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The Counterfeit Brigantines of Safi and the Ranger Deliverer of the Wadi Sebou

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By Reece Nortum
Hampton Roads Naval Museum Educator
USS LST 547 lands an Army M4A1 Sherman tank during training exercises at Camp Bradford, Virginia, in 1944. While the Sherman and the Landing Ship, Tank (LST) were some of the most recognizable staples of amphibious warfare during World War II, only the Sherman was in production in time to participate in Operation Torch, the largest amphibious operation the American  Army and Navy played a part in since the Civil War.  In only about three months, four military facilities, including Camp Bradford, were created along the south shore of the Chesapeake Bay (plus an Amphibious Force headquarters at the Nansemond Hotel) to prepare thousands of Army and Navy personnel for the invasion of French North Africa. In order to keep a November 1942 invasion deadline, existing vessels, including old destroyers, would have to stand in for more specialized amphibious vessels that would appear in the following year. (Naval History and Heritage Command image)  
Seventy-five years ago, the sprawling facility along the southern shore of Chesapeake Bay now known as Joint Expeditionary Base Little Creek-Fort Story was composed of four brand-new bases: Camp Bradford, Camp Shelton, U.S. Naval Frontier Base, and Amphibious Training Base. These bases, Amphibious Training Base in particular, became the center for pioneering the new techniques of amphibious warfare for the equally new types of vessels that would be required to win the Second World War: the LSM (landing ship medium); LCI (landing craft infantry); LCU (landing craft utility); LCM (landing craft mechanized), and LCVP (landing craft vehicle, personnel). At the new bases, the techniques of training had to be developed almost from scratch. Only the doctrine (The Landing Force Manual) developed by the Marines between 1935 and 1939 existed before the war began in 1941, but little testing and training had been done. During World War II over 200,000 naval personnel and 160,000 Army and Marine Corps personnel trained at Little Creek.


An SBD Dauntless from USS Ranger (CV 4) flies an antisubmarine patrol over some of the 102 warships and transports of the Western Naval Task Force, which left Hampton Roads on October 24, 1942.  By November 8, they were in position to launch the invasion of French-held territory in Morocco under Operation Torch. (National Archives and Records Administration)  

To accomplish the invasion of North Africa, Western Task Force would have naval support, which would come from an American task force: one aircraft carrier, four escort carriers, three battleships, seven cruisers, and 38 destroyers, in addition to troop and cargo transports and auxiliaries, under Rear Adm. H. Kent Hewitt. The Navy would also provide air support during the landing phase until fields ashore could be secured for squadrons of the 12th Air Force.
ABOVE: Launched only four days before the end of World War I, USS Bernadou (DD153), shown here probably during the early-1920s, was transformed [BELOW] so that she would more closely resemble a fishing brigantine during the initial landings of Operation Torch on November 8, 1942. (Collection of Gustave Maurer, Naval History and Heritage Command image)


USS Bernadou (DD 153) rests upon the shore at Safi, French Morocco, after landing troops during Operation Torch in November 1942. Examples of destroyers being used in unconventional ways became much rarer after more specialized amphibious vessels became available to American forces in 1943.  (Gift of J. Everett Berry/ Naval History and Heritage Command image)
 Three of the task force vessels were specially modified for unconventional missions during Operation Torch; the old unsuspecting WWI-vintage destroyers Cole, Bernadou, and Dallas. These old four-stack destroyers were retrofitted with deception in mind. The Cole and Bernadou would have their smoke stacks cut, their bridge towers lowered, and holes cut into their decks. Doing all this would allow installation of masts with sails into the decks with the aim of making them look like fishing vessels in the early dawn of November 8. With this design the Cole and Bernadou, part of the Southern Attack Group, attacked the Port of Safi, a very strategic piece of the invasion. This port and several others were instrumental in off-loading tanks, personnel, and much needed supplies for the Allies’ push into Africa.
The destroyers Bernadou (DD 153) and Cole (DD 155) as they appeared during Operation Torch. (Naval History and Heritage Command images)
This composite of reconnaissance photographs taken between November 1942 (just before the Port Lyautey aerodrome at the center of this image was captured) and February 1943 (after it was renamed U.S. Naval Air Station Port Lyautey), shows the Wadi Sebou River surrounding the airfield, with the shoreline just visible to the northeast. (National Archives and Records Administration)

The destroyer Dallas (DD 199) had a very different and more dangerous mission. This ship was also altered in the previous manner. Stacks cut, bridge lowered, and many other “non-mission essential” armor and ships pieces were removed for much needed weight loss. This river was very muddy and had low water depth for any major Navy ship. A historic new unit’s creation, The Special Mission Naval Demolition Unit, was formed for this near impossible task. Consisting of only two officers and 17 enlisted men, their mission was to clear the way through the cables and booms in the Wadi Sebou River, left as a defense against all ships traveling up river. This would allow Dallas to charge to Port Lyautey airdrome with her cargo of US Army Rangers to secure for allied planes. This was just a small piece of a large historic mission and many other firsts for America.
 

Looking east, USS Dallas (DD 199) is anchored off Port Lyautey aerodrome (with its main hangars and control tower upper right background) on November 11, 1942, the day after she made her way up the Wadi Sebou River with the Special Mission Naval Demolition Unit to land Army Rangers at the airfield. U.S. Navy landing craft are beached at the facility's waterfront in the foreground, with seaplane hangars, shops, and an aircraft assembly plant beyond. (National Archives and Records Administration)

Seventy-Five Years Ago: America's Cloak & Dagger School Began with Hard Hats & Dynamite

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Naval Construction Training Center Camp Peary, along the south bank of the York River near Williamsburg, Virginia, on August 18, 1943. (Hampton Roads Naval Museum file)
Just outside Williamsburg on the Virginia Peninsula lies a large yet low-key government facility celebrating a quiet anniversary this week. The Armed Forces Experimental Training Activity at Camp Peary, Virginia, which began as a naval construction training center during the rapid expansion of U.S. Navy’s Seabees during World War II, was commissioned on November 16, 1942.[1]

Few Seabees alive today would remember it as a place where they received their initial and advanced military training before shipping off to Sicily or the Solomons, yet for generations of case officers and other unconventional warriors of the Central Intelligence Agency, this was where they completed basic training; a place they knew as "The Farm."

The rapid expansion of the Civil Engineer Corps during 1942 overwhelmed the capacities of the relatively new facilities at Camp Bradford (now a part of Joint Expeditionary Base Little Creek-Fort Story), Camp Allen (now a Marine Corps facility near the Commander Navy Region Mid-Atlantic headquarters complex on the Naval Support Activity Norfolk), and Camp Endicott, Rhode Island (which no longer exists). The functions of the three separate posts would be consolidated into an 11,000-acre facility, named for the explorer and Civil Engineer Corps officer Robert Peary, made up of an administrative area and four regimental areas with the capability of training 50,000 men. On December 1, 1942, the disestablishment process for Camps Bradford and Allen began, and by March 17, 1943, Camp Peary had taken over all primary Seabee training from both stations. In fact, all Seabee recruits underwent initial training at Camp Peary in 1943 and the first half of 1944 before moving on to more advanced technical and military training at camp Endicott.


The basic training for Seabees, many of whom were older than the average recruit, was arduous to begin with, but the terrain making up most of Camp Peary, giving it the moniker “Swamp-Peary” by members of the 87th Naval Construction Battalion (NCB), just made it more challenging. One veteran of the 63rd NCB, whose recruits arrived in December 1942, even claimed that Camp Peary was “known to Seabees throughout the world as ‘the land that God forgot.’”

“Thirty days is all it takes,” wrote one member of the 103rd NCB, which was formed at Camp Peary in October 1943. “Thirty days of sweat like you’ve never sweat before. Thirty days of hip-hup an’ a reep. Thirty days of forward march, column right, column left an’ to the rear. We’ll make a Seabee out of you, matey. We’ll take that fat off your belly.”

Of the advanced training that followed their “boot” experience, the writer for the 63rd NCB wrote:

In advance training many men made the acquaintance of Island X, that humpy, bumpy and breezy ‘proving ground’ for the real Island X. Water purification and other crews learned to set up and operate the equipment needed to supply and maintain a sanitary camp under all conditions. The proof of the pudding came in the results of these Seabee ‘schools.’ One crew of 50 men became proficient enough to erect a mess hall, galley, clear a camp area, set up a water tank, showers and drinking water units in 3 ½ hours.
An early map of Naval Construction Training Center Camp Peary (Hampton Roads Naval Museum file)
Camp Peary also boasted specialized facilities in its advanced training area for special-duty battalions such as a full scale Liberty ship mockup for stevedores and facilities for mastering the construction of pontoon causeways. Seabees were trained in the art of combat construction and sustainment there, but it was also the place to learn the latest destruction techniques. Seabees bound for underwater demolition teams (the forerunners of today’s SEALS) passed through Camp Peary’s advanced training area, churning out Sailors adept at small arms and explosives. In all, over 90 Seabee battalions, amounting to well over 100,000 men, were trained there. In addition, nearly 5,000 men earned their commissioning from the officers’ school at the facility.

The rapid pace of change in 1943 once again affected Camp Peary’s mission as the Pacific became the primary area for Seabee operations, and in late-1944, Seabee training was moved once again back to Camp Endicott. The development of Camp Peary was then shaped by the rapid expansion of other armed service branches on American soil: In particular, the Wehrmacht and the Kreigsmarine. The first of what would ultimately be nearly 135,000 German and Italian prisoners of war began debarking at the Newport News Port of Embarkation in September 1942 for points west, but by the latter part of the war, it became clear that some German prisoners, the most virulent of the Nazis in American custody, needed to be removed from the more docile Deutsche POWs in Colorado and Nebraska to a more controlled environment. That place turned out to be Camp Peary, which had a detention area already in place, right next to its advanced training area, which had already proved valuable in extracting intelligence from captured U-boat crews, who were held in secret to prevent their superiors from knowing they had been captured.

As the number of German POWs being held in Virginia surged towards around 17,000 in 1945, a select 1,000 or so were being held at Camp Peary. As the war in Europe ground to a conclusion that spring, the number there and the nearby Chetham Annex doubled, and the camp authorities begrudgingly began allowing some of them to perform general labor outside the camp, as had become common at other POW camps across the Old Dominion.

After the end of the Second World War and subsequent repatriation of prisoners of war, perhaps for a time the future of Camp Peary as a government reservation was in doubt. But the passing of one war only set the stage for yet another. As many of the former operatives who wore the spear point of the wartime Office of Strategic Services on their uniforms took up their professions once again as civilians under the eagle and compass rose of the Central Intelligence Agency, they needed their own highly specialized recruit training facility; one that would impart many of the same specialized skills Camp Peary once provided the Seabees.




[1] As recorded in a Fifth Naval District listing of bases produced in 1943 and held in the Hampton Roads Naval Museum files. According to a history produced by the Navy’s Bureau of Yards and Docks in 1947, Camp Peary was officially established on November 4, 1942.

Not the Fab Four: Disappearing in Japan, then Reappearing in Moscow

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Fifty years ago, civil discourse was breaking down over the expanding Vietnam War, and the gulf of disunity that was widening in American society was beginning to surface in its military.  Some civilians selected to serve in the US Army began burning their draft cards while others fled the country before their numbers came up.  Some in the active duty ranks even began abandoning their posts, and the Navy was no exception.
 
In late November 1967, the American public learned of one of the more dramatic examples of a wartime military fraying at its edges, courtesy of a Japanese "peace committee" and some Russian intelligence operatives.  Four young enlisted men who had disappeared from the Norfolk-based aircraft carrier USS Intrepid (CVS-11) during a port visit to Yokosuka, Japan, in October appeared on a Soviet television show in Moscow to denounce the American war effort. 

From the left, Boris Krainov applauds defectors Craig W. Anderson, John M. Barilla, Michael Lindner, and Richard D. Bailey at Moscow University on November 22, 1967. (Tass handout photo distributed by the Associated Press)
Before throngs of adoring students shouting "molodets!" or "well done!" at Moscow University on November 22, 1967, Airmen Craig W. Anderson, Richard D. Bailey, John M. Barilla, and Michael A. Lindner were awarded the Lenin Peace Prize as they repeated the same message they had first told a Japanese peace group called Beheiren ("Japan Friends of Vietnam Committee") during a filmed interview some weeks before.  Twenty year-old Airman Craig W. Anderson had said, "You are looking at four deserters, four patriotic deserters from the United States Armed Forces. Throughout history, the term 'deserter' has applied to cowards, traitors, and misfits.  We are not concerned with categories or labels.  We have reached the point where we must stand up for what we believe to be the truth."  In the same filmed interview released by the Japanese, Airman Richard Bailey, the 19 year-old son of a lieutenant commander in the Naval Reserve, said that the American public had "reached a point where they are finished demonstrating and are going to take an active hand in stopping the war machine."  

"It became clear to me that we were killing people"

The day before the event at Moscow University, the Communist Party newspaper Pravda, or "Truth" carried a long interview with the men, who repeatedly used the term "mass slaughter" to describe what their government was carrying out in Vietnam.  "It became clear to me that we were killing people," said Airman Barilla, who had been a member of Intrepid's catapult crew before his desertion. "I am convinced that the United States does not have any right to be in Vietnam." Bailey chimed in, "I never gave much thought to the war until I reached the coast off Vietnam in mid-1966.  Actually my work aboard the carrier was very easy. At first I did not give much thought to what I was doing.  It was only this past year that I began to understand I was taking part in a dirty, unjust war."
 
Statistically, the desertion of four junior personnel from an aircraft carrier that carried a compliment in excess of 3.000 was not significant, but their appearances in the Soviet news media greatly magnified their stature, if only to embolden the antiwar movement and tweak the noses of those in the American government. 
 
As the four were being feted as heroes in Moscow, reporters began to focus in on the new Soviet celebrities and what their motivations might have been for defecting.
 
"It is not possible to list precisely the moods, emotions and motivations that led to what is now officially desertion, wrote New York Times writer Barnard Collier in December 1967. "What does emerge from a series of interviews, however, is a profile of four young men without personal goals, who had menial jobs aboard the Intrepid, and who brooded about the sameness and loneliness of their shipboard routine." 
 
None of the men had been standouts in high school, good or bad.  Bailey in particular had been on probation for breaking and entering before his enlistment, but Collier singled out Airman Anderson as having had significant problems with the military even before his active duty service began.  He had become a member of the Navy Reserve in 1965, but had been activated due to his missing too many drill sessions.  When he finally reported for duty, he reportedly had shown up in civilian clothes and "long and shaggy" hair.  He was sent home, where his mother, Irene Anderson Hill, attempted to talk some sense into him.  Before leaving, he told his mother, "I just can't take authority or discipline."    
 

"Ratline Japan"

 
The four Navy deserters were among 400 or so American servicemen who disappeared from Japan in 1967 alone.  Army intelligence documents declassified in the 1990s detailed that the Japanese  "peace committees" that spirited away the deserters were working as part of a sophisticated KGB-run network called "Ratlline Japan," although the Soviets did not officially control or finance the committees.  Military intelligence agents had focused upon the Beheiren group, which distributed leaflets to servicemen featuring a telephone number.  American military personnel  who called the number were contacted, assessed, and vetted before they were smuggled to Nemuro, a seaport on the northern island of Hokkaido.  From there they would be transferred to the Soviets for exfiltration.

The journey of the men who came to be known as the "Intrepid Four"  had begun while they were on liberty outside Yokosuka Naval Base, when they destroyed their uniforms and ID cards and traveled to Tokyo, eventually making contact with Beheiren activists.  After staying in a series of safe houses, with the help of an American antiwar activist clad in orange saffron robes that was described by one Army agent as "Marxist-Zeninist," the four were taken to Yokohama, put on the Soviet freighter Baikal, and taken to the Siberian port of Nahodka on November 11, 1967.

Undercover agents with the Naval Investigative Service (now known as the Naval Criminal Investigative Service) succeeded in shutting down the ratline in November 1968 by mounting a "dangle" operation, in which a notional, or fake, deserter accompanied a real deserter and his Beheiren escorts until they were apprehended in Kushiro, Hokkaido.


"Fed Up with Russia"


The halcyon days of the so-called Intrepid Four lasted for about six weeks, but the warm glow of Soviet adulation was fleeting.  After a few weeks in Moscow, the four deserters were, according to a diplomat who encountered them in Gorky Park, "fed up with Russia."  They also admitted that "the Russians are fed up with us, too, and don't know what to do with us." 

