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Other Memories
Cuban Missle Crises Blockade, Oct. 1962 Unitus Cruise 1963 Med Cruise 1964 Med Cruise 1965: October 12, 1965, USS FRANKLIN D. ROOSEVELT and the French merchantman CHARLES LE BORGNE collide off southern France. The ROOSEVELT sustains little damage and continues its participation in "Lafayette IX", a two-day bilateral US-French exercise in the western Med. The merchantman sustains minor structural damage and proceeds under its own power to Marseilles, France, escorted by the USS DOUGLAS H. FOX (DD 779). Reported aboard during flooding high tide on 12 March 1962 with no gangway. Had to be hauled aboard in a boatswains chair. V USS Douglas H. Fox DD 779 Commanding Officer (1944-1946) R.M. PITTS Commander, U.S. Navy U.S.S. DOUGLAS H. FOX (DD-779) DD779/A12 DESTROYER ACTION As told by Miles E. Lewis, Chief Yeoman, USNR San Francisco, California "Man for man and gun for gun, the fightingest ship of the Navy." That is what seagoing men think of U.S. Destroyers, the indomitable "tin cans." And one evening off Okinawa Gunto, a former Japanese island, U.S.S. DOUGLAS H. FOX added another page to the glowing chapters of destroyer history. Commanded by Commander Ray M. Pitts, USN, of 333 N. Croft, Hollywood, Calif., she met and defeated an attack by a group of Japanese suicide planes intent on her destruction. In this type of action only one can survive, and once more a gallant destroyer steamed away from the field victorious. All hands will long remember that eventful evening on 17 May 1945. A beautiful orange sun faded beneath the horizon, the warmth of late spring was gone and men on station topside could be seen pulling on their heavy weather jackets to guard against a cool night breeze. The day before had been spent in renewing our supply of ammunition, depleted in a previous action, and only this morning we had put to sea in search of the enemy. In less than twelve hours after weighing anchor, we met him and took his measure. We were looking for trouble of any kind, but expect more opposition from the "Divine Wind", or "Kamikazes," as the Japanese have named their Special Attack Corps of suicide planes. Kamikaze pilots are dedicated to self-destruction; they attend their own funerals before taking off on a one-way trip and believe that they attain Godhood by destroying the Emperors enemies at the cost of their own lives. When a target is sighted they dive their planes into it without hesitation, making no attempt to evade or escape. While our swift Marine Corps Fighters hummed overhead, we felt that our sails were properly reefed to Mr. Tojo's deadly breeze, but with the approach of evening twilight we knew that the day-flying Corsairs must soon return to their island base and we would face the night without their comforting shadows. "Sound General quarters!" The harsh voice of the public address system echoed throughout the ship. Up the ladders from below decks, scrambled the men off watch who had been resting as best they could for the inevitable evening alert. Swiftly they swung out their guns and pulled their battle helmets down over their foreheads. Telephone circuits crackled and became alive with preliminary reports, "Main Battery manned and ready!" "Machine Gun battery manned and ready!" Quietly and with the quick, sure motions that bespeaks careful training, the crew of the DOUGLAS H. FOX prepared for battle. My station was on the bridge alongside the Skipper as his talker on the Captain's Command Circuit. It was my duty to receive the reports from the many groups of the battle organizations through the ship. When they were all ready, to notify the Skipper. This was done in a matter of seconds and he acknowledged my signal, made by forming "O" with thumb and forefinger, with a quick nod. On our bridge we use many hand signals in place of spoken words which are usually drowned out by the roar of gunfire, when action is joined. To call for maximum speed the Skipper would wave one hand in a rapid circular motion over his head, the signal used by aircraft pilots to turn on engines. A distinctive motion of his right arm indicated that he wanted the rudder put hard over in that direction. In anticipation of action, we now reviewed these signals so that our maneuverability could be used to best advantage. The Skipper had in mind making the suicide planes miss the ship in one way or another, just so long as they missed, like the old Galloping Ghost using his famous swivel hips on the gridiron, leaving tacklers strewn in his path. He felt that it should take the best tackler on the Nipponese teams to haul down a scampering FOX. Soon the voice of Lt. Comdr. C. H. Carlos, USN, of Cambridge, Massachusetts, came over the Captain's Telephone, from his station below in Combat Information Center, "There is a bogey (Jap plane) seventy miles west of us." Something told us that we had felt the first light gust of the Divine Wind, In a few minutes Mr. Carlos spoke again. "Combat air patrol is returning to base." Dusk was settling fast and our sky-raiding Marines were being called in. The Captain cleared all telephone circuits with a lifted hand and his talker stood ready to relay a message. "All Stations topside," he said, "if you will look on our starboard beam you can see our Combat Air Patrol. They are on their way home. We are on our own from now on. Heads UP!" Nothing more was needed to bring our crew to peak alertness. The crew, made up of healthy American boys from most of the 48 states, was a good one. Since putting DOUGLAS H. FOX in commission, six months before, the time had been spent in training, shakedown, more training and recently a little action. In general, it had been tiresome and boring, but now we knew the test would come shortly. Much, very much, is expected of a "tin can" sailor. An electric tension spread through the men at their stations. Lookouts were straining their eyes towards the darkening horizon. Gun crews repeatedly inspected their weapons and the ammunition in its ready stowage. The Skipper sat hunched in a seat on the open bridge while our Communications Officer, Ltjg N. H. Witschen, USNR, of Jacksonville, Florida conned the ship. We were ready. A supporting destroyer reported an enemy plane to the west, low on the water. The Divine Wind! Above the pilot house our gun director whined as it trained out to pick up our first target. It seems to those on the bridge that a train is passing overhead when Lieut. J. H. DAVIS, USN, of Kansas City, Missouri, starts driving his director around like a whirling dervish. The huge box-like gun director which carries several men to work its delicate precision instruments, turned its face to the west, came to an abrupt stop, backed up slightly, then settled down to a steady turn, following with its powerful eyes the tiny black speck far out on the horizon. Gun barrels rose and fell as they followed the slow, even motion of the ship, their muzzles like puppies sniffing at a rathole. The Skipper stood silently peering over the starboard bridge wing; he need give no orders, long weeks of training has relegated the authority to join in action to his gunnery officer, and he knew Mr. Davis would start shooting at the proper time. All this takes minutes to tell, but it happened in seconds. Impatiently the Skipper was first on one side of the bridge and then the other. At each new report he would jump to that wing for a look, then signal to Fred Adamak, Coxswain, USNR, of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, at the wheel to turn the ship and engage the most dangerous enemy. Our maneuvers were sharp and fast. Before one turn was completed we were heeling over to start in the opposite direction. Ensign Wallace Follette of Forest Grove, Oregon and his lookouts atop the pilot house were riding their stations like