like Oleum Ricini and Oleum Crotonii were better know to bar patrons as "Mickey’s" or "Shoo-Flies". In the days before piano bars and tuxedoed bouncers, bartenders quelled the occasional unruly customer with drop or two of croton oil slipped into his drink. Meanwhile, the better behaved and knowledgeable patrons made bets whether the victim would make it to the door in time.
Our Chief Pharmacist Mate, a 'regular Navy man" names Higgs, had his own special methods for reducing the stream of malingerers at daily Sick Call. The Chief was a short, chubby person with a small Hitler-type mustache and a wry sense of humor. He had his own quaint vocabulary for describing crew members who took up his valuable time with spurious complaints. He was certain most, if not all, of their problems would disappear like magic after we got to sea.
To thin attendance at Sick Call, Higgs devised a way that not only discouraged those with bogus ailments, but also cut into our surplus of castor oil. You guessed it!...He’d give a dose of oil to anybody who met his criteria for goldbricking, delivering it personally on a large spoon directly into the complainer’s mouth. And he insisted on watching the patient until the oil went down.
When I learned through channels what Higgs was up to, I issued a stern warning. If nobody needs induction of labor, or their furniture polished, nobody gets castor oil.
Even back in those early days, before ecology and the Exxon spill were popular household topics, I was reluctant to throw all that oil overboard. We thought of how much havoc such a thing would cause amongst the marine life.
Uncharacteristically, Chief Higgs failed to follow my orders and continued, albeit at a slower pace, to deplete our castor oil stores. It was necessary for morale purposes, I decided, to issue a threat.
"The next time I hear of you giving castor oil to one of the men, I’m going to give you a dose too. Furthermore, get some of the boys to help you and throw all that oil over the side --today." Higgs, regular Navy man that he was, saluted and did a fairly decent, but definitely exaggerated about face and went away.
Whatever his faults, Higgs was not one give to waste, including a storeroom full of supplies paid for by hard working taxpayers at home. A short time afterthe warning mentioned above, I entered the Sick Bay and saw Higgs speaking to a sailor whose back was to me, and the Chief facing him, with a spoon leaking oil, and about to shove it home. When he saw me approaching from behind the patient, Higgs stopped the spoon in mid-air, turned it around, aimed it toward himself, shot up his eyebrows, shut his eyes and took the dose himself. Disciplined as always, he even licked the spoon. Even had the gall to smile, as if he liked it. No dialogue accompanied the entire vignette; words seemed unnecessary at that moment. The patient stood open-mouthed, thoroughly confused.
Higgs dismissed the patient and went into my office without
comment, drew the curtain and meditated.
"I spent about 20 minutes on your website today. The bit about the typhoon really hit home. Did I ever tell you that in August of 1945 our YMS-193 left Guam in a convoy on the way to Japan to sweep the mines there. As we were approaching Okinawa, we were caught in the typhoon, I believe the same one your ship was in.
The description of the seas written about was true. We almost lost our ship and all hands in that one. You know of the size of our boat, 128’ x 28’, all wood and the highest point on the bridge was 28’. Commanding the helm from the flying bridge was frightening - no matter which way we looked up all we saw was water. We first lost power to the port screw at 1600 and then at 2000 we lost power to the starboard screw. So we were at the mercy of the sea, tossed about like a cork. Our ship was beat to hell.
We sent SOS messages by radio and it took some time before
our message was
acknowledged as the airwaves were crowded with the same
message. We learned later that all the capital ships and some
smaller craft e.g. sub chasers, etc. steamed out to sea to ride
out the storm. It was really horrible - some ships were beached
on the rocks. Others were sunk and bodies half eaten by sharks
were washed ashore. We were fortunate to have survived."
We left Pearl enroute to Subic Bay on May 11th, in company with the USS Carter Hall (LSD-3) and encountered heavy seas for most of the trip. We received word that the Carter Hall had lost the use of their teletype equipment and were down to their last printer and were without a qualified tty repairman. This made it necessary for me to be transferred to their ship to do the repair.
Talk about a "D" rocking & rolling, try having two of them side by side
in other than calm seas with me on a highline rig sitting in a boatswain
chair. What a ride it was and one I will never forget.
Later that same day as I was standing watch as the port lookout, with no life jacket or safety lines, we took a large roll to port and then an even farther roll to starboard before resuming moderate rolls..through the headphones we were told 48 and 52 degrees respectively and were immediately required to don life jackets. Such is life on a flat bottomed gator.