The four eventually made their way to Sweden and dropped out of sight, but one of the defectors, Craig Anderson, surfaced again last year, ostensibly to promote a memoir and "rally a new generation of Americans to take a more vocal stand against the nation's current military campaigns."  But his retelling of his life after taking his own stand; or rather, after he turned and ran, did not make for inspiring reading.

Three years after reaching Sweden, a haven for American deserters and draft dodgers, Anderson made his way back to his home in San Jose, California, where he discovered that has mother had become an alcoholic and his brother refused to speak to him.  Not long after that, he was apprehended in San Francisco and spent nine months in a high-security brig on Naval Station Treasure Island, where he went on hunger strike and was transferred to a hospital for psychiatric assessment.  According to Anderson, prosecutors had sought to give him a four-year sentence for desertion, but he was able to walk away with only a bad conduct discharge. 

During what was described as "decades-long journey in search of himself," Anderson lived in a tent in Mendocino County, then later relocated in Mexico, where he wrote novels under a pen name.  After divorcing his second wife, he relocated to Southern Nevada to be closer to a woman he met on a political chat room, and it was there where he composed his memoir.  During that time, he reached out to the other three who had defected with him over four decades earlier.  Two had stayed in Sweden, while another, John Barilla, had settled in Canada.

Barilla remarked to New York Times reporter John M. Glionna that, after they had made contact, he and Anderson had relived "our magical mystery tour."     

The Beatles' celebrated parody of the Beach Boys and Chuck Berry, "Back in the USSR," was released exactly one year after the "Intrepid Four" appeared on Soviet television, but it remains pure speculation as to whether the "Fab Four" might have been inspired by those four other young men who, by the way, would definitely not be back to the USSR. 

An After-Thanksgiving Attack in "Suicide Alley," Part I

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Editor's Note: Asked to name the ship that sustained the greatest loss of American lives during the Second World War, most if not all of the readers of this blog could probably name the battleship Arizona, which exploded and sank at Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941.  But what about the ship that sustained the second-greatest loss of American lives? 

This is the story of that ship and the once-secret tragedy that befell her on November 26, 1943.

By Justin Hall
Curator, the National Museum of the American Sailor

On October 12, 1943, several thousand American GIs embarked at the Hampton Roads Port of Embarkation in Newport News, Virginia, for the Atlantic crossing aboard the American transports William Rawle, Lambert Cadwalader, Booker T. Washington, Nicholas Gilman, and Betty Zane. After disembarking at Oran, Algeria (a couple of weeks later), the Soldiers continued training in a staging area awaiting the next stage of their journey, which was withheld from them in order to maintain secrecy. Then on November 24, over 2,000 of them reembarked at Oran aboard HMT (His Majesty’s Transport) Rohna to join convoy KMF-26. Convoy KMF-26 was a troop transport convoy traveling to Port Said, Egypt and consisted of 17 ships in five columns, being escorted by 10 armed escort vessels and two fighter aircraft. While onboard Rohna, the GIs learned their destination would be the China-Burma-India Theater of Operations. The men also practiced lifeboat drills and had Thanksgiving Dinner on the 25th.
As a civilian cargo ship before the war, Rohna carried approximately 100 passengers.  On the day she was sunk, the troopship was carrying 2,193.  (Wikimedia Commons)
A considerable number of the men had just deployed from the United States for their first tour; therefore, they were unaware that they would be passing through a section of the Mediterranean known as "Suicide Alley." This narrow stretch of the Mediterranean between Sicily and Tunisia had earned notoriety because Allied convoys had to travel through it. Consequently, German submarines and aircraft repeatedly attacked this location. On November 26, the minesweeper USS Pioneer (AM-105) reported a surprise aerial attack made up of 24 to 30 planes, first spotted by the naked eye at approximately 10 miles. These planes were identified as Heinkel 111 and Heinkel 177 bombers flying at an intermediate altitude and fast speed. After the convoy tracked the planes for one minute to confirm their first evaluation, the ships engaged with their anti-aircraft armament of 3-inch 50-caliber and 40mm guns and 20mm cannons. Enemy bomber attacks focused on the left section of the convoy, dropping 40 to 50 bombs. Fortunately almost all were near misses. Tragically, the Rohna was hit and would quickly sink.

A Heinkel 177 "Greif" heavy bomber carries a Henschel 293 rocket-boosted glide bomb. (walterwerke.co.uk)
What makes Rohna different from all the other ships attacked was that it was hit and sunk by a radio-controlled, rocket-boosted glider bomb. Rohna's Second Officer, J.E. Willis, watched the bombers from the bridge. As the glide bombs came within range of the 20-mm, Wills was finally able to identify the incoming object as a bomb and ordered all 20mm to target the bomb. The 20mm gunners failed to destroy the bomb and it hit the Rohna, traveling at about 370 miles per hour, about halfway down the port side, just above the water line, at the engine room level. Around 300 men were killed instantly. Immediately the ship began to flood. To make matters worse, all electrical equipment failed.  

Convoy tactics demanded that the ships remain on course, yet after the attack, six ships remained to pick up survivors or provide cover for the rescue ships. USS Pioneer picked up 606 survivors, but five succumbed to their injuries during the night and the remaining ships rescued less than 200 men. On Nov 28, 1943, the War Department in Washington received a classified message reporting Rohna had sunk within half an hour after receiving bomb damage and half the men aboard were reported as casualties. Darkness and heavy swells hampered rescue efforts and 1,015 American servicemen were among the 1,149 lost in the sinking.

An After-Thanksgiving Attack in "Suicide Alley," Part II

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Editor's note: Over the 74 years since the British troopship Rohna was sunk by an advanced German weapon in November 1943, the lack of official support on the part of the British and American governments to detail the circumstances of its loss has left an information void that survivors and various authors have sought to fill, with uneven results.  

By Justin Hall
Curator, the National Museum of the American Sailor
 
In the months following the attack on Convoy KMF-26 and the sinking of HMT Rohna, next-of-kin of those who perished were notified that their loved ones were “missing-in-action,” with little to no elaboration on the circumstances. The American Graves Registration Service finally declared those who had not been recovered dead in 1949, yet the news of those adjudications were not passed on to relatives. Those who survived the attack were prohibited from writing the name of the ship they were on or details about what had happened to them within their letters home. An unclassified report released to the Associated Press and the United Press about the incident in mid-February 1944, and printed in the New York Times, stated that “One Thousand American soldiers have lost their lives in the sinking of a troopship after an enemy attack in heavy seas in European waters… details were withheld.” One clue as to why such obsessive secrecy surrounded the incident surfaced when the report stated, “there is reason to believe that the enemy does not know of the results of the attack and therefore the date is withheld.”

The perception on the part of American and British officers that the Germans didn’t know that their glide bomb had been successful turned out to be wrong, yet even after the war, many official Army histories still failed to mention the destruction of HMT Rohna.  Author Don Fortune surmised in his book Sinking Of The Rohna (1997) that in order to prevent demoralization, censorship prevented the release of details of the sinking. However, he questions why it took decades after the sinking before information was released to anyone, including family members of the deceased. Historians, survivors, and family members had searched for answers, but secrecy has resulted in speculation and scapegoating.

In 1998, James G. Bennett, whose brother, Private First Class Robert O. Bennett, died in the attack, wrote The Rohna Disaster, and in 2002 the History Channel released an episode of its History Undercover series, “The Rohna Disaster: WWII's Secret Tragedy,” that was based on Bennett’s book. Both alleged that the crew acted cowardly by abandoning ship and leaving the GIs behind. John Fievet was a soldier below deck with all of the other troops who were being transported when the vessel was hit. He recalled that the internal communication system ceased to work and Captain T.J. Murphy's order to abandon ship was relayed by word of mouth. Furthermore, according to Fievet’s account, Rohna's officers and crew remained on board to deploy as many life rafts as possible. If orders to abandon ship were relayed by word of mouth, then the officers of Rohna took responsibility to have the orders conveyed to all soldiers on board and did not abandon them. Additionally, former Rohna First Officer J.E. Willis’ report offered detailed information on the attack and contained information on how convoys should defend themselves in future attacks. This is evidence of an officer which remained composed during the engagement and contests Bennett’s accusations that the officers acted cowardly.

Another example of inference and fault that has come out of the Rohna disaster is that Bennett has blamed the lifesaving equipment. Again, Fievet’s account of that day gives another explanation. Damage to the ship was devastating and had trapped many men below deck and as Fievet recalled, for those that could escape, it took over 20 minutes for the men in lowest departments to reach the main deck. This is a significant amount of time and because the Rohna was sinking so quickly, many GIs had panicked due to their unfamiliarity with lifesaving equipment and the soldiers were not efficient in deploying the life rafts or their inflatable life belts. While Fievet’s is only one account, many recent publications of other Soldiers’ accounts have emerged and many of these survivors have come forward in an attempt to make sense of what happened on that day. In these accounts, some have repeated Bennett’s assertions, yet almost everyone of them maintained that due to their individual experience, they personally did not witness anything supporting Bennett’s allegations.

Unfortunately, an adherence to secrecy prevented an official account of events and caused the next of kin to rely on the stories from survivors, many of whom relied on each other’s stories in an attempt to form an understanding of what occurred. This failure has not provided a comprehensive account and its consequence is a patchwork of various stories that incorporate speculation and blame. One perfect example is John P Fievet, who has published his own account of events and who is a source which discredits Bennett’s claims. However, when Fievet provided a forward to a more recent publication, he repeated a story that was told to him by a fellow soldier, who had heard a story from yet another soldier who claimed that the Rohna crew were first to abandon ship.

One last concern with the top-secret status of the Rohna is that Soldiers and next of kin have become demoralized by not being informed and not having their story told. This is perfectly understandable because it contradicts the narrative of why we fight. These Americans were willing to sacrifice their lives to ensure democracy and freedom for all. Yet, when that sacrifice is not acknowledged, does it challenge our cause?

Seventy-Five Years Ago: The "Lucky Herndon" Joins the Fleet

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By Steve Milner
Contributing Writer

While I'm still recalling the noteworthy observances of Norfolk Naval Shipyard's recent 250th anniversary events that I attended, I'm now writing about another story that again puts our unique facility solidly on our nation's historical map.

It deals with USS Herndon (DD 638), a destroyer that NNSY built, and later launched on February 5, 1942.  It was commissioned on December 20, 1942, and was the lead ship at Omaha Beach during the Allied invasion of Normandy, France, on June 6, 1944, at the start of the D-Day effort to retake Europe from the Germans.

USS Herndon (DD 638) enters the Elizabeth River at Norfolk Naval Shipyard on February 5, 1942. (Historic Norfolk Navy Yard Film Collection, Serial #11-19, courtesy of Marcus W. Robbins)
This ship was nicknamed the "Lucky Herndon," because it was never hit by enemy gunfire, despite being targeted by well-fortified German shore batteries.  By contrast, Herndon effectively pounded enemy gun emplacements on Omaha Beach, ahead of our first troop landings there, and was credited with firing the first naval shots of this campaign.

Although Navy artist Dwight Shepler depicted the actions of the destroyers Emmons (DD 457) and Doyle (DD 494) on June 6, 1944, his watercolor depicting the duel between the destroyers' 5-inch guns and German 88mm guns on the Normandy cliffs gives an idea of what the battle must have been like for USS Herndon (DD 638), which was the first destroyer to bombard the coast that morning. (Navy Art Collection)
Following its exemplary service in the Atlantic and Mediterranean, Herndon eventually went to the Pacific Theater in preparation for the invasion of Mainland Japan which, fortunately, didn't take place due to our dropping two Atomic bombs there.  Herndon later escorted convoys in the Pacific until World War II ended.

Here are some other statistics about the NNSY-built ship, which was a Gleaves-class destroyer: It was named for Commander William Lewis Herndon, who went down with his passenger ship, the mail steamer SS Central America, in a storm off North Carolina in 1857.  At that time, he and his crew saved more than 150 of its 474 passengers.  To commemorate his bravery, there's a monument to him at the Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland.  The towns of Herndon in Fairfax County, Virginia and Herndon, Pennsylvania, were named for him as well.

Cmdr. Herndon, who was born in Fredericksburg, Virginia, in 1813, was noted for his exploration of the Amazon, in searching for natural resources.  The reason that Herndon was commanding Central America, a commercial vessel, was because Navy captains were assigned to ships that were operated by private companies contracted to the U.S. government.

Central America was also noteworthy because it was carrying an estimated 15 tons of gold, then worth about $2 million, from California to the United States Mint in Philadelphia.  This precious cargo was retrieved in 1987.

Commander Herndon's great-grandniece, Lucy Herndon Crockett, sponsored USS Herndon, the second ship to bear this hero's name.  The first, DD 198, was transferred to Great Britain and renamed HMS Churchill, before America entered WWII.  It was then sold to the Soviet Union and was lost in battle in 1945.

Herndon was 348 feet long and had a crew of 16 officers and 260 enlisted personnel.  It had surface-to-surface guns, anti-aircraft guns, torpedo tubes and depth charge launchers.  It could reach speeds of more than 37 knots and travel 6,500 miles at that speed.  Cruising at 12 knots, Herndon's range was 7,500 miles.   

Another one of the ship's noteworthy achievements was serving as an escort vessel for USS Quincy (CA 71), a heavy cruier that transportted President Franklin D. Roosevelt on the first leg of his historic trip to the Yalta conference in Crimea in 1945, to discuss the end of the Second World War.  The other "Big Three" leaders were Great Britain's Winston Churchill and the Soviet Union's Joseph Stalin.

To honor the NNSY-built destroyer and its crew, the Herndon High School marching band will travel from Virginia to France in 2019 to participate in D-Day 75th anniversary commemorations.  That is, it will with the public's financial and other support.  As they march in Normandy, each member will carry a photograph of a member of a Herndon crew member who served during WWII.  The band will also carry the American flag that flew aboard the ship on D-Day.

"What these students are doing is wonderful," said Tom Wilmore, a 92-year-old USS Herndon veteran.  "It means the world to me that they are honoring me and my shipmates in Normandy."

What a great legacy our shipyard has.  Whether it's our past, our current operations or our future accomplishments, we are proudly "America's Shipyard" that observed its 250th anniversary on November 1, with the exciting theme, "an important past, a vital future."


Editor's Note: In addition to serving as public affairs officer at Norfolk Naval Shipyard during his long and varied public relations career, Steve Milner was also a public affairs officer at Cape Canaveral, Florida, during the Gemini and Apollo programs. This article originally ran with the title, "NNSY's 250th observances were great; and here's another winner" in the November Federal Managers' Association Chapter 3 (Norfolk Naval Shipyard) newsletter.     

Seventy Five Years Ago: The World's Greatest Industrial Power Hits its Stride

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On December 7, 1941, the Imperial Japanese Navy had eight carriers, one more than the United States Navy. They used six of them in a coordinated operation against Pearl Harbor, one of the most devastating tactical victories of all time. Despite the fact that the Japanese added two carriers (converted from ocean liners) to their fleet during the year that followed, they lost a total of six, four during the Battle of Midway alone. On the American side, losses and urgent repairs had whittled down the number of battle-ready carriers in the Pacific to just one, the Newport News-built Enterprise (CV 6). Rather than having the Japanese on the run as the end of 1942 approached, it would seem that the two mighty fleets had battered each other down to parity, but it would prove to be short-lived.

USS Essex (CV 9) shortly after her launch at Newport News Shipbuilding on July 31, 1942. The James River Bridge can be seen in the background.  (Naval History and Heritage Command Photo)
USS Essex (CV 9) begins trials on the James River just after her commissioning on December 31, 1942. (Hampton Roads Naval Museum File Photo)
On the last day of 1942, one of the most amazing comebacks in naval history was well underway, produced by what had become the world's greatest economic powerhouse, epitomized by the commissioning of a new class of fleet carrier. They would not only be the largest American carriers commissioned during the war, but they would emerge in such numbers that task forces consisting of as many as 16 fleet (CV) and light (Independence-class CVL) carriers would become possible within the following two years. Thousands of shipyard workers, making manifest the plans of designers and naval architects, most of whom were working in Hampton Roads, made it all possible.