bronco-busters in a rodeo. At one time during the action J. C. Crowe, Yeoman third class, of Catron, Missouri, was seen climbing back up the side of the pilot house like a human fly. He had been catapulted to the deck below by a violent maneuver. Every gun on the ship joined the action and a sheet of flame signaled the end of another Kamikaze. A third dipped his nose into a shallow dive, aimed at our starboard beam. Ellis Parkins, Chief Gunner's mate, USN, of San Antonio, Texas said to Daniel McDevitt, Chief Torpedoman's Mate, of Philadelphia, Penn., "Its him or us!" It was him! Their light machine guns riveted the mark of death across the motor of the onrushing plane. With a tremendous explosion, Mr. Tojo hit the water just 50 yards short of the ship and showered debris all over the gunners who had shot him down. The smoke from our guns lay astern like a shroud across the water. Also our stacks were belching black smoke occasionally as the engineers swung their throttles wide for more speed. Attempting to evade the deadly blast of our guns, the enemy planes dived into the top of our smoke pall and began a semi-obscured run from astern. But they could not avoid the electronic eyes of our radar and we knew exactly where they were and what they were doing. The Skipper passed word below to "knock off the smoke," hoping to bring our pursuers again into full view. From Lt. J.C. Jones of Hattiesburg, Miss., the Engineering officer, came the quick query, "Do you want smoke or speed?" The Skipper grinned, for he knew we needed speed too, and answered, "No smoke," then signaled the rudder hard over in a confusing turn for the half blind Japs astern. They should pop out of the haze and find themselves facing the entire broadside of our anti-aircraft battery. He peered into the smoke cloud astern, there two Nippers out there, both closing. One burst into view and he shouted orders, turning his mount to meet the headlong rush of a Kamikaze. Too close! The machines gun battery would have to take that one; where was the other? "Train left," he called to his trainer, Jesse York, Seaman first class, USNR, of Markham, Texas. "Number two ought to be dead astern!" One quick glance at the blazing red emblems on the Jap wing was all Frank Coultas, Seaman first class, USNR, of Portland, Oregon, pointer, needed. He heard "ready" reports from the Gun Captains behind him; a slight pressure on the handwheels brought his crosswires into the enter of a whirling propeller. "Fire!" He yelled, and his right index finger clamped the firing tripper in a firm grip. Stogsdill's vision was blurred by the crash of his guns, but an instant later he could see clearly, see the wispy tongues of flame that had begun to grow in the white froth of our wake. He pressed the button on his sound powered telephone and reported, "Splash, on Tojo." By now reports were coming in from damage control parties. Ensign Leo Fay of Boston, Mass., officer-in-charge of Repair One was seriously wounded but still directing his men in a compartment which had taken the full force of the bomb blast. Ammunition was on fire at both gun mounts and unwounded survivors were busy throwing these burning parcels of destruction over the side. Hoses were led out and jumpers rigged around broken sections of Firemains. Ensign R.R. Conley of Ochelata, Oklahoma led another Repair Party forward and took over from Ensign Fay who was suffering from multiple injuries and died the next day. Fires were brought quickly under control and it was determined that the ship had suffered no underwater damage. Wounded were being treated in the Officer's Wardroom Mess by Ltjg. O.C. Stegmaier, of Jefferson City, Missouri, where he had a miniature hospital with an improvised operating table and many other facilities for administering first aid. We breathed a little easier now. Darkness had settled down; only a sliver of moon hung in the sky, not enough light for concentrated attacks. Exactly six minutes had passed since we had fired the first shot. A supporting Destroyer closed us at the Skipper's request to send over medical assistance. Just when a new bogey appeared and we squared off our remaining guns to engage him should he close. The other destroyer opened fire, but the two ships were so close that our guns were masked and needed to hold fire until clear. A quick maneuver brought us around, but accurate shooting from the "tin can" commanded by Commander A.B. Coxe of Washington, D.C., drove this Nipper away. He was labeled snooper, one who had not joined the Kamikaze Corps. But this time the maneuver was too late. With a roar like the passing of a great wind the first plane came in on us. Machine gun bullets in hails, hammered him in mid-flight, but his aim had been true and he continued to hurdle on while parts of his place disintegrated and fell away before our eyes. His tail melted and drifted lazily down as he passed our stern. The pilot, already dead, could be seen slumped forward over the controls. "Heads up, bridge," was heard on one telephone circuit as a talker aft tried to warn us that this one had not been splashed. Then Frances O'Hara, Seaman second class, USNR, of Pekin, Illinois, bridge talker on the battle circuit, sounded off "HIT THE DECK--HIT THE DECK!" We had practiced this before, to throw ourselves out prone on the deck in an effort protect ourselves from flying splinters. It reminded us of tackling dummy drill in football season and in practice we had resented the bruises, the indignity of the whole procedure. Oh how glad we were that the Skipper had made us do it over and over again before, until each of us could melt instantly into the smallest allotted spot. The wreck of this plane might have missed us too, had it not been that his wingtip grazed our mast, taking off the port yardarm, and thus deflected, he spun around into the ship. The same wing nipped the Director, clipped off the bridge windshield and crashed against the face of a 5" gun mount. The remainder of the plane caromed against another gun mount, killing seven men and wounding many others. His bombs exploded between these mounts and flames shot high in the air. Shrapnel and jagged splinters rained about the decks and the floor boards heaved. Aside from the great rushing sound or "swoosh" of the plane passing overhead there was little noise. We climbed instantly to our feet and began to untangle the telephone cords and replace our helmets, all of us a little dazed from the concussion. The Skipper was already inspecting the bridge to see if any controls were knocked out. He spoke to Thomas MacNamara, Storekeeper first class, USN, of Boulder, Montana, another talker, "Tell damage control I want a report immediately!" His request was not needed. The well trained damage control parties directed by Lt. J. H. Howard, USNR, of New York, N.Y., were already probing into the flames and wreckage. What had become of the second plane in that smoke screen? If he were going to hit us we would have felt him by now. To a man, the thought hit us at the same time, and we peered out into the gloom for some sign of him. There astern was a little flicker of light, flames licking away at the remains of a crashed plane. Were those remnants of the one we had received aboard? Or could it be--? The command circuit carried the voice of Lt. Davis, "tell the Captain that Stogsdill splashed the second Tojo in local control." A sign of relief, Claude Stogsdill, Gunner's Mate first class, USN, of Dorchester, Mass., was Mount Captain of an after 5" mount. During the action of fire he stood with his head out the top of a small hatch, observing the effect of fire from his mount and issuing orders to his crew now and then as he received instructions from Lt. Davis in the Director. His job had been to train the crew to peak efficiency. Once the action was joined, his job