Quick as a wink, or at least that’s how fast it seemed to happen, a large swell pushed the APA towards us and her fantail swing into the side of the Cabildo with a mighty thud. Possibly even with a clang. The damage to the Cabildo was a large dent above the waterline and several bent frames in the emergency fire-pump room. We shored the damage while the engineering officers came up with a repair plan.
Alas, for crew members anticipating a bit of extra liberty, and that takes
in 99.9 percent of crew members, our engineers had been too
efficient. Upon arriving in Yokosuka thinking we would be sent to Sasabo
for repairs, we were judged sea worthy and immediately dispatched on a
three-week trip to Iwo Jima. The extra time in port would have been nice
but the trip to Iwo Jima produced a memory as indelible as the collision
at sea. Crew members were given a helicopter ride around the island and
to Mt. Surabachi, getting a much better understanding of the terrible,
bloody campaign earlier soldiers and sailors had waged in taking this
important island from the Japanese. That ride really brought it home
how much our men gave so we can be free.
It was cold, cold COLD. I have pictures of ice hanging from the lifelines. We had onboard a detachment of Seals (may have been UDT at that time), who bugged the CO daily to stop the ship so they could swim amongst the icebergs. They did their daily workouts on the helo deck wearing only shorts when it was positively frigid. We all thought they were nuts.
Adak was an unusual place. Hundreds of men were stationed there, but only one or two women. There was a bus constantly circling the island for transportation. The rules were (l) If a female got on the bus, you were not allowed to strike up a conversation (2) Or sit within one seat of her in any direction.
There was a nice enlisted men's club featuring an enormous plate glass window looking out over the base. Since there was so little else offered in the way of recreation on this rock, the club was a popular place to relax by having a few drinks. The Seals were amoung the more regular customers. Their unusual drinking customs included taking off shoes, filling them with beer, then passing them around to be swigged from as they loudly sang various songs, some cute and some not so cute, some decent and some indecent.
This one night, I left the club when it started getting dark. We were scheduled to depart the next morning but, about 2000 word came booming over the speakers that all stations should be manned as we would be getting underway as soon as humanly possible.
It turned out that the Seals had continued playing drinking games until enough others in the club objected to their deportment and a genuine free-style brawl broke out. The high point of the fighting came when a Seal threw a table through that enormous glass window.
That was also the low point of the conflict, instrumental in our
being ordered out of port.
Targets of the mock invasion is the same volcanic beach which the marines stormed February 19, 1945, to open one of the most vicious battles in history. Some of the officers and men in today’s operation took part in the real one which killed 4,503 marines and more than 22,000 Japanese.
Barring unfavorable weather the first wave of 3,600 marines lands at 1 p.m. after a simulated pre-invations bombardment by the 7th Fleet warships and planes. Twelve thousand more will follow in.
The enemy today was the 2nd Battalion of the 4th Marine Regiment, which also has planes and ships to resist the assault.
Still on the landing beach are the rusted frames of landing craft blown up in 1945. Expended shells, shattered helmets and other debris also are there.
Atop Mt. Suribachi, a 550-foot, cone-shaped, extinct volcano at the southern tip, and American flag flies where the marines planted it February 23, 1945.
It is one of two places in the world where the American flag never is taken down. The other is the tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Arlington National Cemetery near Washington.
The 3rd division was brought to Iwo Jima by Navy Task Force 90, the group which put the 1st Marine Division and the 7th Army Division ashore at Inchon, near Seoul, in 1950 during the Korean War.
Gen. MacArthur’s old command ship, the Mt. McKinley, is the control vessel. Vice Admiral Alfred M. Pride, commander of the 7th Fleet, is overall commander aboard the battleship Wisconsin.
Major General J.M. Will commands Task Force 90. Rear Admiral T.C. Ragan leads the cruiser division from the USS Toledo. Rear Admiral J.P. Whitney is commander of Carrier Division 5.
Colonel W.O. Thompson leads the enemy force.
While working in the copper mines near Osaka, the Australians in particular were not fed well. Those of us aboard the Cabildo were sickened by their emaciated physical condition. They had endured hardships beyond our imagination. On one occasion when Metz had stolen some extra rice, he was punished by having nails driven into the webbing of his fingers and toes while being strapped to a board for 24 hours. He showed me the scars resulting from this terrible punishment. In spite of having forgone this punishment, Metz again stole rice and this time he was bound to a board with wire and thrown into a locker for 24 hours.