From its first proposal through initial construction, the design of the Essex-class carrier went through more than six major transformations and ended up nearly 30 percent larger. (Naval History and Heritage Command Image)
As has been reported previously, the nation, the Hampton Roads area in particular, had been girding itself for war far in advance of the Pearl Harbor attack. On that day, there were already five of this new class of carrier under construction, three of them at Newport News Shipbuilding and Dry Dock Company. A year and three weeks later, December 31, 1942, the industrial might of the region, and the nation, hit its stride with the commissioning of USS Essex (CV 9), the first of ten of its class that would be constructed by the massive shipyard on the James River.  Between the Essex in 1942 and Boxer (CV 21) in 1945, a carrier of the Essex class was delivered from Newport News shipbuilding to the Navy every Two weeks after Essex was commissioned, the keel for USS Shangri-La (CV 38), was laid at Norfolk Naval Shipyard, the first of three Essex-class carriers that would be produced at the government-owned facility on the Elizabeth River.

Two Essex-class carriers, probably Hornet (CV 12) and Franklin (CV 13), are nearing completion at Newport News Shipbuilding in October 1943. Although Franklin was heavily damaged by kamikaze aircraft and was mothballed after the war, Hornet would undergo extensive modifications over the years, serving long enough to serve as the recovery carrier for the Apollo 11 mission in 1969.  (Hampton Roads Naval Museum File Photo
Freed from the constraints imposed by the 1922 Washington Naval Treaty, designers could incorporate innovations that would not only give the carrier class more range and the ability to carry greater numbers of more powerful aircraft, but their triple-bottomed hulls, enhanced compartmentalization and extensive damage control features greatly enhanced their survivability. Few would dispute that if the carrier Franklin (CV 13), which had had begun construction at Newport News Shipbuilding three weeks before Essex’s commissioning, had been of an earlier design, she would have been destroyed off Japan in March 1945. Although 724 men had been killed and 265 wounded in the inferno that ensued after the carrier sustained two direct 500-pound bomb hits, Franklin ultimately made it back to Pearl Harbor. 

While the 36,000-ton Franklin, also produced in Newport News, took 25 months to complete, a comparable Japanese carrier, the 37,000-ton Taiho, took 32. Although a leap forward in design, incorporating an armored flight deck and belt armor earlier Japanese carriers lacked, Taiho could only carry 72 aircraft versus the Franklin’s 90. While Franklin survived the war, Taiho only lasted three months after her commissioning, sunk by a single American torpedo. 

Between December 31, 1942 and the end of the war, one Essex-class carrier was delivered to the Navy roughly every 90 days from Newport News Shipbuilding.  The last of the class built in Newport News, USS Leyte (CV-32), was delivered in April 1946. Of the 24 that were ultimately completed at five different shipyards, Leyte, her sister ship Boxer (CV 21), along with the carriers Valley Forge (CV 45) and Philippine Sea (CV 47) remained in active service following the war and were among the first to attack Kim Il Sung's forces during the Korean War.  Despite being decommissioned and placed into reserve status, most of the others, including Essex, would go on to enjoy careers lasting into the 1970s.  

At 70 to 78 million dollars apiece, it took a unified Congress, buoyed by a galvanized electorate, to authorize the expenditures for the Essex-class carriers and the hundreds of other vessels that won the war. It took shipyards willing to work ahead of schedule and under budget. It took Sailors willing to use these vessels bring the fight to the enemy’s home waters, braving the real possibility of death in the process. With this willingness to pay any price and bear any burden they, in service to the American people, utterly defeated a radical enemy, winning the Second World War, not only with their hearts, but with their hands and wallets. 

Despite the difference in the economic situation for America with respect to its geopolitical rivals today, what was true 75 years ago is thankfully still true: The two major shipyards of Hampton Roads, Newport News Shipbuilding and Norfolk Naval Shipyard, are still open for business, and their services will be needed for the foreseeable future. 

One Century Ago: What Cold Really Looks Like

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Local headlines recently proclaimed that the Hampton Roads area is experiencing perhaps the coldest new year it has experienced in a century.  Thousands of "nonessential" workers at military bases across the Hampton Roads Region are off for the second day in a row (myself included, although I'm still on deadline for this blog post and other projects).  Many of them are busily documenting the snowdrifts and other winter wonders deposited by the recent "bomb cyclone" that made it all possible.  But what did the winter of a century ago look like to the Sailors and other photographers who were working then?  

The Hampton Roads Naval Museum recently acquired photographs taken by a young gunner's mate floating on the York River that show just how cold it got one century ago. Compared to the arctic blast of January 1918, which froze battleships into place off Yorktown and made the majority of the Chesapeake region practically impassible, the so-called "bomb cyclone" that swept through the area this week was a mere inconvenience.

Thanks to a young Sailor named Ernest A. Washburn, who was serving aboard USS Rhode Island (BB 17), we now have a better idea what the York looked like during that epic cold snap.
Two photographs taken from USS Rhode Island (BB 17) have been combined to show the monitor Tallahassee (BM 9), which served during the war as a submarine tender, and the battleship Texas (BB 35), frozen in at the location near Yorktown, Virginia, known as "Base 2" in January 1918. (E.A. Washburn Collection, Hampton Roads Naval Museum)
The battleship Virginia (BB 13) waits out the weather on the York River in January 1918. (E.A. Washburn Collection, Hampton Roads Naval Museum)
When not on patrol or in the midst of training the teeming multitudes of prospective engineers and gunners passing through Hampton Roads during the First World War, the bulk of the Atlantic Fleet, made up mostly of ships that sailed with the Great White Fleet ten years before, was bottled up behind anti-torpedo nets at "Base 2" on the York River, just off the old Yorktown Battlefield.  The area was also home to "Camp Mayo," a tent encampment serving as a provisional headquarters to the fleet while the naval operating base at Sewells Point was under construction.

One of the young officers tasked with gunnery training aboard the newer superdreadnought Texas (BB 35), future Vice Admiral Bernhard H. Bieri, recalled in an oral history he gave to the U.S. Naval Institute:
They took the whole fleet into the York River, behind the submarine nets, in early 1917.  We spent the winter of 1917 in the York River and the Chesapeake Bay.  The Germans were prowling in the Atlantic and sinking ships all over.  So we had nets up, and they put us back of those barriers in the Chesapeake Bay, where we carried out our target practices. The river and the bay froze up very hard,  We had some of the old battleships that were used as icebreakers. 
Meanwhile, Sailors at the the newly-opened naval training center at Sewells Point, about 36 miles southeast of Yorktown, were facing even more extreme living conditions than those marooned on the York.  Water pipes that had just been installed in brand new barracks began bursting and the steam plant designed to support hundreds of new recruits with hot water failed. 

Roger B. Copinger, an officer candidate from Maryland who was waiting for classes to begin at the Officer-Material School, established at the former Pennsylvania Exhibition Hall on the base, later recalled what the winter was like for he and his shipmates:

Shortly after we reported the weather became even colder. The overhead steam pipe froze, and as a result we had no heat in the barracks or hot water in the showers. We slept in our clothes, and our week end liberty became not only a relaxation but a necessity. We would usually make for the Navy Y and a hot bath, or if we had the required funds, we would team up, and three of four of us would get a room at the Neddo Hotel on Plume Street near Granby.

Chesapeake Bay from the Capes to Baltimore was frozen, and while channels in the lower portion were kept open, shipping from the Potomac north was at a standstill. The Navy finally ordered the USS Ohio to try to break out a channel in the upper Bay, but the task turned out to be too much for the old battleship, and she was likewise frozen in.

When we had a few minutes before or after classes we would walk out on the ice which extended from in front of the Pennsylvania Building almost to the channel. This was dangerous because of the thin places or holes, so we were finally ordered to discontinue this activity.
Copinger, who ultimately rose to the rank of commander while serving in Hampton Roads during the Second World War, also reported that several Sailors on their way to Sewells Point for classes in early January were diverted to downtown Norfolk to stand guard over the remains of the Monticello Hotel, which had burned on New Year's Day, 1918.  

Longtime Norfolk photographer Harry C. Mann recorded the aftermath of the Monticello Hotel fire, after which a fire engine remained frozen in place.  At far left, merchants can be seen removing whatever wares they can salvage. (Library of Virginia Digital Collections)
Construction projects at Norfolk Naval Shipyard, just south of the city of Portsmouth, across the Elizabeth River from Norfolk, as well as the new mine assembly plant at St. Juliens Creek Annex, about a mile south of the shipyard, also ground nearly to a halt.

The construction site for Dry Dock 4 at Norfolk Naval Shipyard, January 8, 1918. (Courtesy of the Norfolk Naval Shipyard Archives)
The dangerous conditions did not prevent these workers from venturing out to the new power plant construction site at Norfolk Naval Shipyard on January 8, 1918. (Courtesy of the Norfolk Naval Shipyard Archives)
Despite the conditions, the nation was in the midst of war, and the work went on.


A "Department of One" Moves On

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Hampton Roads Naval Museum Public Information Officer Susanne Greene displays a model of USS Seawolf (SSN 21). (HRNM Photo)
By Joseph Judge 
Hampton Roads Naval Museum Curator

This month the museum is bidding farewell to Susanne Greene, who has ably and single-handedly been the public relations and marketing face of HRNM for several years. Susanne came to the museum in December of 2005, and now in 2018 she is leaving us to continue supporting the Navy at the Naval Safety Center.

On arrival, Susanne was immediately turned to managing public events for the museum, a job which at that time was heavily focused on USS Wisconsin (BB 64), which the museum operated from 2000-2009. She developed marketing plans for the battleship and the museum.

Susanne also embarked on a series of long and successful relationships with media outlets including WTKR NewsChannel 3, WAVY-TV 10, WVEC Channel 13, The Virginian-Pilot, The Daily Press and The Flagship Military Newspaper. Susanne also initiated an ambitious series of visitor analyses to determine the museum's marketing strategy. She has been seen conducting visitor evaluations at military family events on Naval Station Norfolk, at local YMCAs, and at local festivals in downtown Norfolk as well as on-site at the museum.

Often her plans were hamstrung by very low (or non-existent) budgets, but she patiently carried on.
 

Susanne was also part of our special events team, advertising the events and urging the media to turn out at our latest exhibit, lecture or Lego Day. When a dramatic news event would wipe out our coverage she would smile and say, “I’m sorry the television stations couldn’t come, but you there’s nothing we can do when a giant hurricane is lurking out there!”

Susanne also witnessed the museum’s migration to the Naval History and Heritage Command and has been an invaluable liaison the headquarters’ robust public affairs staff. She has been a valuable member of the command’s marketing committee and web design team. These roles went hand-in-hand with maintaining the museum’s own web site which underwent numerous transformations during her tenure. Susanne also worked with United States Fleet Forces on media for the Stewards of the Sea exhibit and with our partners at Nauticus regarding media policies for the battleship Wisconsin.



Her press releases and media kits are legendary products around the museum. Many the flag officer, author, or VIP has departed HRNM with one under his or her arm.

Susanne accomplished all of this activity while, at different times, serving as the museums budget officer, purchase card holder and civilian timekeeper. Oh, and shipping millions of brochures and changing the museum’s telephone messages.

Susanne completed the Defense Information School’s Public Affairs Qualification Course and is a proud holder of two degrees from Old Dominion University, and is an avid follower of the Monarchs football team.
(HRNM Photo)

More than anything else, Susanne, a true “department of one,” carried a positive attitude and a cheerful smile to work every day. For this gift we thank her and wish her the best in her new assignment. 

As the Super Blue Moon is Eclipsed, Remember Our First Satellite

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By Steve Milner
Contributing Writer

Photographed through a telescopic tracking camera from the Air Force Missile Test Center at Cape Canaveral, Florida on December 21, 1957, a Soviet booster passes overhead.  Based upon its estimated size, this is probably Sputnik 2, which launched on November 7 with the first animal to orbit the earth, Laika the dog.  Unfortunately, her capsule failed to separate from the booster and she died within hours due to overheating (a failure that the Soviets concealed).  A similar modified Soviet ICBM had lofted Sputnik I on October 4.  As far as American rocket engineers at the time could tell, this was the second consecutive orbital success by the Soviets.  Meanwhile, the first serious American orbital attempt had failed spectacularly on December 6.  (U.S. National Archives RG-330 via Naval History and Heritage Command/Flickr)  

These days we take for granted our nation’s versatile earth satellites that give us accurate weather information, convey nearly instantaneous voice and broadcast transmissions across the world and keep a close eye on our adversaries from their strategic space vantage points. Our earth satellites also track animal and bird migrations, highlight areas of vegetation and drought and provide global navigational aids, including travel directions we rely on from our personal GPS units.

So how and when did we first start launching earth satellites?

When we launched our first earth satellite, Explorer I, on January 31, 1958, we were playing catch-up at the dawn of this exciting era. The Soviet Union had launched Sputnik I on Oct. 4, 1957, nearly four months before we duplicated its unprecedented feat. I clearly recall both of these accomplishments well. I was about to graduate from South Philly High School when Sputnik dazzled the world. And I had just started my freshman year, studying journalism at Penn State, when the United States orbited Explorer I.


Soldiers of a field artillery missile group erect a Redstone IRBM.  Named for the facility in Northern Alabama where it was developed, the Chrysler-built missile was designed to propel a conventional or atomic warhead 175 miles. Some of its basic propulsion technology was based upon the German V-2, and its development was guided by some of the V-2's designers, including the chief of both missile programs, Wernher von Braun.  (history.redstone.army.mil)
History shows we could have beaten the Soviets into space if we had used a proven launch vehicle, one originally designed as a military rocket: The Redstone-an intermediate range ballistic missile. However, the Eisenhower administration wanted to show the world that we could, instead, use a new launch vehicle; one that was developed for the peaceful exploration of space, to orbit our first earth satellite. He based his opinion on the fact that NASA would soon be stood up, on July 29, 1958, to explore space peacefully for all mankind-and also that we were participating in the International Geophysical Year. So Ike, instead, chose the U.S. Navy’s civilian-developed Vanguard rocket. By that time the Soviets had already successfully launched two earth-orbiting satellites. 
Rigged for pre-launching tests in September 1957, the third Vanguard test vehicle and final scientific Earth satellite launcher is spotlighted against the night sky at the Air Force Missile Test Center, Cape Canaveral, Florida.  Part of the United States' participation in the International Geophysical Year (IGY) was a program to launch small scientific Earth satellites. Technical phases of the  satellite program were assigned to the Department of Defense, which in turn assigned the job to the Office of Naval Research under the designation Project Vanguard. Engineers and technicians from the Naval Research Laboratory, Washington, D.C. worked with the Martin Company in developing the testing of the three-stage satellite launching vehicle. (U.S. National Archives RG-330 via Naval History and Heritage Command/Flickr)  
Vanguard Test Vehicle 3 experiences a catastrophic failure at approximately 4:44 pm on December 6, 1957.  Only two seconds after liftoff, the rocket lost thrust and crashed back into its launch pad.  Although presumed to be caused by a fuel leak, the exact cause of the highly-publicized debacle was never determined.  (U.S. National Archives RG-330 via Naval History and Heritage Command/Flickr)  
I also remember watching on television the failed attempt to launch Vanguard 1, on Dec. 4, 1957, in a live telecast from Cape Canaveral. The result was the rocket rose about four feet before it exploded, sending a still-beeping three-pound satellite into nearby Florida brush.

Finally, the United States shifted gears and tasked Dr. Wcrnher von Braun, the former German rocket engineer and his Peenemunde team that he led during World War II, to use the Redstone rocket to launch our nation’s first earth satellite.
Although his day job for the Army during the early-1950s was to develop delivery vehicles for weapons of mass-destruction, Werner von Braun yearned to channel his efforts into space exploration.  To that end he became a pioneer in space-related public relations, years before NASA even existed.  He is seen here serving as the host of a Defense Department film “The Challenge of Outer Space.”  The 50-minute film presented a comprehensive discussion of space travel possibilities. The photograph was released February 29, 1956. (U.S. National Archives via Naval History and Heritage Command/Flickr)  
At that time, the main von Braun team worked at the U.S. Army’s Ballistic Missile Agency facility in Huntsville, Alabama. A few years before the Explorer I launch, this civilian and U.S. Army group was developing, and later launching, ballistic military missiles on test flights from Cape Canaveral, Florida.

In those early days of U.S. military rocket testing, von Braun sent ABMA launch teams and their hardware to the Cape on temporary duty. Once they launched their missiles, which were trucked from Huntsville to the Cape, the crews returned to Alabama. Eventually, von Braun established a permanent presence at the Florida site, and he assigned one of his key team members, Dr. Kurt Debus, also a Peenemunde alumnus, to oversee this effort.