was done, his men were on their own. Unless--- unless there was a target for him that Mr. Davis could not take under fire with the forward guns. "Commence firing!" Mr. Davis' command was echoed by the crash of our main battery, five inch anti- aircraft guns that hurled steely defiance at the enemy. Rapid fire now, and the throaty roar deepened like an express train entering a tunnel. Then silence. Far in the distance a glowing funeral pyre marked the grave of a Kamikaze. A little man from across the sea stood humbly before his God-Emperor. But the moment's silence was deceptive. More bogey reports were heard, and suddenly they were all around us. The Main battery opened up again and was quickly followed by our lighter weapons as the enemy pack closed in for a kill. Lookouts atop the pilot house were heard "starboard 2 up 3, starboard 9 up 5, port 6 up 3," singing out the position of enemy aircraft in their sectors, all low on the water and closing fast. The Skipper by now had given his waving signal speed and Marshall Williams, Radioman third class, USN-I, of Denver, Colorado, was telling the engineers to "pour on the coal." This they did, and the bow of DOUGLAS H. FOX lifted high and sent the spray flying. Once more Commander Coxe brought his ship alongside and his medical personnel jumped onto the deck of the DOUGLAS H. FOX. Reports were received on the bridge concerning the condition of our wounded; a few men were in serious condition and the Skipper asked for medical assistance from still another destroyer which was approaching the scene. He then decided to return to base and upon the arrival of a relief destroyer, we set course to a friendly harbor. Heroes? There were many, a roster of the ship's company would just about cover it. But still a better name for DOUGLAS H. FOX men, that fateful night, one that they understand better and are proud to wear---Good Destroyer Sailors? "Tin Can Men." YMC, Miles Lewis, 17 May, 1945. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- PERSONAL ACCOUNTS FROM THE KAMIKAZI ATTACK - MAY 17, 1945 Bruce, Got your letter this morning and enjoyed reading it. It's amazing what one starts to think about when trying to recapitulate what took place 50 plus years ago. As you know most of us aboard the Fox were rather young not having seen our 20th birthday as yet. All 300 plus of us were thrown together to attempt to do a job that had to be done, but very few knew how we were supposed to do it. When we saw the Destroyer in port on the 17th that had been on picket station 9 on the 16th with most of it's super structure missing, as well as hearing they had lost 150 men, it sent a chill down our spines. The main reason being, we knew who was going to go out on picket station 9 that night. The Zellers, our sister ship, was also going with us. Our skipper said he knew that 9 was the worst of the stations as it was directly between Okinawa and Japan, and that was where most of the kamikaze's would be operating at dusk. He also said he would see that we not only got out there, but he would be responsible for getting us back. He did that, but 11 did not come back alive. My battle station was gunner on a 20mm gun on the gun tub of stack two. When the kamikaze's started coming in, all hell broke loose and our five inch mounts, of which we had three twins, all of the quad 40's, the six twin 50's, and a passel of 20 mm. were sending out an awfully lot of lead and noise The feeling I had as all of this firing was taking place was that it felt about as effective as if someone with a saucer of green peas was tossing them out one at a time. Probably this feeling came from seeing how aggressive the Japanese planes were and how nothing seemed to stop them. Every so often you would see one splash, but they just kept coming. The safety valve on the boilers had been tied down, as I understand, and we were putting out smoke like mad. The Captain called the engineering officer and said cut off the smoke. The reply was, do you want speed, or do you want smoke. We continued with our smoke. By the time we were hit, we had lost all of our five inch guns. The one on the fantail had plane fuel all over it where a kamikaze had just missed us, spilling gas all over. A spark would have caused all sorts of problems and probably more lives, and so we could do very little in defending ourselves other than the smaller guns. Possibly leaving the smoke going could have been our downfall, but who is to know. The plane that got us with a 500 lb. bomb came in through the smoke, passing just over my head close enough so we could feel the heat from his engine. It clipped off part of the yardarm, knocking out mount number two as far as firepower was concerned and demolishing mount number one. It was scary and something one never forgets. We were supposed to be repaired in the Philippines, but they had no room for us. Plan number two was to repair the ship in the Hawaiian Islands, but still no room. From there we were sent to the Bethlehem naval yard in San Francisco and they did accept us. This was great for me as Modesto, CA was my home. Our journey from the grave yard back to S. F. was quite a story in itself. We hit a storm that would make people on a good sound Destroyer nervous, but where we had 4 x 4's shoring up our bow, it was a bit spooky. I had the opportunity to be at the helm from time to time, and when we were taking 45 degree rolls, I'm sure my hair was standing on end. From my understanding, after the Fox was repaired word was that we were to head back out to the Pacific to help in the battle. Most of us were dreading it. In fact it took a couple of years before I felt at ease when a plane would pass overhead. About that time the bombs were dropped on Japan and the war came to an end. I spent V J day in Modesto. When we did report back to the ship the orders were we were to head for New York for Veterans day. That was mighty good news. Anyway Bruce, I'm sorry to have rambled, but hopefully it will give you some of the feelings and observations I had then. I hope it doesn't sound too melodramatic, but with age one tends to tell things differently. Regardless of what anyone says, war is scary. Ted Sypolt, Plank Owner, in a letter to Bruce Hanson, who's father was on Fox. CLYDE WELSH, S1c, to HENRY SEEGERS, GM3c, on JANUARY 21, 2001. Both are Plank Owners. Hank, The battle I was talking about, was the first one about a week before we got hit, and we got credit for just one of the seven that was splashed. The other skipper took credit for six, and that was what I was asking about. How many did we really get? If you remember it rained all the next week. As for the trainers station; the fuse setter had his face pushed into the glass and was taken to the wardroom, and the sight setter was killed. They had to take a part of the plane off him to get him out. He was the mailman we picked up in Pearl and Bornemann replaced. Also I understood that the trainer wasn't spotted for some time before they got him down and into sick bay. He made it. I saw him in New York around Navy Day with his folks. I don't know who you threw over board. It may have just been - pilot parts. We didn't need them any way.. Oh, that book I was telling you about. The Fox is in there, but just a paragraph. The guy that wrote it didn't have any of the crews input to add, and he gave us credit for seven planes. But the rest of the book is great stuff and has stories about some of the ships that were hit. The ship that was with us the first time we were out, got hit in the anchor with a five inch. The USS Zellars DD777, my other can, and the Aaron Ward, the ship that didn't have any thing left between the bridge and Mt.3, that was anchored close to us before we got hit, were in the book. All 122 Destroyers that were hit are in the book. Did you know that the number of Tin