As you may well understand, Metz made quite an impression with me during his time onboard the Cabildo and I more or less became his personal guardian.
Shortly after the Japanese surrender the U.S. flew in food, clothing and medicine which were dropped by parachute. Metz was fortunate enough to retrieve one of the parachutes and sometime between the surrender and his being set free, and asked a Japanese woman to make a shirt for him from the material. This was not unusual since other prisoners had clothing made by women residing in the area of the copper mines.
While onboard the Cabildo, Metz stored the shirt under his bunk. While at sea, one of the ship’s company confiscated (stole) his shirt and stored it with his personal belongs. Metz came to me and reported that the shirt may have either been stolen or taken by the Javanese and asking if I would be on the lookout for his shirt. I learned who had taken the shirt when it was being displayed to shipmates in the 1st Division compartment. The confiscator was telling those around him that he had found it up on deck.
At a later time when I saw him with the item in his hand I asked where on deck he had found it. I don’t recall his answer but I did ask him to return it to Metz. He became highly indignant, refusing to return the shirt or to turn it over to me. A scuffle followed without witnesses stepping forward, their preferring to see a knock down, drag out fight which I was prepared to do but the perpetrator did backed down. Later I returned the shirt to Metz who tearfully accepted it with grateful thanks. I did not tell Metz or anyone else where or under what conditions I found the shirt and did not report the matter to higher authorities.
Metz and I wrote to each other for many years and he always expressed his thanks for the recovery of the shirt which obviously meant a great deal to him. He always remembered the return of his shirt as being one of the highlights of his many experiences.
But back to the air raid. I had a fraternity brother on the island and Holdorff allowed me to go ashore for the day to try to look him up. I was successful and brought him back to the ship for dinner, movies and stay the night. I had promised him steak, ice cream and a movie. He got the steak and ice cream but only about half of the movie when we had an alert and as I remember a single plane flew over and we had a lot of AA. My army buddy was trying to dig a foxhoe in the bridge deck and as scared as anyone I’ve ever seen, feeling more exposed on the ship. About two hours later all clear sounded and I took Bill back to the security of Mother Earth.
I understood the only thing dropped was a torpedo and it ended up on land. To my knowledge that was the last air raid at Buckner Bay.
The pilot house that night was it's usually quiet self, with brief bursts of conversation. Inevitably the talk got around to how much we looked forward to the mid-rations. Then, enterprising as we were, someone came up with the idea of "liberating" some of the C rations that the Marines were holding hostage.
Several of us eased back to the flight deck, and since Marines are always required to guard something, there were two sentries posted back aft that we managed to avoid. We found several cases of C rations and made our way back to the pilot house. We were thrilled that now we would have mid-rats of eggs, ham, biscuits, jam, pork and beans.
Our stash was well hidden and the select few few didn't have to eat standard mid-rations for quite a while. As far as I know, the Marines never knew that they had been out-foxed by some "swabs".
USS Cabildo (LSD-16) Association Website - Last Revision April 7, 2006
submitted by Harry Dick- circa 1945
It was just about four or five nights after we arrived in Buckner Bay. I had the deck as was normal for entering harbor and the Captain was on the bridge and had the conn. The bay was filled with ships and as I remember our anchor assignment was very vague but the skipper said to find a spot large enough and drop anchor. Old Captain Holdorff was his usual self and none of the spots I picked were to his satisfaction and we kept zigging and zagging our way through all these ships heading closer and closer towards where
the liberty boats docked. I swear the spot we picked was not large enough for my old minesweeper and I had had some experience with dragging anchor before, but drop it we did and believe we were the largest ship closest to the landing dock. I think that made the Captain some points with someone.
My memory is hazy, but I seem to remember the night when we had eight or nine General Quarters alarms and the harbor was flooded with smoke screen. If I’m not mistaken one of the Kamikazi hit the stern of the cruiser USS Philadelphia which was moored not far from us at Buckner Bay. I can’t believe I imagined all this. What I do recall is that I slept through one of the General Quarters alarms - unknowingly - and my roommate Sherm Levin told me about it the next morning.
submitted by Jack Thompson - circa 1961-63
If you have ever stood a mid-watch on the Cabildo you know that the "mid-rats" were not gourmet delights. My underway watch was helmsman and in the pilot house at any given time, while underway, the watch consisted a helmsman, lee-helmsman, petty officer of the watch and a lookout, rotating through the pilot house.
On one operation we had a contingent of Marines aboard, along with all their equipment. The flight deck was loaded with trucks full of their gear.
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