Dr. Werner Von Braun and Dr. Kurt Debus, Director of the Kennedy Space Center, attend the Saturn 500F rollout from the Vehicle Assembly Building (VAB) in 1966. The Saturn 500F, after testing the VAB stacking operations, was used to test the crawler transport and Launch Pad 39A operations. (NASA via Wikimedia Commons)
In later years, Dr. Debus would head the Cape’s Launch Operations Center, renamed as the John F. Kennedy Space Center, in memory of our late president. Dr. Debus and other members of von Braun’s World War II launch team would assume top managerial positions at this Florida launch site and at the Huntsville production facility.

My interaction for eight years with these transplanted World War II German rocketeers at the Cape, such as when I interviewed them for stories I wrote for KSC’s employee newspaper and for external news releases, was generally favorable. Looking back, I had mixed personal feelings about the former Peenemunde experts. But, I reasoned, the U.S. needed their unique qualifications after the war. I say this because these same Germans had developed, built and flight-tested V-1 and V-2 missiles that the German Army later launched at civilian targets in Britain. In all, some 10,000 V-1s were launched at London and nearby English cities, resulting in 22,000 casualties, including 6,000 deaths. And 1,500 V-2s were launched against London, killing more than 7,000, in addition to causing extensive property damage.
A display of jet and rocket-powered German munitions from the Second World War at the Royal Air Force Museum Cosford, Shropshire, England, features (foreground), a V-1 cruise missile and (background), a V-2 IRBM. (Rept0n1x via Wikimedia Commons
The V-1 was a cruise missile with an explosive payload of about 1.600 pounds.  It was nicknamed a “buzz bomb” due to its in-fight eerie sounds heard en route to its targets. Some were shot down by air or ground fire.

By contrast, the V-2 guided ballistic missile was more frightening. It struck with no advance warning from its space trajectory, and couldn’t be destroyed by the Allies in flight. After the war, the V-2 morphed into the Redstone rocket, under von Braun’s guidance, and some of its technology, ironically, was incorporated in our manned Apollo launches to the moon.

Following the first Sputnik launch, comedian Bob Hope reportedly joked that the Soviets’ captured German scientists were better than ours. But in reality, the U.S. got the best of the best. More than 100 German scientists, engineers and technicians surrendered to the Americans and were brought to our country under “Operation Paperclip.” They believed it was better to work for the Americans than the Soviets.

At the Office of Naval Research, Werhner von Braun proposed a joint Army-Navy venture in June 1954 using the Redstone as the main booster.  Dubbed Project Orbiter, the proposal reached the cabinet level in the Department of Defense in January 1955, only to be nixed in favor of Project Vanguard.  Von Braun's Redstone was waiting in the wings when Vanguard crashed and burned on the pad in December 1957.  His team used components created for Project Orbiter and launched RS29, this modified Jupiter C utilizing the Redstone as its first stage, into orbit on January 31, 1958. (history.redstone.army.mil)
After being told initially to take a back seat to our Navy’s unproven Vanguard rocket, the von Braun team, under the direction of U.S. Army Major General John Medaris, successfully launched Explorer I at 10:48 p.m. on January 31, 1958, from Launch Complex 26-A at Cape Canaveral Air Force Station.

One main reason the von Braun team was able to launch Explorer I in about three months after finally being tasked, was because it was constantly improving the Redstone hardware in the interim, while Gen. Medaris was storing these upgraded components in the event the Army Ballistic Missile Agency was called on to replace the ineffective early Vanguard launch vehicles.

The Redstone, which incorporated the Juno rocket, was the first stage of the four-stage, approximately six-story-tall Jupiter-C space vehicle that launched America’s first earth satellite. The Jupiter- C’s first stage, a Redstone, lifted off with 78,000 pounds of thrust-sufficient power to later launch two one-man Mercury missions-milestones that were flown by astronauts Alan Shepard and Gus Grissom, respectively.

Because this was a military launch, the number painted on the Redstone--UE--was coded as being the 29th vehicle in this rocket series. The UE evolved from the city name of Huntsville. The second letter in Huntsville was designated a “2,”with the “U” being the ninth letter
Army Maj. Gen. John B. Medaris, head of the U.S. Army Ballistic Missile Agency, inspects a model of Explorer I with Dr. Wernher von Braun and members of his team.   (history.redstone.army.mil)  
Resembling a rolling pin in shape, Explorer I was nearly eight feet long, six inches in diameter and weighed about 30 pounds. It transmitted scientific data via radio signals to earth, which it orbited every 115 minutes. At its farthest point from earth, Explorer I’s apogee was more than 1,560 miles. At its closest, or perigee, it orbited 225 miles above earth.

In addition to the Redstone rocket team, the Jet Propulsion Laboratory of the California Institute of Technology in Pasadena,  built the Explorer I satellite. It was assisted by Iowa State University scientists who, with JPL, helped develop the onboard radiological, micrometeorite detectors and other sensors. In addition to providing much-needed psychological reinforcement to Americans, Explorer I documented the existence of the James van Allen radiation belts surrounding the earth, while pursuing President Eisenhower’s goal of exploring space for peaceful purposes.

Jet Propulsion Laboratory Director Dr. William H Pickering, who was born in New Zealand, Dr. James Van Allen, a native Iowan, and the German-born Dr. Dr. Wernher von Braun raise their arms in triumph, holding a model of Explorer I after its successful launch. (history.redstone.army.mil)  
Explorer I transmitted data for about four months after it was orbited, and remained silently in orbit for another 12 years. It reentered the earth’s atmosphere on March 30, 1970 and, of course, burned up.

Coincidentally, a second super moon is forecast to appear over our East Coast this January 31, the 60th anniversary of Explorer I’s launch. Cloud cover permitting, a partial eclipse will be visible over this “blue moon."  I’d like to imagine this coincidence is a tribute to the outstanding accomplishment of orbiting America’s own moon 60 years ago.

As a side note about Explorer I’s launch site, Complex 26-A, one of my former carpool members and fellow Cape worker, space aficionado Dick Coup wanted to get married at this site. So after getting NASA’s permission and promising that the ceremony wouldn’t interfere with tour buses stopping there, another historical milestone took place in 1970. After the ceremony, my wife, Enid, and I hosted their reception at our home on nearby Merritt Island. Coup was a NASA contractor who taught school children about the space agency’s accomplishments, as part of the Space Mobile project.

In his congratulatory letter to Explorer I’s team on the tenth anniversary of the satellite’s launching, President Eisenhower said, in part:

Though Explorer I no longer transmits from its outer Space "berth," it serves as a silent sentinel, ushering new American space accomplishments along the first leg of their varied space missions. The Explorer I’s launch team’s dedication and ingenuity also is evident nowadays and, hopefully, will provide an inspiration for future space engineers in years and centuries to come.


Editor’s Note: In addition to serving as public affairs officer for 17 years at Norfolk Naval Shipyard, Steve Milner was also a public affairs contractor with the National Aeronautics and Space Administration at Cape Canaveral during the manned Gemini, Apollo and Skylab programs.

Seventh-Annual Lego Shipbuilding Day is Twice as Big

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By Elijah Palmer
Deputy Education Director, Hampton Roads Naval Museum

We are excited to be hosting our 7th annual Brick by Brick Lego Shipbuilding event at the Decker Half Moone Cruise and Celebration Center on February 3! This year we are happy to announce that we will have over double the space as the previous years. This has allowed us to expand certain activities and areas.


Some highlights:
  • Our ever popular STEM-based Build A Ship areas will have more ships than ever available to construct. There are 16 different designs ranging from Easy to Expert levels. 
  • The Lego Shipbuilding competitions (Made at Home, and Made at the Museum), which are divided by age groups for judging. Entries must be submitted by 2 p.m. 
  • Free play Lego and Duplo areas. Kids can come play and be creative. 
  • Lego robotics will be on hand through the generous support of local groups. 
  • A new addition this year is a sensory room (quiet space for those with a diagnosis of Autism Spectrum Disorder)

For questions or more information, check out our Facebook page, call 757-322-3168 or email elijah.palmer@navy.mil. No need to register--just show up!

Parking is available for $1.50/hour in the city parking garages on Main Street, Plume Street, and City Hall Avenue. 

Plastic Ships, Plastic Seas, Real Competition at Brick by Brick 2018

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Master at Arms 1st Class Michael Moseley, a volunteer judge for the seventh annual Brick by Brick: Lego Shipbuilding competition held at the Decker Half Moone Cruise and Celebration Center in downtown Norfolk, points out details near the bow of the riverboat “The Bricktopia,” the largest model entered in the competition, as the other judges, Norfolk Naval Shipyard engineer Mark Anderson (to Moseley’s right in blue T-shirt), and Hampton Roads Naval Museum Exhibits Specialist Don Darcy (in red T-shirt to Anderson’s right) look on.  Bricktopia’s creator Jett Starcher of Gloucester, Virginia, watching the proceedings at far right, spent around 200 hours on the 8 foot-long model, which was made from approximately 20,000 Lego bricks.  (Photograph by M.C. Farrington)
Last Saturday, 3,116 visitors and volunteers converged on the Hampton Roads Naval Museum's Seventh Annual "Brick by Brick: LEGO Shipbuilding" event, held at the Decker Half Moone Cruise and Celebration Center in Downtown Norfolk. Over 150 of them entered their ships into the event's shipbuilding contest, which was divided by age classes and by whether the models were made at the museum or at home. If the models were made outside the museum using parts provided by the builder, they were judged in the "Home-Built" section, while models made between 10 am and 2 pm (the judging deadline) at the event with parts provided by the museum were judged in the "Museum-Made" section. HRNM Education Director Laura Orr pointed out that nearly 100 volunteers, many of them active duty members of the United States Navy, helped make the event such a success. “We could not have done it without them,” she said.
At the Brick-by-Brick check-in area, Rear Adm. Ann Phillips (Ret.), a volunteer from the Hampton Roads Naval Historical Foundation, admires the handiwork of Matthew Hoecker, holding his model "USS Missouri," while his mother Patty (behind Matthew) and little brother Lucas look on. (Photograph by M.C. Farrington)
During the inaugural Brick by Brick in 2012, said Orr, nearly 800 people showed up, jamming the 6000-square-foot museum, located on the second floor of Nauticus, to the hilt. “I have no idea how we fir them all in,” she said. Year by year, the event grew to encompass the entire second floor of Nauticus, then parts of the first floor as well. As attendance climbed upward, it became obvious that the event was bigger than even Nauticus itself could handle, so the event moved to the first floor of the Half Moone in 2015. This expanded the amount of space three-fold, but two years later, even this wasn’t enough. It was at that point that plans were made to take over the entire cruise terminal and event center for 2018.
The Make-a-Ship area of Brick by Brick 2018 took up most of the top floor of the Decker Half Moone Cruise and Celebration Center in downtown Norfolk on Saturday, February 3, more than four times the space it had in years past. (Photograph by M.C. Farrington)
In the non-competitive Make-a-Ship area of Brick by Brick, Yvonne Galle-Bishop of Carrolton, Virginia takes a picture of her daughter Kaytlin (right), and her friend Angie Hayes with the model of USS Cumberland that have just completed.(Photograph by M.C. Farrington)
According to HRNM Deputy Education Director Elijah Palmer, preparations for Brick by Brick 2018 began only two days after the 2017 event ended, starting with a “lessons learned” lunch. Narrowing down the designs for the event’s new “Make-a-Ship” models began in May. “We wanted to do something related to the Vietnam War as it’s the 50th anniversary of that conflict,” said Palmer, “but it is also the centennial of World War I, so that also had to be taken into consideration.”
Liam West, 10, prepares to release the Mindstorms robot he has just programmed under the guidance of Sreekanth Ravindran, a NASA Langley post-doctoral researcher volunteering with the FIRST Lego League at Brick by Brick 2018. West went on to earn second place in his age category for the Built at Home portion of the shipbuilding competition.(Photograph by M.C. Farrington)
As in years past, many sponsors also came together to support the yearly event, including the National Maritime Center Nauticus, the Hampton Roads Naval Historical Foundation, the Historic Naval Ships Association, the Hampton Roads Lego User Group (HARDLUG), the FIRST Lego League (VA-DC), and the newest sponsor, Brickheadz Enrichment Center of Chesapeake, Virginia, which provided the event’s newest section, a “sensory room” to accommodate Lego enthusiasts with a diagnosis of Autism Spectrum Disorder.

Coast Guard Chief Petty Officer Neil Newlin, also from Gloucester, Virginia, brought back his scale Lego model of USCGC Tornado, which won the 17-and-older division last year, as an exhibit model. Joining Newlin’s marvelous modern model is a new model he made of an older experimental Revenue Service Cutter from the Civil War era, USRC Naugatuck, which exchanged fire with CSS Virginia while commissioned under the name E.A. Stephens as a part of the North Atlantic Blockading Squadron. She also bombarded Sewells’ point while it was under Confederate control.

Also returning to exhibit his intricate large-scale Lego models was photo archivist David Colamaria of the Naval History and Heritage Command, who debuted his six-foot-long model of the cruiser Boston (CA 69), which joined his squadron of vessels, which included USS Lexington (CV 2) and USS Indianapolis (CA 35).

The Winners

Category: Home-Built

In the 17-and-older division, Jett Starcher of Gloucester recaptured the top tier title this year with his eight-and-a-half foot-long riverboat called “The Bricktopia,” complete with a rotating paddle wheel. The model, made up of approximately 20,000 pieces, took about 200 hours to create.

Ages 17+

1st place: "The Bricktopia," by Jett Starcher.

2nd place: "Belfast," by Justin Groth.
Joshua Stubbs with his age bracket-winning entry, "The Rusted Destroyer."(Photograph by M.C. Farrington)
Ages 13-16

1st place: "The Rusted Destroyer," by Joshua S.

2nd place: "Shinebright," by Dallas M.

Ages 10-12

1st place: "SS Rhino," by Daniel N.

2nd place: "Monitor," by Liam W.

Emerson Duplisea pauses in front of his winning entry in the 7 to 9 year-old bracket of the Home-Built category, "LST-93."  "His dad is a real military history buff," said his mother, Rebekah Duplisea, "and Emerson became very interested in the ships that took part in D-Day."(Photograph by M.C. Farrington)
Ages 7-9

1st place: "LST-93 ," by Emerson D.

2nd place: "Landonator," by Landon F. 


Six-year-old Victor Nenov, 6, receives an award from Hampton Roads Naval Museum Education Director Laura Orr for his entry, “We All Live in a Yellow Submarine,” which won first place in the 4 to 6 year-old division of the “built at home” category of the seventh annual Brick by Brick: Lego Shipbuilding competition as Deputy Education Director Elijah Palmer looks on. (Photograph by M.C. Farrington)

Ages 4-6

1st place: "We All Live in the Yellow Submarine," by Victor N.

2nd place: "A.S.P.," by Elliot J.


Category: Museum-Made

Ages 17+

1st place: "Bear Claw," by Doug C.

2nd place: "Ballistic Missile Boat," by Greye S.

Ages 13-16

1st place: "Gray Battleship," by Caleb D.

2nd place: "USS Yellow," by Ethan C.

Ages 10-12

1st place: "USS Captain Alex," by Aeke N.

2nd place: "SS Salvage" by Connor W.

Ages 7-9

1st place: "Mother-Rice," by Genevieve H.

2nd place: "Naval Coast Guard Ship," by Sankalp S. & Naina S.

Ages 4-6

1st place: "Olivia’s Dock," by Olivia L.

2nd place: "Ghostbuster Battleship," by Connor G.



Fan Favorites

Made at Home "Rock and Roll Ship" 

2nd place: "4855-194"


Chesapeake, to the Bone

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Editor's preface: Although it is the home of the annual Brick by Brick Lego model shipbuilding event, the Hampton Roads Naval Museum’s gallery features the fruits of traditional model shipwright labor in wood and metal, both builder’s models made as a guide for the construction of full-size vessels, and miniature recreations of vessels long gone. For a select few, model shipbuilding of this caliber is a profession. For many thousands, it is an enjoyable hobby. Within the obscure recesses of the history of this pursuit we find a dark chapter; one populated by hundreds of unwilling artisans who were prisoners of the British during the Napoleonic Wars and the War of 1812. By 1814, more than 72,000 prisoners languished aboard hulks or in dungeon-like "depots" such as Dartmoor, which held more than 5,000 Americans by early 1815.