Can sailors that were wounded or killed (over half were killed) in just 90 days, totaled 9760. That's 13 % of the total casualties experienced by the Navy in the war. Of the 122 hit, 47 were ether sunk, scuttled or scrapped. This has me upset. I didn't know that and I doubt that many do. The Japs have a shrine honoring their Kamikaze's. We didn't even get a "thank you", or "kiss my ass", for that battle. No group of any U.S. Force lost anywhere near 20% of the crews as the Destroyers on the picket stations did, nor has much been said about the 122 ships (82% of the 148 Destroyers on station), that were hit. Didn't mean to go on so long Get me squared away with that first fight, ok. P.S. How about sending this out. Maybe we can get some talk going between the Plank Owners, so the kids can get to know how it was. To one good Tin Can sailor from another. Clyde Welsh, S1c Note: The book which Clyde referred to is probably "The Two Ocean War" by Samuel Eliot Morrison (1963), who as the official historian for the Navy wrote a fifteen volume history from which this book was condensed. The following paragraphs are copied from page 556. "Although your historian himself has been under kamikaze attack, and witnessed the hideous forms of death and torture inflicted by that weapon, words fail to do justice to the sailors who met it so courageously. Men on radar picket station, to survive, not only had to strike own the flaming terror of the Kamikazes roaring out of the blue like thunderbolts of Zeus: they were under constant strain and intense discomfort. In order to supply high steam pressure to build full speed rapidly in a destroyer, its superheaters, built only for intermittent use, had to be lighted for three and four days running. For days and even nights on end, the crew had to stand general quarters while the ship was kept "buttoned up". Men had to keep in readiness for the instant reaction and split- second timing necessary to riddle a plane bent on sacrificial death. Sleep became the rarest commodity and choicest luxury, like water to a shipwrecked mariner." "The capture of Okinawa cost the United States Navy 34 naval vessels and craft sunk, 368 damaged, over 4900 sailors killed or missing in action, and over 4800 wounded. Tenth Army lost 7613 killed or missing in action and 31,800 wounded. Sobering as it is to record such losses, the sacrifice of these men is brightened by our knowledge that the capture of Okinawa helped to bring Japanese leaders to face the inevitable surrender. " Conversations at the 2002 Reunion with Mel Saucier, Lloyd Garrett, Plank Owners, etal "We were sailing without air cover, when we saw about 11 Kamikaze's coming. Every time you look up, here's one here, and here's one here, and here's one here. I don't know how many of 'em we shot down, but the plane that hit the yard arm, we already had the tail blowed off of it. It hit the yardarm, spun around and nailed the gun mount, just peeled it like an orange. I think it killed all seven men in there. There were three more killed in the powder room. We were dead in the water, just sittin there for a while, but we didn't come under attack." Mel Saucier, S2 "The morning after we were hit, we went up to the gun mount that was demolished, and these guys looked like that hash, which is what we had for breakfast that morning. You could see so many guys with their trays scraping that hash over the side. They just couldn't eat it. I was by stack number two, on the 20 mm, and in fact, when it came in, it hit the yard arm, which wasn't too much higher than my head, so I could feel the heat of the engines as they went over. Lloyd Garrett, S2c(TM ) "I was on the bridge manning a twin 40mm director when I spotted a bogie coming down in our smoke stack, just missing the radar antenna and then crashing, and blowing up #2 gun mount. We lost all our power; we were dead in the water. That's what I remember vividly. I lost many good friends that were manning the gun mount". Pete Del Puppa, S1c(FC), September, 2000. "I had a great time at the San Diego reunion (2000) and hope to be at the next one. I was in the Forward Fire Room during general quarters and for regular duty until October 1945. Thereafter was in the Engine room and the Oil and Water King. Norm Handley, S2c. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- S2c Dave Turvey's Recollections From May 17, 1945 My name is Don Morrison and I'm a Viet Nam era Navy veteran. My uncle David O. Turvey was one of those seriously wounded on the Fox that day. He never did talk too much about it, but just before he died of cancer in 1993, he related to me some of what happened. He recalled someone picking him up and saying "this one's dead too" and he managed to groan and somehow convey that he was still alive so he didn't go over the side. He spent two years at Oak Knoll Naval Hospital before being sent home. Funny part is, when I was injured in Viet Nam and sent to Oak Knoll for treatment, Uncle Dave came to visit and discovered that I was in the same ward he was in in 1945, Ward 45-A. He was a good man and worked at Mare Island Naval Shipyard for several years as security before retiring. I still miss him. Don Morrison, July 3, 2006. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Recollections of Eddie Elliot, Baker 3rd, 1944- 1946 Yes, I am a plank-owner. The first thing I remember about the Fox was joining the first crew in Seattle. I was a Cook (striker). And my first job was baking about 24 turkeys for our Thanksgiving dinner. Luckily a corpsman came by about 5:30 a.m. with "Pink-ladies" to make the job more enjoyable. After shakedown we left San Diego for Pearl Harbor. It was somewhat frightening at my age 18, seeing the Carrier Franklin coming in, in bad shape, knowing that your heading in the direction she was coming from. We left Pearl in the morning with sealed orders. Sometime later the Captain let us know we were headed for Okinawa. We escorted an old Battleship, I believe it was the Mississippi. We had sonar contact and dropped depth charges, and fired our "Y guns. My GQ station was a projectile handler in the aft Twin 5". When we arrived in Okinawa, we tied up alongside the USS Arron Ward, which had also been hit. Needless to say right in the area of my GQ station. Before our picket duty we joined in bombarding the island with our 5 " guns while the Battlewagons did 16" over our heads. During a daylight operation we brought down a Kamikaze and brought him on board. On his person he had a letter from his girlfriend which was read to the crew, telling him how proud she was of him for joining the Kamikaze group. I don't remember if he was still alive or dead, but he was gone. On the night we were hit, its amazing how quick you grow up. Below deck in the squirrel cage the 5"projectile which weighs about 50 pounds felt like 5 pounds to the keep the guys above busy. Luckily it paid off. We caught one trying to sneak up in our smoke. After the attack we went topside to clear the 5" brass. We sure had a pile. Then learned of the buddies we lost. We also lost our Baker, a hell of a way for me to become Baker 3rd class. It's easy to see why only the young go to war. The older and more life experienced, would or should try to find a better way. The next morning the sight was horrible. We tried to clean up the disaster. I still have a part of the aluminum skin and fiber material from the Jap plane, and shrapnel which looked like a Ford transmission gear broken into pieces. I know this because after leaving the service, I spent the next 40 years doing tune-up and electrical work on Fords. Eddie (& Dee) Elliot, December 7, 2006 ------------------------------------------------------------------------------- V USS Douglas H. Fox DD 779 NOTICE: Re: 17 May, 1945 The attached story "Destroyer Action" is being sent to you and may