Model shipbuilding was not merely a leisurely pastime for these poor souls as they filled the empty hours of their confinement. British regulations allowed prisoners to make and sell items to make their lives more tolerable, as long as the raw materials did not come from the depot's supplies. Thus the fruits of their labor, most crafted from scraps of wood and festooned with ornately carved beef and mutton bones, helped ensure their very survival.

An advertisement for the International Maritime Museum in Hamburg, Germany, shows off their largest and most ornate model, proclaiming it "Unique!" (Manfred Stein, Prisoner of War Bone Ship Models, 2015)
The Internationales Maritimes Museum in Hamburg, Germany, possesses 31 of the approximately 510 ghostly-looking bone models from that period known to exist. Its largest model, the 144-centimeter-long Chesapeake, depicts a ship with a storied connection to Hampton Roads.  It was presumed by bone ship model expert Manfred Stein, based upon the model's original provenance, to have been made by American prisoners, probably at Dartmoor, and presented to the widow of her ill-fated last American captain, James Lawrence.
 

That is, until our senior docent took a close look at the model.

By J. Huntington Lewis
HRNM Docent & Contributing Writer

Several years ago, I came across a photo of the stern of a very large whalebone model of the United States Frigate Chesapeake that was at The Internationales Maritimes Museum in Hamburg, Germany. The Hampton Roads Naval Museum requested additional photographs, and Mr. Stein kindly provided some snapshots he had taken, as well as a few selected from his book Prisoner of War Bone Ship Models from the Age of the Napoleonic Wars (2015). 

The bone model of the frigate Chesapeake.  Note the plaque at the corner of the display case (closeup below). (Courtesy of Manfred Stein)
The original plaque accompanying the bone model Chesapeake. (Courtesy of Manfred Stein)
Little is known about the provenance of the model except that the a member of The Nautical Research Guild, the ship modeling society, wrote that “The model was made by US POWs in 1813 and given to the widow of Captain James ‘Don't Give up the Ship’ Lawrence after the war.” Mr. Stein, in response to a question from the Guild, said:
I don't know how they brought the model from England to America in the early-1800s, nor do I know how the model came back to London, England, where it was bought by [museum owner Peter Tamm] in 1975. A note accompanying the model and its certificate of authenticity stated “Almost certainly made by American Prisoners of War circa 1813,” The model was in a very bad shape at that time shape at the time, was brought to Hamburg, and years later it was restored by a restorer.

To the left we see the bone model Chesapeake (courtesy of Manfred Stein), while on the right is a detail of a painting by American artist James E. Buttersworth, circa 1815, showing USS Chesapeake's stern during her battle with HMS Shannon on June 1, 1813.  (Courtesy of Joseph Vallejo, Vallejo Gallery, Newport Beach, California)
The decorations on the stern just didn't seem right to me, since the earliest paintings of the engagement between the Chesapeake and Shannon show much less embellishment. I wondered also if American prisoners could acquire the skill to build such a model within the year of their capture by HMS Shannon
The Chesapeake bone model's eagle figurehead. (Courtesy of Manfred Stein)
I later found that some of the early American warships were heavily decorated. One such ship was the frigate United States, as featured in the article "Celebrated Figureheads" by H.D. Smith, in the August 1904 edition of The United Service-A Monthly Review of Military and Naval Affairs. The Chesapeake model has the figurehead of an eagle, but, according to a thoroughly researched article by Eugene H. Pool, “The Frigate Chesapeake” in The Mariner, The Quarterly Journal of the Rhode Island Ship Model Society (1937), the USF Chesapeake did not have a figurehead. 
 
William James in his Inquiry into Principal Naval Actions between Great Britain and the United States (1816) published by Anthony H. Holland at the Arcadian Recorder's Office, Halifax, mentions that “her outward appearance was much improved in England by giving her a figurehead.” 

But what figurehead?

By chance in continuing research on the USF Chesapeake prisoners, I was lucky enough to find a genealogy blog by Dennis Segelquist entitled “Civil War Days and Those Surnames” which has a long post by British researcher Martin Bibbing dealing with the mystery of the Chesapeake's figurehead. Bibbing reported:
I have also previously come across another contradictory reference to Chesapeake’s figurehead which doesn’t square with my previous understanding.... A book entitled Hampshire Treasures (1982) … has the following: “The figurehead of the Chesapeake was also to be found in the area (near Wickcombe, Hampshire, at Arford House) ...The figurehead of the Chesapeake, which was captured by the Shannon, was formerly on a summer house at the top of the garden - it was a bird, perhaps an eagle, and a portion of it was said to be part of a lamp bracket in the house. When the 'Chesapeake' was broken up, the figurehead was bought by Mr Ewsters, who was then building (or living in) Arford House.”
In researching what happened to the American prisoners, I found an illustration which indicates that the USF Chesapeake had two stars on her transom.
According to the 1866 book Admiral Sir P.V.B. Broke: A Memoir, edited by John George Brighton, the "S" within the star above the figurehead, seen here on display at Broke Hall (home to the man who commanded HMS Shannon to victory over USF Chesapeake), was the only survivor of the two stars (the "U" having been shot away during the battle) that once graced the transom of USF Chesapeake

The transom of the model has two bearded reclining men. A reclining bearded man is the allegorical symbol of a river god. The Shannon is an Irish river. The Chesapeake, correctly a bay, could be considered a very large river. The wreath on the transom is a symbol of victory. Opposing nations brought together are frequently represented by crossed flags. Taken as a whole, I believe the transom decorations are an allegorical reference to the victory of the Shannon over the Chesapeake and could have been added only by the British when they were repairing the Chesapeake.

Chesapeake bone model stern. (Courtesy of Manfred Stein)
The whale bone model of the Chesapeake has an eagle figurehead, and the transom decorations appear to be an allegory of HMS Shannon's battle with the Chesapeake.  Therefore it is a reasonable conjecture that model is of HMS Chesapeake, the repaired former-USF Chesapeake.  Even if there were American prisoners from the USF Chesapeake at Dartmoor (which is very doubtful because they were imprisoned at Melville Island, Halifax, Nova Scotia or returned to the United States in cartel vessels) who had the skill to build the model, they would not know of the installation of the eagle figurehead or the different stern decorations. 

The museum plaque had to have been added some time after the model was built.  It was not made by the builder. The error in the provenance was quite understandable, given that model had "Chesapeake" carved on its stern. The assumption would be that it was of the more famous defeated USF Chesapeake, rather the HMS Chesapeake. It is also reasonable to assume that the whale bone model of the Chesapeake never had occasion to cross the Atlantic.

Who built and under what circumstances the model was constructed may never be known, but it is truly one of the world's most magnificent ship models. So truly the model isn’t the USF Chesapeake, but is still the Chesapeake


Editor's Postscript: The February 2018Hafencity Zeitungstory, "The Secret of the 'Chesapeake': Collaboration with American Colleagues Leads to New Insights," gives Hunt Lewis credit for his helping Manfred Stein reassess the bone model Chesapeake's provenance. Although the story was published in German, it is easily translatable.

Hampton Institute and the Navy during the Second World War, Part I: The Crisis

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It is a truism that participation in two global wars during the last century changed the Hampton Roads area forever.  Nevertheless, business leaders and politicians in Southeast Virginia 75 years ago, like many other centers of what would later become known as the military-industrial complex nationwide, systematically denied a significant portion of its population the benefits of broadened military spending, even as it shouldered a significant portion of the burden.  In the run-up to World War II, it became clear that leaders of industry, state and local government could not be counted upon to change policies or enact legislation to benefit this part of the population, echoing attitudes that prevailed among some elites before the Civil War.  As during the Civil War, the level of leadership required to achieve positive change would have to come from the President of the United States. 


With Memorial Church (with the clock tower) and the Academy Building of Hampton Institute in the background, Sailors conduct drills in a metal lifeboat while training  during World War II. Note orientation markings on the boat's hull and ropes for controlling the rudder.  Despite intransigence on the part of the Navy Department, a number of "A" schools were opened at the institute in 1942 to train African American recruits in advanced technical skills between basic training and assignment to the fleet.  This photograph was received by the Naval Photographic Science Laboratory on January 13, 1945. (Naval History and Heritage Command, from the collections of the National Archives and Records Administration)
 
Almost 75 years after the institution of slavery was wrested from southern society by military forces loyal to the federal government, a new federal commission under the administration of Franklin D. Roosevelt would take the first steps towards dismantling the systematic marginalization and exploitation of African Americans that had replaced that institution.  Unlike during the Civil War, however, the  leadership of the War and Navy Departments, ostensibly loyal to the President, nonetheless resisted the changes mandated by the commission and sought a segregated compromise.  As a direct result, Hampton University, then known as Hampton Institute, would play a role in bridging the gap between the racist interwar personnel policies of the Navy and the postwar integration of its ranks. 

"Scientific Education"



Samuel Chapman Armstrong wears the insignia of a Union colonel in this glass-plate photograph, taken around 1864. Armstrong was promoted to the rank of colonel in October 1864 and was later breveted a brigadier general before the end of the Civil War. (Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division)


Founded as the Hampton Normal and Agricultural Institute 150 years ago to educate freed African American slaves and, nine years later, Native Americans, Hampton University focused on technical training and scientific education early in its development under the leadership of Samuel Chapman Armstrong. Armstrong, who led the institute until 1893, had been a brevet brigadier general in charge of African American troops during the Civil War, and his Soldiers were some of the first to enter Petersburg, Virginia, after the Confederate withdrawal from the city in 1865. After the war, he joined the Bureau of Refugees, Freedmen and Abandoned Lands (commonly known as the Freedman’s Bureau), and was appointed as educational superintendent of a 10-county area of Southeast Virginia, including the Virginia Peninsula.

Armstrong quickly realized the potential of a former plantation near the end of the Peninsula known as “Little Scotland” close to Fort Monroe, which had served as a place of refuge during the war for thousands of slaves seeking escape from their erstwhile masters, as a school. The thousands of ex-slaves remaining near the fort were a ready student body for the teachers of the American Missionary Association (AMA), who had operated there during most of the war. 


Looking west from the City of Hampton across the Hampton River in 1900, the Hampton Normal and Agricultural Institute lies on the opposite bank.  The building with the clock tower center left is Memorial Church, opened in 1886, while the nearby Academy Building at center right is home today to Hampton University’s naval science program.   (Frances Benjamin Johnston Collection, Library of Congress)

At Armstrong’s direction, the Freedmen’s Bureau and AMA pooled resources to buy the property in June 1867, and on April 1, 1868, with Armstrong as its principal, the school opened with one teacher, 15 students, and one matron. Armstrong retained his position for a time with the Freedmen’s Bureau, and many of the original campus buildings were built with the bureau’s funding. After its incorporation by Elizabeth City County and the state and the dissolution of the Freedmen’s Bureau, Hampton Institute received no further significant federal expenditures until it received its first Native American students in 1877. 

Armstrong strongly believed that the classical, liberal education that was standard fare at most institutions of higher learning at the time were of little use to his students. A Hampton Normal Institute student required, in his words, "scientific training." He defined it as "the facts, the forces and the resources and capacities of the world around him that he must learn to deal with if he is to advance." Military education also became an early part of the school's curriculum. Starting in March 1878, an Army officer, known alternately as Instructor in Tactics, Commandant of Cadets, or Disciplinarian, was assigned to the institute and led the school’s corps of cadets. They marched in the inauguration of James A. Garfield, a trustee of the institute and fellow Williams College alumnus of Armstrong’s, in 1881.   
 


African-American and Native-American students, wearing cadet uniforms, learn the operation of a cheese press screw at the Hampton Institute in 1900.  Education for Native Americans at the institute would be discontinued in 1923.  (Francis Benjamin Johnston Collection, Library of Congress)


The quality of technical training offered at Hampton was clearly good enough to make their graduates competitive candidates for industrial jobs, including those in the more technical ratings of the Navy. A number of African American and Native American alumni of Hampton Institute served in the Navy during the Spanish-American War, although it seems to have been easier for the latter to succeed. A prime example can be found in the case of machinist first class Chapman Skenandore, a Native American graduate of the institute, who visited his alma mater during a stopover of the armored cruiser New York (ACR 2) in 1899. 

By the institute's own estimates, 805 alumni served in the Army and Navy during the First World War, including 149 from the Student Army Training Corps chapter based at Hampton. Three-hundred-twenty-three were deployed with the American Expeditionary Force or served aboard ships in the European Theater. Forty-six were commissioned as Army officers. Ten were said to have died overseas. 

By the time yet another world war broke out in Europe a generation later, one might think that the documented, distinguished service that African Americans rendered to the Army would have resulted in broader opportunities in the Navy, but quite the opposite had occurred. The only Navy school in Hampton Roads that admitted them was the Messman School, which opened at Naval Training Station (NTS) Norfolk, just across the roadstead from Hampton Institute, in January 1933. That was because the Messman Branch was the only branch of the Navy that accepted African-American recruits. By June 1940, when the last hapless French, British, and Commonwealth military personnel were fleeing a falling France at Dunkirk, there were only 4,007 African-Americans out of the 160,997 serving in the U.S. Navy that year, roughly 2.49 percent. There were perhaps only one or two chief petty officers among them outside the Messman Branch, holdovers from a time before racist policies implemented after WWI denied black recruits everything except servitude. 

The Navy's policies were representative of those in place in private companies and corporations that supplied and equipped the service. As federal military outlays grew from $2.2 to $13.7 billion, African American participation in the labor market actually fell, bottoming out at 2.5 percent by April 1941.  

In an equitable political and business environment, Hampton Institute would have been well-positioned to provide services to the Navy. It had shed its "normal" basic educational beginnings and become a full-fledged college with full accreditation by the early 1930s. However, the decade had not been good in most other respects. Within a history of the institute he wrote for his doctoral dissertation at New York University in 1954, Hampton faculty member William Hannibal Robinson wrote, "The economic depression, decreased income from the endowment and investments, the loss of donations from organizations and organized philanthropy, unemployment among the families of the students, and the advanced state of disrepair into which the school's plant had fallen, all combined to a serious financial situation at Hampton Institute."  Long before all this, the discontinuance of training for Native Americans at the institute in 1923 had dried up an important federal revenue stream that had yet to be replaced.
 

Like other institutions of higher learning across the country, Hampton Institute would ultimately benefit from the onrush of emergency defense spending that would enable it to train military recruits how to operate all the hardware the War Department and the Navy would be receiving from other government contractors. With its long history of what founder Samuel Armstrong called "scientific education," the institute would become a natural home to a program of advanced "A" schools at a time in which some of those same schools at NTS Norfolk, practically within sight of its campus, were off-limits to African Americans. 

This important investment in Hampton Institute was not foreordained, however. Before it could become a reality, action had to be taken by two different presidents.  The Fair Employment Practices Committee (FEPC), with the backing of President Roosevelt, and its particularly well-placed chairman; a man hand picked for the job by Roosevelt (who also happened to be president of Hampton Institute) had their work cut out for them.

  
 












 

What is "The Daybook" and Where Did its Name Come From?

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By Joseph Miechle
Hampton Roads Naval Museum Educator


The oldest and newest issues of the Hampton Roads Naval Museum publication The Daybook, the former being a rare copy in the museum's archive and the latter (Volume 20, Issue 4) having been shipped to its subscribers this week, are seen here side-by-side. 
Did you know that the Hampton Roads Naval Museum has its own print publication? The Daybook has been a regular quarterly of the museum since its inaugural issue was released in November 1994. Our first issue was a simple seven page affair; it provided some information about our newly-acquired collection of CSS Florida artifacts, an upcoming calendar of events, and some various news snippets for our active volunteer corps. The name has been borrowed from a mid-19th century Norfolk daily paper also called The Day Book.


 Front page of The Day Book. The paper was generally a single broadsheet page with printing on the front and back.
The original namesake of our publication was published from 1857 to 1867 by John R. Hathaway, roughly where Norfolk's World Trade Center, across Waterside Drive from our museum, is located today. The paper contained various local advertisements, news, upcoming events, railroad schedules, as well as naval and maritime shipping information. By 1860, Mr. Hathaway was advertising his paper as having, “Circulation in Norfolk, Portsmouth, and all surrounding country greater than all the papers of both cities combined.”


Dogs seem to have been a problem in Norfolk even before General Butler ordered that “every third dog be shot” during the Union occupation of the city during the Civil War. This article dates from 1860.

The CSS Virginia was still causing a commotion in Norfolk well after it sank in 1862. This news story is from June 11, 1867.

Our Daybook has certainly grown as well. The most recent volume, our twentieth, boasted 25 full-color pages apiece with articles written by local museum professionals, scholars and historians such as Diane L. Cripps, Curator of History for Portsmouth Museums; historian, author, and director of the Douglas MacArthur Memorial Chris Kolakowski; Coast Guard Atlantic Area Historian Dr. William H. Thiesen; as well as former Navy officer and adjunct professor of history Christopher Pieczynski. The publication itself has a large circulation among the Norfolk naval community and is available for reading at several local libraries. The Daybook also recently received an International Standard Serial Number, or ISSN, for publications.
 
The last issue of The Daybook (Volume 20, Issue 3) featured work from the Navy Art Collection not often seen by the public. 


The Daybook is not for sale but you can obtain your own copy by stopping by the Hampton Roads Naval Museum and picking one up. Alternatively, all members of the Hampton Roads Naval Historical Foundation have copies mailed to their homes. You can join by contacting the foundation. A digital reading library of some older editions of The Daybook can be found online at the museum’s website.  Bound volumes of The Daybook, from oldest to newest, can be viewed at Norfolk’s Slover Library in the Sargeant Memorial Collection by request.


German Sailors in Hampton Roads, in 1915, and Now

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In a panoramic view from the Half Moone Cruise and Celebration Center at the downtown Norfolk waterfront, the German air-defense frigate Hessen (F 221) is shown docked at Nauticus on March 14, 2018, during a short port visit, alongside the schooner Virginia and the battleship Wisconsin (BB 64). (M.C. Farrington)
A three-postcard series shows a panorama of the Norfolk Naval Shipyard in 1916, with the German commerce raiders (both former luxury liners) Prinz Eitel Friedrich and Kronprinz Wilhelm looming large over Kolonie Etel Wilhelm, the group of over 50 miniature structures known to the thousands of tourists that visited it simply as "the German village." The German sailors who built the village sold postcards such as these to raise money for the German Red Cross. (Hampton Roads Naval Museum collection
At the Hampton Roads Naval Museum (HRNM), we draw great satisfaction in helping visitors, K-12 educators, college students, professors, genealogists, and even scale modelers from across the country with their research projects, but it is always a moment of pride when a book reaches my desk that we helped an author create. 

German Sailors in Hampton Roads: A World War I Story at the Norfolk Navy Yard (History Press: Charleston, SC, 2018)
An excellent example is the new book German Sailors in Hampton Roads by Gregory Hansard, who teaches history and museum studies at John Tyler Community College in Chester, Virginia. While researching photographs at the Virginia Historical Society (now known as the Virginia Museum of History and Culture) a few years ago, he came across some unusual postcards of German passenger liners lying peacefully at Norfolk Naval Shipyard.  A postcard panorama from the time shows dozens of cute little cottages in front of the liners, in stark contrast to the drab shipyard buildings in the rest of the image.  It didn't take him long to learn that the ships were in the midst of one of the strangest sojourns in naval history.  They had carved a global path of destruction across the world's sea lanes during the opening months of World War I, and, despite having sunk 25 merchant vessels between them (including an American barque) along the way, the raiders had been allowed to proceed unmolested into Hampton Roads in early 1915.

His curiosity piqued, Hansard embarked on a journey of exploration that took him from the Library of Virginia in Richmond to the National Archives in Washington DC, and finally to museums and archives in Hampton Roads, including HRNM.  The fruit of his research gives the reader practically everything there is to know about the unusual way World War I came early to Hampton Roads, and explains why the first belligerents from that war to reach our area were so well-treated.  That is, until Americans began dying on the high seas as a result of German naval activities, indirectly resulting in the American declaration of war against Germany in April 1917.

The German army had cemented their reputation for ruthless barbarity during their invasion of Belgium in August 1914, yet seven months after setting out from China (the place Kaiser Wilhelm II first told his troops to behave as "Huns") on their mission of destruction at around the same time, the 800 or so German sailors who entered Hampton Roads with British and French warships on their heels were regarded by many Americans, according to Hansard, as "courteous pirates."

Even Captain H.H. Kiehne of the merchant ship William P. Frye, the first American ship destroyed by the Germans during World War I, became friends with the man who destroyed his ship and took him, his wife, and his crew as prisoners: Captain Max T. Thierichens of the raider Prinz Eitel Friedrich.  The German captain even sought advice from his American prisoner as to the best way to get to Newport News, their original destination.  "Without Kiehne's guidance," wrote Hansard, "the Eitel may have never made it to safety."

It might have been easy to explain away Kiehne's actions as that of a man simply trying to preserve the lives of his family and crew, but taking into account the multiple visits the captain, his wife, and even "a group of ladies" they brought with them back to the German vessels after their release, plus the eight kegs of beer and cigars sent to the German sailors by the Frye's crew, make it clear that the Germans interned at Norfolk Naval Shipyard were a different breed of warrior.  Some American commentators even went so far as to compare the Prinz Eitel Friedrich, favorably, it seems, with the legendary CSS Alabama, adding to its regional cachet.

"Despite the case of the Frye and potential threats to neutrality," wrote Hansard, "the German sailors were not seen as villains but as members of the Hampton Roads community, where they would live comfortably for eighteen months."  The strange interlude for the Germans, however, finally ended when their village was swept away and their ships were moved to Philadelphia in September 1916.  After war was declared, the ships were confiscated and pressed into the Atlantic Fleet's Cruiser and Transport Force, while the sailors were shipped south to prisoner-of-war camps in Georgia, where they would remain until the end of the war.
As seen from the Portsmouth side, Prinz Eitel Friedrich passes the Norfolk waterfront on its way to Philadelphia in September 1916. She would serve under the American flag during the war as the troopship USS DeKalb. (Hampton Roads Naval Museum collection)
The Sachsen-class frigate FGS Hessen (F 221) comes about on the Elizabeth River just off the pier at Nauticus after a three-day visit to the city.  Naval Medical Center Portsmouth and Hospital Point Park can be seen in the background (M.C. Farrington)
Just after opening the package and getting a first look at the new book, I was informed that a German frigate had moored right behind our museum.  At first, it would seem that the visit might be a poignant reminder of historical continuity, but the visit's circumstances couldn't have been more different than those surrounding SMS Prinz Eitel Friedrich and SMS Kronprinz Wilhelm 103 years ago.
FGS Hessen, seen here with the carrier Harry S. Truman (CVN 75), deployed with the Truman Strike Group in 2010.  (U.S. Navy/ Mass Communication Specialist 2nd Kilho Park via Wikimedia Commons)
The three-day visit of FGS Hessen (F 221) to Norfolk was quite brief and low-key by comparison to its swashbuckling forebears.  After its successful participation in a Composite Training Unit Exercise with the Harry S. Truman Carrier Strike Group, it was simply in town for a couple of days before deploying operationally as an integrated part of the group. The circumstances were quite routine, but that is what makes it remarkable; a German ship seamlessly working as part of an American strike group set to deploy on missions around the world.

Visits of German warships to our area were far from new, even in 1915.  A German naval contingent participated in the Hampton Roads International Naval Rendezvous in 1893, and ships that would later take part in the Battle of Jutland visited Hampton Roads in 1912.  Today, however, there is no preening nor sabre-rattling.  Neither is there any pomp and circumstance.  They're just another part of the team now.

Gregory Hansard will be delivering a lecture about German Sailors in Hampton Roads at the Virginia Museum of History and Culture in Richmond next week.  If his book tour brings him closer to our area, we will let you know.  

Operation Iraqi Freedom: After 15 Years, a Look Back

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By Joseph Miechle
Hampton Roads Naval Museum Educator

Fifteen years ago this week, large scale combat operations began in what would be known as Operation Iraqi Freedom. While the “Shock and Awe” campaign we saw on television was largely attributed to the ground operations, we ought not forget that the professionalism and dedication to duty exhibited by members of the US Navy, both ashore, at sea and in the air, contributed greatly to the success of the campaign. Five carrier groups were operating in the area when hostilities commenced and, the 32 ships of Commander, Task Force-51 composed the largest amphibious force assembled since the Inchon landing during the Korean War. Many of the ships that saw service in the war were either built in or were homeported in Hampton Roads, as were the squadrons that operated from them.  Here are just a few of them.

USS Theodore Roosevelt (CVN 71)

030320-N-0275F-501 The Mediterranean Sea (Mar. 20, 2003) - USS Theodore Roosevelt (CVN 71) currently deployed, powers through the Mediterranean Sea conducting missions in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom. (U.S. Navy photo by Photographer's Mate Airman Todd M. Flint)
030321-N-6895M-503 The Mediterranean (Mar. 21, 2003) -- An F/A-18 Hornet assigned to the "Valions" of Strike Fighter Squadron One Five (VFA-15) prepares to launch from the flight deck aboard the aircraft carrier USS Theodore Roosevelt (CVN 71). Roosevelt and Carrier Air Wing Eight (CVW 8) are on deployment conducting combat missions in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom. (U. S. Navy photo by Photographer's Mate 2nd Class James K. McNeil)
USS Theodore Roosevelt (CVN 71) was built at Newport News Shipbuilding and commissioned on October 25, 1986. The following is from NHHC ships histories online.
USS Theodore Roosevelt launched her first strikes of Iraqi Freedom overnight on March 22 and 23, 2003. Scores of Sailors jammed the topside spaces of the carrier including Vulture’s Row to watch the first of 20 aircraft commence launching at 0145. Aircrew wearing night-vision goggles watched the chilling sight of Iraqi anti-aircraft rounds lighting up the night sky, broken by occasional glimpses of surface-to-air missiles hurtling upward toward them. The raid nonetheless blasted Iraqi command and control and infrastructure targets, including one of Saddam Hussein’s palace complexes utilized as military facilities, and one of the primary Iraqi AM broadcasting stations used to direct their troops.
         
030529-N-6607P-005 Naval Station Norfolk, Va. (May 29, 2003) -- Sailors man the rails as USS Theodore Roosevelt(CVN 71) is given a heroes' welcome by friends and family members of the crew on the pier. The Roosevelt is returning from deployment in support of Operation Enduring Freedom and Operation Iraqi Freedom. (U.S. Navy photo by Photographer's Mate 3rd Class Delia Pettit)
 These aerial missions from USS Theodore Roosevelt into Iraq typically required up to five to six hours of flight time, including at least one or more rendezvous’ with orbiting airborne tankers. The aircraft navigated these exhausting flights at night, and at times through turbulent air and violent thunderstorms. The jets made their initial bombing runs, but then often undertook additional link-ups with tankers, sometimes followed by further attacks before returning to the ship. USS Theodore Roosevelt returned home on May 26 and was awarded the Meritorious Unit Commendation, the Navy Unit Citation, and the Global War on Terrorism Expeditionary Medal.

USS Bataan (LHD 5)

030131-N-5027S-003 At sea with USS Saipan (LHA 2) Jan. 31, 2003 -- The amphibious assault ships USS Kearsarge (LHD 3) and USS Bataan (LHD 5) sail in formation aft of the assault ship USS Saipan, while conducting simultaneous vertical replenishment (VERTREP) operations at sea. All three ships are deployed as part of Amphibious Task Force-East (ATF-E), conducting missions in support of support of Operation Enduring Freedom. (U.S. Navy photo by Photographer's Mate 3rd Class Robert M. Schalk)

030323-N-5732L-535 The Arabian Gulf (Mar. 23, 2003) -- Aviation Chief Boatswains Mate David Kouskouris signals the launch of an AV-8 Harrier from the flight deck of the USS Bataan (LHD 5) in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom. Operation Iraqi Freedom, the multi-national coalition effort to liberate the Iraqi people, eliminate Iraqs weapons of mass destruction, and end the regime of Saddam Hussein. (U.S. Navy photo by Photographers Mate 1st Class Jimmy D. Lee)

USS Bataan (LHD 5) is currently homeported in Norfolk, Virginia as it was in 2003. The following is from NHHC ships histories online.
From March 20 through May 31, Bataan conducted operations in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom. Bataan supported Commander Fifth Fleet and Commander Task Force 51 in the destruction of elite Republican Guard troops deep inside Iraq. During Iraqi Freedom, the ship operated exclusively as an AV-8B Harrier II platform with 26 AV-8Bs on board, dubbed the first "Harrier Carrier." The deployment included 797 combat sorties of more than 1,400 combat hours. On April 20, Bataan, along with Boxer (LHD 4), Bonhomme Richard (LHD 6), Kearsarge (LHD 3), Saipan (LHA 2), and Tarawa (LHA 1), operated with 26 other ships of Task Force 51 in the Northern Arabian Gulf. Command elements onboard Bataan during Operation Iraqi Freedom included Tactical Air Control Squadron Twenty-one, Detachment Two; Naval Beach Group Two, Detachment 1; Assault Craft Unit Four, Detachment 1, Helicopter Support Squadron Six, Detachment; and Explosive Ordnance Disposal Detachment, Mobile Unit Two. Bataan had elements of Task Force Tarawa embarked from January 12 through June 24.  
 
    
Helicopter Mine Countermeasures Squadron 14 (HM-14)

030327-N-3783H-147 Umm Qasr, Iraq (Mar. 27, 2003) -- Members of Commander Task Unit (CTU-55.4.3) unload supplies during a sandstorm from an MH-53E Sea Dragon helicopter, assigned to the "Vanguards" of Helicopter Mine Countermeasures Squadron Fourteen (HM-14). CTU-55.4.3 consists of U.S. Naval Special Clearance Team-1, Explosive Ordnance Disposal Mobile Units 6 and 8, Fleet Diving Unit 3 from the United Kingdom, and a Clearance Dive Team from Australia, all are conducting deep/shallow water mine counter measure operations to clear shipping lanes. The unit was instrumental in clearing the way for the British Royal Fleet Auxiliary, Landing Ship Logistic RFA Sir Galahad (L 3005), which delivered the first wave of humanitarian aid in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom. (U.S. Navy photo by Photographers Mate 2nd Class Bob Houlihan)
An CH-53 as seen from the ground outside Baghdad International Airport on April 16, 2003. (Photo by Joseph Miechle)
A watercolor entitled, "A Preflight Walk around a MH-53 Helicopter." (Navy Art Collection)

Since 1978, HM-14 has been based at Naval Station Norfolk, Virginia.

USS Oscar Austin (DDG 79)

021205-N-4374S-011 Norfolk, Va., (Dec. 5, 2002) -- Sailors aboard the guided missile destroyer USS Oscar Austin (DDG 79) prepare to retrieve mooring lines before getting underway with the Harry S. Truman Battle Group on a regularly scheduled deployment in support of Operation Enduring Freedom. (U.S. Navy Photo by Photographers Mate 2nd Class Michael Sandberg)
030119-N-0000X-001 The Strait of Gibraltar (Jan. 19, 2003) -- The guided missile destroyer USS Oscar Austin (DDG 79) escorts Military Sealift Command hospital ship USNS Comfort (T-AH 19) into the Mediterranean Sea. The two ships are on a regularly scheduled deployment in support of Operation Enduring Freedom. (U.S. Navy Photo)

USS Oscar Austin (DDG 79) is currently homeported in Norfolk, Virginia as it was in 2003.

One of the many destroyers deployed in support of carrier groups was USS Oscar Austin. In support of ground operations, destroyers, cruisers and submarines fired more than 300 Tomahawk cruise missiles at military targets deep in Iraq on March 21, 2003. Oscar Austin fired 32 of those missiles, some of the effects of which were viewed by many back in the United States on the cable news network CNN. "We have just begun the next phase of attacks in Iraq," said Rear Adm. Matthew G. Moffit. Oscar Austin remained on station until major hostilities ceased and returned to Norfolk. For actions on this deployment, the ship was awarded a Navy Unit Commendation and a Meritorious Unit Commendation.