be read by your immediate family and girl friend. YOU ARE CAUTIONED, HOWEVER, THAT THIS IS NOT A RELEASE FOR PRESS OR RADIO PUBLICATION?.. If you are approached by the press or radio concerning publication of this story, or any part of it, inform them that they must get permission from the local U.S. Navy Public Relations Officer to release the story, and that in any event, the name DOUGLAS H. FOX MUST NOT be mentioned. "A Pacific Fleet Destroyer" should be substituted for the name DOUGLAS H. FOX. R.M. PITTS Commander, U.S. Navy U.S.S. DOUGLAS H. FOX (DD-779) C/o Fleet Post Office San Francisco, California DD779/A12 DESTROYER ACTION As told by Miles E. Lewis, Chief Yeoman, USNR San Francisco, California "Man for man and gun for gun, the fightingest ship of the Navy." That is what seagoing men think of U.S. Destroyers, the indomitable "tin cans." And one evening off Okinawa Gunto, a former Japanese island, U.S.S. DOUGLAS H. FOX added another page to the glowing chapters of destroyer history. Commanded by Commander Ray M. Pitts, USN, of 333 N. Croft, Hollywood, Calif., she met and defeated an attack by a group of Japanese suicide planes intent on her destruction. In this type of action only one can survive, and once more a gallant destroyer steamed away from the field victorious. All hands will long remember that eventful evening on 17 May 1945. A beautiful orange sun faded beneath the horizon, the warmth of late spring was gone and men on station topside could be seen pulling on their heavy weather jackets to guard against a cool night breeze. The day before had been spent in renewing our supply of ammunition, depleted in a previous action, and only this morning we had put to sea in search of the enemy. In less than twelve hours after weighing anchor, we met him and took his measure. We were looking for trouble of any kind, but expect more opposition from the "Divine Wind", or "Kamikazes," as the Japanese have named their Special Attack Corps of suicide planes. Kamikaze pilots are dedicated to self-destruction; they attend their own funerals before taking off on a one-way trip and believe that they attain Godhood by destroying the Emperors enemies at the cost of their own lives. When a target is sighted they dive their planes into it without hesitation, making no attempt to evade or escape. While our swift Marine Corps Fighters hummed overhead, we felt that our sails were properly reefed to Mr. Tojo's deadly breeze, but with the approach of evening twilight we knew that the day-flying Corsairs must soon return to their island base and we would face the night without their comforting shadows. "Sound General quarters!" The harsh voice of the public address system echoed throughout the ship. Up the ladders from below decks, scrambled the men off watch who had been resting as best they could for the inevitable evening alert. Swiftly they swung out their guns and pulled their battle helmets down over their foreheads. Telephone circuits crackled and became alive with preliminary reports, "Main Battery manned and ready!" "Machine Gun battery manned and ready!" Quietly and with the quick, sure motions that bespeaks careful training, the crew of the DOUGLAS H. FOX prepared for battle. My station was on the bridge alongside the Skipper as his talker on the Captain's Command Circuit. It was my duty to receive the reports from the many groups of the battle organizations through the ship. When they were all ready, to notify the Skipper. This was done in a matter of seconds and he acknowledged my signal, made by forming "O" with thumb and forefinger, with a quick nod. On our bridge we use many hand signals in place of spoken words which are usually drowned out by the roar of gunfire, when action is joined. To call for maximum speed the Skipper would wave one hand in a rapid circular motion over his head, the signal used by aircraft pilots to turn on engines. A distinctive motion of his right arm indicated that he wanted the rudder put hard over in that direction. In anticipation of action, we now reviewed these signals so that our maneuverability could be used to best advantage. The Skipper had in mind making the suicide planes miss the ship in one way or another, just so long as they missed, like the old Galloping Ghost using his famous swivel hips on the gridiron, leaving tacklers strewn in his path. He felt that it should take the best tackler on the Nipponese teams to haul down a scampering FOX. Soon the voice of Lt. Comdr. C. H. Carlos, USN, of Cambridge, Massachusetts, came over the Captain's Telephone, from his station below in Combat Information Center, "There is a bogey (Jap plane) seventy miles west of us." Something told us that we had felt the first light gust of the Divine Wind, In a few minutes Mr. Carlos spoke again. "Combat air patrol is returning to base." Dusk was settling fast and our sky-raiding Marines were being called in. The Captain cleared all telephone circuits with a lifted hand and his talker stood ready to relay a message. "All Stations topside," he said, "if you will look on our starboard beam you can see our Combat Air Patrol. They are on their way home. We are on our own from now on. Heads UP!" Nothing more was needed to bring our crew to peak alertness. The crew, made up of healthy American boys from most of the 48 states, was a good one. Since putting DOUGLAS H. FOX in commission, six months before, the time had been spent in training, shakedown, more training and recently a little action. In general, it had been tiresome and boring, but now we knew the test would come shortly. Much, very much, is expected of a "tin can" sailor. An electric tension spread through the men at their stations. Lookouts were straining their eyes towards the darkening horizon. Gun crews repeatedly inspected their weapons and the ammunition in its ready stowage. The Skipper sat hunched in a seat on the open bridge while our Communications Officer, Ltjg N. H. Witschen, USNR, of Jacksonville, Florida conned the ship. We were ready. A supporting destroyer reported an enemy plane to the west, low on the water. The Divine Wind! Above the pilot house our gun director whined as it trained out to pick up our first target. It seems to those on the bridge that a train is passing overhead when Lieut. J. H. DAVIS, USN, of Kansas City, Missouri, starts driving his director around like a whirling dervish. The huge box-like gun director which carries several men to work its delicate precision instruments, turned its face to the west, came to an abrupt stop, backed up slightly, then settled down to a steady turn, following with its powerful eyes the tiny black speck far out on the horizon. Gun barrels rose and fell as they followed the slow, even motion of the ship, their muzzles like puppies sniffing at a rathole. The Skipper stood silently peering over the starboard bridge wing; he need give no orders, long weeks of training has relegated the authority to join in action to his gunnery officer, and he knew Mr. Davis would start shooting at the proper time. All this takes minutes to tell, but it happened in seconds. Impatiently the Skipper was first on one side of the bridge and then the other. At each new report he would jump to that wing for a look, then signal to Fred Adamak, Coxswain, USNR, of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, at the wheel to turn the ship and engage the most dangerous enemy. Our maneuvers were sharp and fast. Before one turn was completed we were heeling over to start in the opposite direction. Ensign Wallace Follette of Forest Grove, Oregon and his lookouts atop the pilot house were riding their stations like bronco-busters in a rodeo. At one time during the action J. C. Crowe, Yeoman third class, of Catron, Missouri, was seen climbing back up the side of the pilot house like a human fly. He had been catapulted