USS Abraham Lincoln (CVN 72)


030323-N-5932S-007 The Arabian Gulf (Mar. 23, 2003) -- Two Naval Aviators assigned to Carrier Air Wing Fourteen (CVW 14) prepare for a brief in a squadron ready room aboard the aircraft carrier USS Abraham Lincoln (CVN 72) prior to conducting combat flight operations in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom.  (U.S. Navy photo by Photographer's Mate 2nd Class Lori A Steenstra)
030324-N-9228K-012 The Arabian Gulf (Mar. 24, 2003) -- An Aviation Ordnanceman checks over racks of precision guided ordnance before moving them to the 'bomb farm', on the flight deck of the USS Abraham Lincoln (CVN 72). Linconln and Carrier Air Wing Fourteen (CVW 14) are conducting combat operations in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom.  (U.S. Navy photo by Photographer's Mate Third Class Michael S. Kelly)
030325-N-9593M-010 Arabian Gulf (Mar. 25, 2003) -- A Naval aviator assigned to the "Strikers" of Strike Fighter Squadron One One Three (VFA-113) gives the thumbs up to his plane captain signaling that he and his F/A-18C Hornet are ready to launch from one of four steam driven catapults aboard USS Abraham Lincoln (CVN 72). Lincoln and her embarked Carrier Air Wing Fourteen (CVW 14) are conducting combat missions in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom. (U.S. Navy photo by Photographer's Mate 3rd Class Philip A. McDaniel)
Aircraft flying from Abraham Lincoln encountered heavy Iraqi antiaircraft fire during a strike on 21 March 2003. “It looked like a string of 50 firecrackers that all went off at the same time,” 29-year-old Super Hornet pilot Lt. Eric Doyle from Houston, Texas, explained. “Like mini-space shuttles going up. And the plumes – the plumes of flame trailing them!” By the time Abraham Lincoln returned to the United States it had flown 16,500 sorties that resulted in 1.6 million pounds of ordnance discharged on targets in Iraq. It had also spent a record-making 290 days deployed. This was the longest deployment of a nuclear carrier in US Navy history. It should be no surprise that 161,839 pounds of coffee was also consumed on this momentous cruise.


030502-N-9214D-002 Naval Air Station North Island, San Diego, Calif. (May 2, 2003) -- Sailors aboard USS Abraham Lincoln (CVN 72) man the rails as the ship pulls into NAS North Island to a cheering crowd of family and friends during their port visit to off-load the ship's air wing. Lincoln and her embarked Carrier Air Wing Fourteen (CVW 14) are returning from a 10-month deployment to the Arabian Gulf in support of Operation Enduring Freedom and Operation Iraqi Freedom. The banner above them, made infamous after serving as a backdrop to President George W. Bush's announcement of the end of major combat operations made from the carrier's deck the day before, was created to acknowledge the crew's mission accomplishment; not to mark the end of the war. (U.S. Navy photo by Photographer's Mate 3rd Class Juan E. Diaz)

USS Abraham Lincoln (DDG 79) was homeported at Naval Station Everett, Washington in 2003 and was moved to Hampton Roads in 2011.
Fifteen years after the beginning of Operation Iraqi Freedom, the United States Navy continues to operate ships off the coast of Iraq as part of the 5th Fleet. While major combat operations for coalition forces have ceased, the Navy continues to support allied Iraqi forces in their efforts to defeat the so-called Islamic State and restore peace to their country. 

Editor's note: Joseph Miechle was deployed to Iraq as part of an Army air defense unit during the opening stages of Operation Iraqi Freedom.

Hampton Institute and the Navy during the Second World War, Part II: The Compromise

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The following is part two of a two-part series on Hampton University in Hampton, Virginia, during World War II, halfway through its 150-year history, and the little-known role what was then known as Hampton Institute played in the prelude to full integration in the United States Navy.
Sailors paint and tighten bolts on a landing craft while training at Hampton Institute during World War II. This boat appears to be a LCV type. This photograph was received by the Naval Photographic Science Laboratory on January 13, 1945. (Official U.S. Navy Photograph, now in the collections of the National Archives)
By mid-1940, much of the civilized world was in turmoil, and the American political landscape, not to mention civil society, was not untouched by the slaughter going on in Europe and the Far East. Sooner or later, war would come. This impending crisis was a threat to American citizens of all races, yet African Americans faced limited opportunities to participate in the defense of the nation, either within the private businesses that produced munitions and other war materiel for the military, or within the military itself.

The Hampton Conference



This stunted state of affairs drew the ire of Dr. Malcolm MacLean, who was chosen in July 1940 to became the sixth president of Hampton Institute (HI), one of the nation's oldest educational institutions for African Americans. Only days after officially taking office, MacLean hosted a national “Conference on the Participation of then Negro in National Defense” on November 25 & 26  to discuss the issue of why the burgeoning employment opportunities in the defense sector were passing African Americans by.
Dr. Malcolm MacLean. (Hampton University Digital Archives)

A common refrain that MacLean would sound at that conference and at appearances nationwide during his tumultuous tenure at Hampton Institute revolved around the tremendous waste in human resources that exclusionary and segregationist policies represented. He also compared those policies and the pseudo-scientific rationale behind them with those that he believed would cause the ultimate ruination of the Axis, rhetorically linking the forms of institutional racism maintained in the United States with that practiced by the Nazis.

"Nearly the whole American process of handling its Negro problem is a fundamental violation of both democracy and intellectual freedom. Further, it is an enormous wastage of human resources, a wastage that no nation, certainly no democracy, can afford," MacLean said in 1941 in a speech widely reported by the African American press nationwide. "If there is any one thing that will finally bring about the collapse of the [Nazi] dictatorship, it is the vast draining away of brains and ability from Germany, Poland, Austria, Belgium, and occupied France by their slaughter and suppression of brilliant, skilled, and trained Jews and Negroes and others on the basis of a fantastic and exploded theory of race superiority."

Before the conference had even started, MacLean received a letter from President Franklin D. Roosevelt, who wrote “It is heartening to know that in this time of stress and strain, when the whole nation is engaged in a mighty effort to gird itself against any challenge which a mad world may hurl at it, you and your associates at Hampton Institute are to hold a two-day conference on the participation of the Negro in national defense.” Roosevelt ended the letter with, "There could be no finer manifestation of the loyalty of the Negro, no more fitting rededication of himself to the cause of America, than the conference which you are holding. We who are at the center of the defense effort in Washington will take new heart from this sterling manifestation of devotion to country. You may be sure that suggestions and recommendations representing the views of your conference will be appreciated by those administering the program of national defense.”

These were no mere platitudes from the president, who was by then grappling with a significant amount of political pressure to do something about the hundreds of defense contractors nationwide that marginalized or flat-out refused to hire African Americans. Under pressure from the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People and the threat of a march on Washington from the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters, Roosevelt signed Executive Order 8802 on June 25, 1941, establishing the President’s Committee on Fair Employment Practice (FEPC). Not since the dissolution of the Freedmen’s Bureau had the federal government enacted a formal body to protect the civil rights of African Americans by making nondiscrimination a formal policy. Roosevelt would ultimately recruit MacLean to play a key role in the FEPC, and as an indirect result, Hampton Institute stood to benefit.

As president of the institute, MacLean labored not only to expand awareness of the abuse being meted out to skilled African American workers by racist defense contractors, but he was also acutely aware that the institute, still smarting from the financial woes brought on by the Great Depression, would also be left out of the surge of federal investment being made in other institutions of higher learning as a part of the war effort. Regardless of his or her pedagogical predilections, a university president is, after all, its chief fundraiser. "We are and must be wholly aware of the fact that the United States is in the midst of a world war," MacLean wrote in his first annual report to the institute in mid-1941. "Whether we conceive our part in that war as one of defense only or of active participation on an undeclared basis, nevertheless all that we do at Hampton Institute must be thought of and planned in relation to that war..."

The forward magazines of USS Arizona (BB 39) explode after she was hit by a Japanese bomb on the morning of December 7, 1941.  Frame clipped from a color motion picture taken from on board USS Solace (AH 5). Official U.S. Navy Photograph, now in the collections of the National Archives.

Hampton Institute Goes to War

World War II came early for Norfolk native and Hampton Institute alumnus Irvin C. Anderson. Although he had studied printing for two years at HI, the only occupation offered to him after his enlistment into the Navy in 1936 was that of a mess attendant. After graduating the Cooks and Stewards School at Naval Training Station Norfolk, he shipped off to his first ship, the battleship Arizona (BB 39), where he died on the morning of December 7, 1941. An unknown number of the 5,000 or so African Americans serving in the Navy at that time were Hampton Institute alumni, but it is certain that, regardless of what they had studied at the institute, they were restricted to being Messmen.

During World War II, over 90 percent of African Americans in the Navy worked in the Stewards Branch.  (Naval History and Heritage Command image)
Only one month before the Pearl Harbor attack, two students of HI's civilian pilot training program responded to letters from the Navy's Aviation Cadet Selection Board urging that they apply to be aviation cadets, only to be told in a terse reply that the Navy accepted "applications from Negroes in none but the messman branch.""While the Navy continues its urgent appeal for flyers," wrote a commentator for the Cleveland Gazette, "many hundreds of experienced 'Negro' American pilots, all over the country, continue to train for the day that they may serve in the defense of America." Considering that some Hampton Institute students had already left for the Tuskegee Institute in Alabama to receive advanced aviation training, with many going on to become members of the revered Tuskegee Airmen of the Army Air Corps, the Navy's tactical obfuscations were beginning to wear thin.

The FEPC was established to monitor compliance of new policies designed to end exclusionary policies practiced by civilian contractors, yet the Navy’s refusal to abide by similar rules became a sticking point early on, which in turn became the basis for the undoing of the Navy’s own racist policies. Yet the FEPC didn't exactly break the back of the Navy's segregationist system. The Hampton Institute's contribution to winning the war would ultimately become intertwined in the compromise struck between the FEPC, acting on behalf of the Roosevelt Administration, and the Navy.

The FEPC’s first chairman, Mark Etheredge, took the Navy to task over regressive racial policies that had been instituted after World War I, yet Navy Secretary Frank Knox, taking the side of the Navy’s General Board, paraphrased their general opinion that integration would erode the Navy’s warfighting capability, writing, “Experience of many years in the Navy has shown clearly that men of the colored race, if enlisted in any other branch than the messman’s branch, and promoted to the position of petty officer, cannot maintain discipline among men of the white race over whom they may be placed by reason of their rating.”

Relenting to pressure from the White House, on January 16, 1942, Knox asked the General Board to develop a plan to induct and train 5,000 African American recruits for jobs outside the Messman (by then known as the Steward) Branch. After considerable internal debate, particularly within the Bureau of Navigation, which held sway over personnel matters, President Roosevelt was informed that integration would pose an unacceptable risk to efficiency; not because of any inherent deficiency on the part of the African Americans, but because of white resistance to them at the deck plate level. Roosevelt, having been an assistant secretary of the Navy during World War I, did not buy the argument. By this time, Roosevelt had appointed Dr. MacLean as chairman of the committee, and it was he who came to an agreement with Knox permitting African Americans to enlist in the general service. Nevertheless, Knox only agreed with the provision that they be trained separately from white recruits.

Looking less than enthused, Secretary of the Navy Frank Knox enlists William Baldwin, the first of thousands of African Americans to enlist for the general service in the Navy during World War II, on June 2, 1942.  Until Knox and the Navy Department relented to pressure from the Roosevelt Administration, African Americans could only enlist into the Messman (later Stewards) Branch. (National Archives and Records Administration via Naval History and Heritage Command/Flickr)
On April 21, 1942, Knox approved a plan to begin enlisting 1,000 African Americans a month on June 1, in occupations other than stewards or mess attendants, as well as allowing 900 to enlist in the Marine Corps. On June 18, Dr. MacLean announced that Hampton Institute would be one of the two locations where advanced training for African Americans in the Navy would occur. After eight weeks of basic training at Camp Robert Smalls at Naval Training Station (NTS) Great Lakes (named for an African American naval hero from the Civil War and commanded by Hampton Institute founder Samuel C. Armstrong’s son, Lt. Cmdr. Daniel W. Armstrong), “128 carefully selected men” would undergo 16 weeks of training at Hampton Institute. The schools to be established there were essentially duplicates of Class "A" schools just a mile away at NTS Norfolk and at NTS San Diego.

Seaman George Clinton Fields is congratulated by Lt. Cmdr. Daniel W. Armstrong as he graduates with honors from Camp Robert Smalls, the segregated basic training facility at Naval Training Station Great Lakes in September 1942. Fields' last job before joining the Navy was as a valet to President Franklin D. Roosevelt.  Armstrong's father was Brigadier General Samuel C. Armstrong, founder of Hampton Institute. (Official U.S. Navy Photograph, now in the collections of the National Archives) 
On September 12, 1942, the U.S. Naval Training School, Hampton Institute, officially opened with Lt. Cmdr. Edwin H. Downes commanding a staff of 11 officers and 28 enlisted personnel. The first 128 basic training graduates that arrived from Great Lakes six days later took their places in the electrician, motor machinist, machinist, metalsmith, and carpentry schools on campus three days after that. In addition, the Cooks and Bakers School that had been based at Naval Training Station Norfolk was moved to the Chamberlin Hotel, which had been owned by the Navy since January 1942, and made part of the HI training program.

Sailors study small craft & automotive electrical systems training at Hampton Institute during World War II. This photograph was received by the Naval Photographic Science Laboratory on 13 January 1945. (Official U.S. Navy Photograph, now in the collections of the National Archives)

Within a year, the student body at HI had grown to nearly 900 at any given time, and the naval staff had grown to 139. In addition, the monthly student quota for the HI program was raised to 187, with 30 going to the Cooks and Bakers School at the Chamberlin Hotel near Fort Monroe. The regular machinist course was discontinued in 1943, but a shipfitter's course was added. Meanwhile, the Navy built a brand-new instructional building featuring a large diesel machine shop, and a large recreational building featuring a gym and auditorium was also added to the campus. A boat house was also built after a coxswain school was added to the curriculum.

Looking northwest from an aircraft flying over Armstrong Field (now known as Armstrong Stadium), the U.S. Naval Gymnasium, which opened in April 1943 (later known as Williams Gym, which was replaced by the Hampton University Student Center), lies across Marshall Avenue, with Phenix Hall located behind it.  In addition to the gymnasium, the building contained a drill hall, an auditorium equipped with a movie projection room, and even a tiled swimming pool.  A young seaman named John Thomas Biggers painted a mural for the building, and another of the works he created while on active duty with the Navy at Hampton Institute was displayed at the Museum of Modern Art in New York, catapulting him to national prominence.  (Hampton Roads Naval Museum Collection)

Located on Fort Monroe, the Chamberlin Hotel was acquired by the Navy in January 1942 to house transient officers during the war.  The Navy Cooks and Bakers School, which was located at NTS Norfolk from 1933 to 1942, moved here after the establishmant of the U.S. Naval Training School at Hampton Institute in September 1942 and trained up to 100 African American students at any given time in its kitchens. (Hampton Roads Naval Museum Collection)

Malcolm MacLean Goes to War

As president of Hampton Institute and chairman of the FEPC, Malcolm MacLean made the establishment of the Navy school on campus, as well as the investment and construction that came with it, possible. The institute had been spending more than it was making since 1922, but in 1943, the first full year after the establishment of the Naval Training School, Hampton Institute's deficit from the year before was cut by 94 percent.

Despite the success with the Navy school, all was not going well with MacLean's tenure at HI, to the point that he abruptly resigned to join the Navy himself. Only one month after MacLean assumed the presidency of the institute in 1940, columnist L. Baynard Whitney of the Cleveland Plaindealer observed that "Dr. Maclean has already... locked horns with the Status Quo who hate his method, fear his pace, and tremble at the boldness of his vision." After over two years of stiff resistance from the faculty and trustees over a broad range of changes he wished to make at the institute, he resigned in January 1943, taking a lieutenant commander’s commission in the Navy and a posting at the War Department School of Military Government in Charlottesville, Virginia. In the wake of MacLean’s sudden exit from Hampton, the institute’s board of trustees approved MacLean's pick as his successor, R. O’Hara Lanier, who had been serving as dean of instruction, as interim president. For the first time in its 75-year history, Hampton Institute was led by a black man.

After Secretary Knox's death in April 1944, James Forrestal took a different approach towards African Americans as Navy secretary, and on his watch the segregationist policies of the Navy would come to an end, negating the need for separate "A" schools for them.  By the time the last graduation ceremony was held at Hampton Institute on August 15, 1945, approximately 5,000 Sailors had graduated from the Navy program, including most of the Sailors who manned the destroyer escort Mason (DE 529), which proved that a largely African American crew could perform its duties on par with white Sailors, as well as the man who would become the Navy’s first African American flag officer, Samuel Lee Gravely, Jr.