to the deck below by a violent maneuver. Every gun on the ship joined the action and a sheet of flame signaled the end of another Kamikaze. A third dipped his nose into a shallow dive, aimed at our starboard beam. Ellis Parkins, Chief Gunner's mate, USN, of San Antonio, Texas said to Daniel McDevitt, Chief Torpedoman's Mate, of Philadelphia, Penn., "Its him or us!" It was him! Their light machine guns riveted the mark of death across the motor of the onrushing plane. With a tremendous explosion, Mr. Tojo hit the water just 50 yards short of the ship and showered debris all over the gunners who had shot him down. The smoke from our guns lay astern like a shroud across the water. Also our stacks were belching black smoke occasionally as the engineers swung their throttles wide for more speed. Attempting to evade the deadly blast of our guns, the enemy planes dived into the top of our smoke pall and began a semi-obscured run from astern. But they could not avoid the electronic eyes of our radar and we knew exactly where they were and what they were doing. The Skipper passed word below to "knock off the smoke," hoping to bring our pursuers again into full view. From Lt. J.C. Jones of Hattiesburg, Miss., the Engineering officer, came the quick query, "Do you want smoke or speed?" The Skipper grinned, for he knew we needed speed too, and answered, "No smoke," then signaled the rudder hard over in a confusing turn for the half blind Japs astern. They should pop out of the haze and find themselves facing the entire broadside of our anti-aircraft battery. He peered into the smoke cloud astern, there two Nippers out there, both closing. One burst into view and he shouted orders, turning his mount to meet the headlong rush of a Kamikaze. Too close! The machines gun battery would have to take that one; where was the other? "Train left," he called to his trainer, Jesse York, Seaman first class, USNR, of Markham, Texas. "Number two ought to be dead astern!" One quick glance at the blazing red emblems on the Jap wing was all Frank Coultas, Seaman first class, USNR, of Portland, Oregon, pointer, needed. He heard "ready" reports from the Gun Captains behind him; a slight pressure on the handwheels brought his crosswires into the enter of a whirling propeller. "Fire!" He yelled, and his right index finger clamped the firing tripper in a firm grip. Stogsdill's vision was blurred by the crash of his guns, but an instant later he could see clearly, see the wispy tongues of flame that had begun to grow in the white froth of our wake. He pressed the button on his sound powered telephone and reported, "Splash, on Tojo." By now reports were coming in from damage control parties. Ensign Leo Fay of Boston, Mass., officer-in-charge of Repair One was seriously wounded but still directing his men in a compartment which had taken the full force of the bomb blast. Ammunition was on fire at both gun mounts and unwounded survivors were busy throwing these burning parcels of destruction over the side. Hoses were led out and jumpers rigged around broken sections of Firemains. Ensign R.R. Conley of Ochelata, Oklahoma led another Repair Party forward and took over from Ensign Fay who was suffering from multiple injuries and died the next day. Fires were brought quickly under control and it was determined that the ship had suffered no underwater damage. Wounded were being treated in the Officer's Wardroom Mess by Ltjg. O.C. Stegmaier, of Jefferson City, Missouri, where he had a miniature hospital with an improvised operating table and many other facilities for administering first aid. We breathed a little easier now. Darkness had settled down; only a sliver of moon hung in the sky, not enough light for concentrated attacks. Exactly six minutes had passed since we had fired the first shot. A supporting Destroyer closed us at the Skipper's request to send over medical assistance. Just when a new bogey appeared and we squared off our remaining guns to engage him should he close. The other destroyer opened fire, but the two ships were so close that our guns were masked and needed to hold fire until clear. A quick maneuver brought us around, but accurate shooting from the "tin can" commanded by Commander A.B. Coxe of Washington, D.C., drove this Nipper away. He was labeled snooper, one who had not joined the Kamikaze Corps. But this time the maneuver was too late. With a roar like the passing of a great wind the first plane came in on us. Machine gun bullets in hails, hammered him in mid-flight, but his aim had been true and he continued to hurdle on while parts of his place disintegrated and fell away before our eyes. His tail melted and drifted lazily down as he passed our stern. The pilot, already dead, could be seen slumped forward over the controls. "Heads up, bridge," was heard on one telephone circuit as a talker aft tried to warn us that this one had not been splashed. Then Frances O'Hara, Seaman second class, USNR, of Pekin, Illinois, bridge talker on the battle circuit, sounded off "HIT THE DECK--HIT THE DECK!" We had practiced this before, to throw ourselves out prone on the deck in an effort protect ourselves from flying splinters. It reminded us of tackling dummy drill in football season and in practice we had resented the bruises, the indignity of the whole procedure. Oh how glad we were that the Skipper had made us do it over and over again before, until each of us could melt instantly into the smallest allotted spot. The wreck of this plane might have missed us too, had it not been that his wingtip grazed our mast, taking off the port yardarm, and thus deflected, he spun around into the ship. The same wing nipped the Director, clipped off the bridge windshield and crashed against the face of a 5" gun mount. The remainder of the plane caromed against another gun mount, killing seven men and wounding many others. His bombs exploded between these mounts and flames shot high in the air. Shrapnel and jagged splinters rained about the decks and the floor boards heaved. Aside from the great rushing sound or "swoosh" of the plane passing overhead there was little noise. We climbed instantly to our feet and began to untangle the telephone cords and replace our helmets, all of us a little dazed from the concussion. The Skipper was already inspecting the bridge to see if any controls were knocked out. He spoke to Thomas MacNamara, Storekeeper first class, USN, of Boulder, Montana, another talker, "Tell damage control I want a report immediately!" His request was not needed. The well trained damage control parties directed by Lt. J. H. Howard, USNR, of New York, N.Y., were already probing into the flames and wreckage. What had become of the second plane in that smoke screen? If he were going to hit us we would have felt him by now. To a man, the thought hit us at the same time, and we peered out into the gloom for some sign of him. There astern was a little flicker of light, flames licking away at the remains of a crashed plane. Were those remnants of the one we had received aboard? Or could it be--? The command circuit carried the voice of Lt. Davis, "tell the Captain that Stogsdill splashed the second Tojo in local control." A sign of relief, Claude Stogsdill, Gunner's Mate first class, USN, of Dorchester, Mass., was Mount Captain of an after 5" mount. During the action of fire he stood with his head out the top of a small hatch, observing the effect of fire from his mount and issuing orders to his crew now and then as he received instructions from Lt. Davis in the Director. His job had been to train the crew to peak efficiency. Once the action was joined, his job was done, his men were on their own. Unless--- unless there was a target for him that Mr. Davis could not take under fire with the forward guns. "Commence firing!" Mr. Davis' command was echoed by the crash of our main battery, five inch anti- aircraft guns that hurled steely defiance at the enemy. Rapid fire now, and the throaty roar deepened like an express train entering a tunnel. Then silence. Far in the distance a glowing funeral pyre marked the grave of a Kamikaze. A little man from across the sea stood humbly before his God-Emperor. But the moment's silence was deceptive. More bogey reports were heard, and suddenly they were all around us. The Main battery opened up again and was quickly followed by our lighter weapons as the enemy pack closed in for a kill. Lookouts atop the pilot house were heard "starboard 2 up 3, starboard 9 up 5, port 6 up 3," singing out the position of enemy aircraft in their sectors, all low on the water and closing fast. The Skipper by now had given his waving signal speed and Marshall Williams, Radioman third class, USN-I, of Denver, Colorado, was telling the engineers to "pour on the coal." This they did, and the bow of DOUGLAS H. FOX lifted high and sent the spray flying. Once more Commander Coxe brought his ship alongside and his medical personnel jumped onto the deck of the DOUGLAS H. FOX. Reports were received on the bridge concerning the condition of our wounded; a few men were in serious condition and the Skipper asked for medical assistance from still another destroyer which was approaching the scene. He then decided to return to base and upon the arrival of a relief destroyer, we set course to a friendly harbor. Heroes? There were many, a roster of the ship's company would just about cover it. But still a better name for DOUGLAS H. FOX men, that fateful night, one that they understand better and are proud to wear---Good Destroyer Sailors? "Tin Can Men." YMC, Miles Lewis, 17 May, 1945. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- PERSONAL ACCOUNTS FROM THE KAMIKAZI ATTACK - MAY 17, 1945 Bruce, Got your letter this morning and enjoyed reading it. It's amazing what one starts to think about when trying to recapitulate what took place 50 plus years ago. As you know most of us aboard the Fox were rather young not having seen our 20th birthday as yet. All 300 plus of us were thrown together to attempt to do a job that had to be done, but very few knew how we were supposed to do it. When we saw the Destroyer in port on the 17th that had been on picket station 9 on the 16th with most of it's super structure missing, as well as hearing they had lost 150 men, it sent a chill down our spines. The main reason being, we knew who was going to go out on picket station 9 that night. The Zellers, our sister ship, was also going with us. Our skipper said he knew that 9 was the worst of the stations as it was directly between Okinawa and Japan, and that was where most of the kamikaze's would be operating at dusk. He also said he would see that we not only got out there, but he would be responsible for getting us back. He did that, but 11 did not come back alive. My battle station was gunner on a 20mm gun on the gun tub of stack two. When the kamikaze's started coming in, all hell broke loose and our five inch mounts, of which we had three twins, all of the quad 40's, the six twin 50's, and a passel of 20 mm. were sending out an awfully lot of lead and noise The feeling I had as all of this firing was taking place was that it felt about as effective as if someone with a saucer of green peas was tossing them out one at a time. Probably this feeling came from seeing how aggressive the Japanese planes were and how nothing seemed to stop them. Every so often you would see one splash, but they just kept coming. The safety valve on the boilers had been tied down, as I understand, and we were putting out smoke like mad. The Captain called the engineering officer and said cut off the smoke. The reply was, do you want speed, or do you want smoke. We continued with our smoke. By the time we were hit, we had lost all of our five inch guns. The one on the fantail had plane fuel all over it where a kamikaze had just missed us, spilling gas all over. A spark would have caused all sorts of problems and probably more lives, and so we could do very little in defending ourselves other than the smaller guns. Possibly leaving the smoke going could have been our downfall, but who is to know. The plane that got us with a 500 lb. bomb came in through the smoke, passing just over my head close enough so we could feel the heat from his engine. It clipped off part of the yardarm, knocking out mount number two as far as firepower was concerned and demolishing mount number one. It was scary and something one never forgets. We were supposed to be repaired in the Philippines, but they had no room for us. Plan number two was to repair the ship in the Hawaiian Islands, but still no room. From there we were sent to the Bethlehem naval yard in San Francisco and they did accept us. This was great for me as Modesto, CA was my home. Our journey from the grave yard back to S. F. was quite a story in itself. We hit a storm that would make people on a good sound Destroyer nervous, but where we had 4 x 4's shoring up our bow, it was a bit spooky. I had the opportunity to be at the helm from time to time, and when we were taking 45 degree rolls, I'm sure my hair was standing on end. From my understanding, after the Fox was repaired word was that we were to head back out to the Pacific to help in the battle. Most of us were dreading it. In fact it took a couple of years before I felt at ease when a plane would pass overhead. About that time the bombs were dropped on Japan and the war came to an end. I spent V J day in Modesto. When we did report back to the ship the orders were we were to head for New York for Veterans day. That was mighty good news. Anyway Bruce, I'm sorry to have rambled, but hopefully it will give you some of the feelings and observations I had then. I hope it doesn't sound too melodramatic, but with age one tends to tell things differently. Regardless of what anyone says, war is scary. Ted Sypolt, Plank Owner, in a letter to Bruce Hanson, who's father was on Fox. CLYDE WELSH, S1c, to HENRY SEEGERS, GM3c, on JANUARY 21, 2001. Both are Plank Owners. Hank, The battle I was talking about, was the first one about a week before we got hit, and we got credit for just one of the seven that was splashed. The other skipper took credit for six, and that was what I was asking about. How many did we really get? If you remember it rained all the next week. As for the trainers station; the fuse setter had his face pushed into the glass and was taken to the wardroom, and the sight setter was killed. They had to take a part of the plane off him to get him out. He was the mailman we picked up in Pearl and Bornemann replaced. Also I understood that the trainer wasn't spotted for some time before they got him down and into sick bay. He made it. I saw him in New York around Navy Day with his folks. I don't know who you threw over board. It may have just been - pilot parts. We didn't need them any way.. Oh, that book I was telling you about. The Fox is in there, but just a paragraph. The guy that wrote it didn't have any of the crews input to add, and he gave us credit for seven planes. But the rest of the book is great stuff and has stories about some of the ships that were hit. The ship that was with us the first time we were out, got hit in the anchor with a five inch. The USS Zellars DD777, my other can, and the Aaron Ward, the ship that didn't have any thing left between the bridge and Mt.3, that was anchored close to us before we got hit, were in the book. All 122 Destroyers that were hit are in the book. Did you know that the number of Tin Can sailors that were wounded or killed (over half were killed) in just 90 days, totaled 9760. That's 13 % of the total casualties experienced by the Navy in the war. Of the 122 hit, 47 were ether sunk, scuttled or scrapped. This has me upset. I didn't know that and I doubt that many do. The Japs have a shrine honoring their Kamikaze's. We didn't even get a "thank you", or "kiss my ass", for that battle. No group of any U.S. Force lost anywhere near 20% of the crews as the Destroyers on the picket stations did, nor has much been said about the 122 ships (82% of the 148 Destroyers on station), that were hit. Didn't mean to go on so long Get me squared away with that first fight, ok. P.S. How about sending this out. Maybe we can get some talk going between the Plank Owners, so the kids can get to know how it was. To one good Tin Can sailor from another. Clyde Welsh, S1c Note: The book which Clyde referred to is probably "The Two Ocean War" by Samuel Eliot Morrison (1963), who as the official historian for the Navy wrote a fifteen volume history from which this book was condensed. The following paragraphs are copied from page 556. "Although your historian himself has been under kamikaze attack, and witnessed the hideous forms of death and torture inflicted by that weapon, words fail to do justice to the sailors who met it so courageously. Men on radar picket station, to survive, not only had to strike own the flaming terror of the Kamikazes roaring out of the blue like thunderbolts of Zeus: they were under constant strain and intense discomfort. In order to supply high steam pressure to build full speed rapidly in a destroyer, its superheaters, built only for intermittent use, had to be lighted for three and four days running. For days and even nights on end, the crew had to stand general quarters while the ship was kept "buttoned up". Men had to keep in readiness for the instant reaction and split- second timing necessary to riddle a plane bent on sacrificial death. Sleep became the rarest commodity and choicest luxury, like water to a shipwrecked mariner." "The capture of Okinawa cost the United States Navy 34 naval vessels and craft sunk, 368 damaged, over 4900 sailors killed or missing in action, and over 4800 wounded. Tenth Army lost 7613 killed or missing in action and 31,800 wounded. Sobering as it is to record such losses, the sacrifice of these men is brightened by our knowledge that the capture of Okinawa helped to bring Japanese leaders to face the inevitable surrender. " Conversations at the 2002 Reunion with Mel Saucier, Lloyd Garrett, Plank Owners, etal "We were sailing without air cover, when we saw about 11 Kamikaze's coming. Every time you look up, here's one here, and here's one here, and here's one here. I don't know how many of 'em we shot down, but the plane that hit the yard arm, we already had the tail blowed off of it. It hit the yardarm, spun around and nailed the gun mount, just peeled it like an orange. I think it killed all seven men in there. There were three more killed in the powder room. We were dead in the water, just sittin there for a while, but we didn't come under attack." Mel Saucier, S2 "The morning after we were hit, we went up to the gun mount that was demolished, and these guys looked like that hash, which is what we had for breakfast that morning. You could see so many guys with their trays scraping that hash over the side. They just couldn't eat it. I was by stack number two, on the 20 mm, and in fact, when it came in, it hit the yard arm, which wasn't too much higher than my head, so I could feel the heat of the engines as they went over. Lloyd Garrett, S2c(TM ) "I was on the bridge manning a twin 40mm director when I spotted a bogie coming down in our smoke stack, just missing the radar antenna and then crashing, and blowing up #2 gun mount. We lost all our power; we were dead in the water. That's what I remember vividly. I lost many good friends that were manning the gun mount". Pete Del Puppa, S1c(FC), September, 2000. "I had a great time at the San Diego reunion (2000) and hope to be at the next one. I was in the Forward Fire Room during general quarters and for regular duty until October 1945. Thereafter was in the Engine room and the Oil and Water King. Norm Handley, S2c. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- S2c Dave Turvey's Recollections From May 17, 1945 My name is Don Morrison and I'm a Viet Nam era Navy veteran. My uncle David O. Turvey was one of those seriously wounded on the Fox that day. He never did talk too much about it, but just before he died of cancer in 1993, he related to me some of what happened. He recalled someone picking him up and saying "this one's dead too" and he managed to groan and somehow convey that he was still alive so he didn't go over the side. He spent two years at Oak Knoll Naval Hospital before being sent home. Funny part is, when I was injured in Viet Nam and sent to Oak Knoll for treatment, Uncle Dave came to visit and discovered that I was in the same ward he was in in 1945, Ward 45-A. He was a good man and worked at Mare Island Naval Shipyard for several years as security before retiring. I still miss him. Don Morrison, July 3, 2006. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Recollections of Eddie Elliot, Baker 3rd, 1944- 1946 Yes, I am a plank-owner. The first thing I remember about the Fox was joining the first crew in Seattle. I was a Cook (striker). And my first job was baking about 24 turkeys for our Thanksgiving dinner. Luckily a corpsman came by about 5:30 a.m. with "Pink-ladies" to make the job more enjoyable. After shakedown we left San Diego for Pearl Harbor. It was somewhat frightening at my age 18, seeing the Carrier Franklin coming in, in bad shape, knowing that your heading in the direction she was coming from. We left Pearl in the morning with sealed orders. Sometime later the Captain let us know we were headed for Okinawa. We escorted an old Battleship, I believe it was the Mississippi. We had sonar contact and dropped depth charges, and fired our "Y guns. My GQ station was a projectile handler in the aft Twin 5". When we arrived in Okinawa, we tied up alongside the USS Arron Ward, which had also been hit. Needless to say right in the area of my GQ station. Before our picket duty we joined in bombarding the island with our 5 " guns while the Battlewagons did 16" over our heads. During a daylight operation we brought down a Kamikaze and brought him on board. On his person he had a letter from his girlfriend which was read to the crew, telling him how proud she was of him for joining the Kamikaze group. I don't remember if he was still alive or dead, but he was gone. On the night we were hit, its amazing how quick you grow up. Below deck in the squirrel cage the 5"projectile which weighs about 50 pounds felt like 5 pounds to the keep the guys above busy. Luckily it paid off. We caught one trying to sneak up in our smoke. After the attack we went topside to clear the 5" brass. We sure had a pile. Then learned of the buddies we lost. We also lost our Baker, a hell of a way for me to become Baker 3rd class. It's easy to see why only the young go to war. The older and more life experienced, would or should try to find a better way. The next morning the sight was horrible. We tried to clean up the disaster. I still have a part of the aluminum skin and fiber material from the Jap plane, and shrapnel which looked like a Ford transmission gear broken into pieces. I know this because after leaving the service, I spent the next 40 years doing tune-up and electrical work on Fords. Eddie (& Dee) Elliot, December 7, 2006 -------------------------------------------------------------------------
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  I love Bass fishing,                                                                                                                                        playing with my HO guage modal train layout.  
                                        
    
                          