After the closure of the program, Hampton Institute faced the same type of cutoff in federal funding as it had after the dissolution of the Freedmen's Bureau during the institute's infancy and the discontinuance of training for Native Americans in 1923.  Dr. Ralph P. Bridgman, HI's president at the close of the war, sought to maintain a naval presence at the institute, at least in the form of the Naval Reserve Officers Training Corps (NROTC), something that would happen at many colleges and universities across the nation, but the Navy declined on the grounds that the student body was of insufficient size to warrant it. "Hampton's prexy has already protested [the] Navy's plans to discontinue the Jim-Crow school [at Hampton Institute], and has been informed that you can't preach integration while begging for the practice of segregation," quipped columnist Paul Pentagon in the magazine Headlines and Pictures

Although Hampton Institute was turned down in its bid to maintain a postwar Navy presence via the NROTC, they were not alone. In fact, the NROTC eschewed all traditionally African American institutions of higher learning for another two decades, finally establishing a unit at Prairie View A&M in Texas in 1965. Hampton University finally became part of the Hampton Roads NROTC consortium, which also includes Norfolk State University and Old Dominion University, in July 1982.

Now celebrating its sesquicentennial, Hampton University maintains a Navy presence on campus via its NROTC detachment, but it has never approached the level of coordination with the Navy as it had during World War II, after which any pretensions that segregation was good for the sea services were finally extinguished.

Seventy-Five Years Ago: A Legendary Name is Reborn

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On April 15, 1943, a ceremony held at Norfolk Naval Shipyard marked the commissioning of the newest Essex-class carrier.  What it really represented, however, was the rebirth of a legendary name in American military history.

Yorktown.

A new crew stands at attention as the National Ensign is raised for the first time during commissioning ceremonies for USS Yorktown (CV 10) at the Norfolk Naval Shipyard, Virginia, April 15, 1943, Capt. Joseph J. Clark commanding. The fourth vessel to bear the name of the decisive Virginia victory during the Revolutionary War, she was the second built at Newport News Shipbuilding. (Lt. Charles Kerlee, USNR/ Naval History and Heritage Command Image)
Her keel was originally laid on December 1, 1941 as Bon Homme Richard, after the famous Continental Navy vessel commanded by John Paul Jones, but word came the following summer that the carrier Yorktown (CV 5), which had been launched from the same shipyard on April 4, 1937, had been sunk by a Japanese submarine in the Pacific after the Battle of Midway.  She was officially renamed that September.

The new Yorktown was the same as her predecessor only in name and vessel classification. In all other respects, she was a tremendous leap forward in capability. The shipyards of Hampton Roads were also at the top of their game. On January 21, 1943, Eleanor Roosevelt was shocked when Yorktown slid down the ways seven minutes ahead of schedule during her launching ceremony in Newport News. 
Sailors on wooden scaffolds apply paint below the waterline of USS Yorktown (CV 10) during dry docking at Norfolk Naval Shipyard in June 1943.  (Naval History and Heritage Command image)

Yorktown's finishing touches were applied that spring by throngs of workers at Norfolk Naval Shipyard, adding guns and radar systems that would receive a lot of use after she arrived in Hawaii by way of the Panama Canal in July.

Lieutenant Charles Kerlee captured Yorktown's ensign flying over the per at Naval Station Norfolk on June 22, 1943, just before the carrier set off for the Pacific.  The destroyers and auxiliary ships anchored in Hampton Roads in the background are indicative of the crowded conditions that have existed sporadically at Sewells Point from the 1940s until the late-1960s. (Naval History and Heritage Command image)
After work-ups by the crew and embarked air wing, Yorktown conducted her first combat operations off Marcus Island on August 31. After a brief mission to San Francisco to pick up additional aircraft and supplies, the fall and winter saw strikes on Wake Island, the Gilberts, Kwajalein, and Wtoje Atoll. A documentary film crew embarked during her first wartime deployment produced a feature film entitled "The Fighting Lady," which gave the carrier her nickname. It would be the first in a long line of film appearances. 

Yorktown's combat record during the Second World War was exceptionally well-illustrated due to advances in photographic technology and the rapid expansion of the Photographer's Mate rating during the war, with carriers such as Yorktown receiving the lion's share of them.  Chief Photographer’s Mate A.N. Cooperman captured a Japanese "Jill" torpedo bomber immediately after a direct hit by antiaircraft fire (the original caption claimed it was a 5-inch shell) about 150 yards from the carrier off Kwajalein Atoll on December 4, 1943. (Naval History and Heritage Command image) 
Beginning in January 1944, Yorktown fought her way back and forth across the Central Pacific for nearly seven months with Task Force 50, starting with the invasion of the Marshall Islands, to the Marianas, to New Guinea, then all the way to Guam. Most of the time she used Majuro Atoll, the Marshall Islands’ capital which fell into American hands at the end of January, as a base of operations. After a two-month yard period at Puget Sound. She joined TF 38 in support of the Philippines invasion that fall and winter, surviving Typhoon Cobra off Luzon in December 1944. 

By January 1945, her planes were ranging as far as Saigon to the south and Okinawa to the north. The following month, they were flying over the main Japanese island of Honshu. All this time, not a single enemy aircraft made it through Yorktown’s lethal barrage of 5-inch, 40mm and 20mm guns. On March 18, however, this amazing run of luck ended when two Yokosuka P1Y “Frances” and three Yokosuka D4Y “Judy” dive bombers attempted to sink the carrier. Only one Judy was able to release its bomb before being cut to pieces, but it went right through the starboard signal bridge, penetrating all the way down through battery number seven to the second deck, where it exploded, killing five and wounding 26. Despite this, she remained fully operational, and despite numerous attempts at ramming the carrier off the southern main Japanese island of Kyushu and throughout her support of the Okinawa invasion, no other enemy aircraft go through her defensive screen.

Just a week later, Yorktown’s planes scored direct bomb and torpedo hits on the battleship Yamato and cruiser Yahagi when they made their suicidal sortie towards Okinawa. Operations off the Japanese home islands continued, with a short respite off Leyte in June.

For the next two months, Yorktown supported missions against Tokyo itself and Kure Naval Base on the Inland Sea, not far from Hiroshima. When that city was destroyed by an atomic bomb delivered by the Army Air Corps’ 509th Composite Group on August 6, she was off Northern Honshu, sending strikes against Tokyo and points north to Hokkaido over the next couple of days.

A visitor guide printed aboard the ship described an infamous event which followed:

On August 10th at 7:45 p.m. word was received from the Commander-in-Chief, Pacific Fleet, to cease offensive operations. Orders were sent out to all planes to jettison bombs and return to ship. 
Tragically enough, Yorktown pilots on their way back to the ship were jumped from above by a strong force of Japanese fighthers. Four planes were lost before our pilots could recover from their surprise at this final act of Japanese treachery.*

Decommissioned and attached to the Pacific Fleet Reserve during the rapid demobilization following WWII, Yorktown was brought back to life in 1953 after her 5-inch batteries were removed and other major modifications were competed to the flight deck to allow for the operation of jet aircraft. Documentary film crews were on hand the following year to record the results, making the film “Jet Carrier,” which nearly netted an Academy Award.

This painting shows the antisubmarine warfare carrier Yorktown (CVS 10) operating off Hawaii between 1961 and 1963.  Two Sikorsky HSS-1N Seabat helicopters are staged forward with one just aft of the port-side elevator and another near the fantail. On the catapults are two Douglas AD-5 Skyraiders of Airborne Early Warning Squadron 11, while several Grumman S2F Trackers belonging to Anti-Submarine Squadron 23 (VS-23) and VS-25 round out the mix of aircraft belonging to Carrier Anti-Submarine Air Group 55. (The National Naval Aviation Museum, Pensacola, Florida 
Although Yorktown operated as a fleet carrier during the war against Japan and an attack carrier (CVA) during the Korean War, the growing progression of jet fighters and ever-heavier strike aircraft necessitated the construction of the Forrestal-class “super carriers.” After they started coming on line during the mid-1950s, Yorktown was converted into an antisubmarine warfare carrier (CVS) in 1958, becoming the nucleus of a resurrected “hunter-killer” group, a concept that had proved itself very effective when escort carriers served in the same role during the Battle of the Atlantic 15 years before.

Fifty years ago this week, Yorktown was in the midst of her seventh and last WESPAC cruise as a CVS, over half of which was spent off the coast of Korea after the signals intelligence gathering ship Pueblo (AGER-2) was captured in January 1968.

After undergoing maintenance at Long Beach Naval Shipyard from July through November, Yorktown’s first foray into dramatic feature films took place when she portrayed the lead aircraft carrier attacking Pearl Harbor for "Tora! Tora! Tora!," carrying 30 modified North American T-6 Texan trainers sporting “meatball” markings
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The Apollo 8 command module rests on the deck of USS Yorktown (CVS 10) after its successful flight around the moon in December 1968. (National Aeronautices and Space Administration via Wikimedia Commons)
After the filming, her last duties in the Pacific included being the prime recovery ship for Apollo 8, the first manned circumlunar flight. On December 26, astronauts William Anders, Frank Borman, and James Lovell landed in the Pacific about 1,000 miles southwest of Hawaii, within 3,000 yards of the carrier. On January 2, 1969, she departed Hawaii for Hampton Roads via Cape Horn, with stopovers in Long Beach and several South American ports.

After 26 years away from Hampton Roads, Naval Station Norfolk finally became Yorktown's homeport when she joined Hunter Killer Force, U.S. Atlantic Fleet, replacing the carrier Randolph (CV-15) on February 28, 1969. After refresher training off Cuba, she participated in the NATO exercise Operation Sparkplug, followed by a Northern European deployment.

Her service life came to an end at her decommissioning on June 27, 1970, at Philadelphia, whereupon she became part of the Atlantic Reserve Fleet. She lives on today as a museum ship at the Patriots Point Naval and Maritime Museum in South Carolina, where she took up residence in 1975.


Thirty-five years ago, Yorktown once again became a shooting location for a drama, this time set in the present. Simulating a breaking news broadcast, 1983’s “Special Bulletin,” which some at the time compared with Orson Welles' 1938 War of the Worlds radio broadcast, was perhaps the first American film to depict nuclear terrorism in an age of wall-to-wall news coverage.

The following year, Hollywood again came calling, this time in the science fiction genre, when Yorktown served as a setting for "The Philadelphia Experiment," about an apocryphal 1943 Navy stealth technology test that inadvertently transports two Sailors 41 years into the future.

Museum ship Yorktown was declared a National Historic Landmark in 1986 and recieves thousands of visitors each year at its home near Charleston, South Carolina. Her name was carried back into active service by the Ticonderoga-class crusier Yorktown (CG 48), which was commissioned, fittingly, in Yorktown, Virginia, on the fourth of July, 1984.  She was based for another two decades at Naval Station Norfolk until her decommissioning in December 2004.  


*Yorktown's official history maintained by the Naval History and Heritage Command does not mention the incident described in the visitor’s guide, nor do several other sources consulted by the author, thus it is not clear whether the incident actually took place.

What Prevented WWIII? It Just Might Be the INCSEA

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At the end of our last post we mentioned the fifth American warship to carry the name Yorktown, the Ticonderoga-class guided missile cruiser Yorktown (CG 48). Her two-decade career, the majority of which was spent based at Naval Station Norfolk, was spent conducting routine deployments and exercises, yet she was involved in one of the most visually dramatic high seas confrontations of the Cold War. 

Despite the ascension of Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev and the more open policies he put forward to the West three decades ago, intelligence collection and Freedom of Navigation (FON) operations conducted by the U.S. Navy still drew the ire of the Soviet navy, particularly around the Crimean Peninsula. In March 1986 and again in February 1988, Yorktown and the destroyer Caron (DD 970) entered Soviet territorial waters to demonstrate the right of innocent passage. While Soviet warships warned the Americans as they approached Sevastopol and the Soviet ministry of Foreign Affairs lodged a diplomatic protest afterward, both ships were intercepted and rammed by Soviet warships two years later.


The Soviet frigate Bezzaventnyy runs along the port side of the guided missile cruiser Yorktown (CG 48) on February 12, 1988, in an attempt to force the American ship away from Soviet territorial waters. (Official U.S. Navy photograph via NavSource Online)

This was actually one of the less harrowing incidents discussed in detail within a new book called Incidents at Sea by historian David Winkler of the Naval Historical Foundation, who was inspired by his experiences as a naval officer observing interactions between American and Soviet ships in the Sea of Japan in 1984 to write a “directed research project” as a graduate student that later became his doctoral dissertation. That dissertation became the core of his first book, Cold War at Sea: High-Seas Confrontation between the United States and the Soviet Union (2000). This book brings readers from the dawn of the Cold War to the geopolitical environment we find ourselves in today.

Some national security heavyweights have only recently come to the realization that the Cold War didn't end as much as it went into remission. The Russian bear was not beaten; it only hibernated for awhile. Now the Russians are literally back with a vengeance; more than enough reason to revamp and reissue this book that details the long history of blue water brinksmanship with them.


Despite its title, the purpose of Incidents at Sea is not to simply provide a chronology of such incidents and their repercussions, although the book is replete with such details. The book is actually about the international agreement that facilitated a sea change (no pun intended) in the way the American and Soviet fleets interacted. 


About 80 miles off the Russian enclave of Kaliningrad in the Baltic Sea, a Russian SU-24 Fencer performs an exceptionally low pass over the Arleigh Burke-class destroyer Donald Cook (DDG 75) on April 12, 2016. Two fencers as well as a KA-27 helicopter buzzed the destroyer in international waters that day.  In April 2014, the Russians took similar actions against Donald Cook in the Black Sea. (Navy.mil)
Incidents between Soviet and American aircraft can be dated back to October 1945, taking on more of an added urgency after the Soviets detonated their own atomic bomb in August 1949. The American Special Electronic Airborne Search Projects program that spawned the dangerous “ferret’ missions came about because of an urgent need to determine Soviet military developments, but at a cost.

“From 1945 through 1960,” writes Winkler, “a series of mostly one-sided air duels took place that cost more than one hundred American and Soviet aviators their lives. These duels, and the two respective governments’ reactions to them, provide the contextual background for a much more complex Cold War at sea.” 

While the number of aerial incidents with the Soviets plummeted after American reconnaissance satellites came on line, the emergence of the Soviet Auxiliary, General, Intelligence (AGI) vessels during the mid-1950s created many more opportunities for confrontations in international waters. Although the most nail-biting examples of confrontations involving Soviet merchant vessels during the 1960s were in the Caribbean from the Cuban Missile Crisis, plenty of potentially catastrophic situations developed throughout the decade in the Gulf of Tonkin and Haiphong Harbor during the war in Vietnam.  

Pugnacious and girded in a patina of rust, theSoviet Auxiliary, General, Intelligence (AGI) Gidrofon keeps up with the American aircraft carrier Coral Sea (CVA-43) in the Gulf on Tonkin on October 28, 1969.  The collision between the American fleet tug Abnaki (ATF 96) and the diminutive spy trawler in the area almost two years before was cited within a memorandum from Navy Secretary Paul Ignatius to Assistant Defense Secretary Paul Nitze on the urgent need to develop "parameters for surveillance procedures in order to avoid unnecessary and undesirable encounters between U.S. and Soviet ships, which could be extremely serious." (Naval History and Heritage Command image 
Numerous minor collisions and near-misses on the seas and in the skies occurred throughout the decade, but there were no bilateral means to work out disputes and settle grievances. After the more serious incidents involving the Soviets, grievances were taken to the United Nations (UN) as well as the International Court of Justice (ICJ), yet incidents continued unabated. “Critics of international law regimes could argue that their efforts were for naught, given the Soviet Union’s refusal to be held accountable before the ICJ and its ability to veto censure at the UN Security Council," wrote Winkler.  "Such critics could argue that the outcomes of air-to-air cases illustrate the ineffectiveness of an international system lacking a powerful legislative body, a third-party dispute-settlement mechanism, and a mechanism to effect sanctions on lawbreakers.”

After a Soviet destroyer lost a game of chicken with the British carrier Ark Royal in 1970, the Soviets finally responded to diplomatic entreaties from the Americans. This marked the emergence of the most prominent character in the book, as well as one of the most consequential figures in naval affairs over the last four decades, John Warner. As an under secretary of the Navy, he was chosen as lead U.S. negotiator and head of the American delegation that resulted in his signing of the Incidents at Sea Agreement (INCSEA) on May 25, 1972 (after he became secretary of the Navy) during the Moscow Summit between President Richard Nixon and Premier Leonid Brezhnev.

Warner, who subsequently served as chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee during his five terms in the Senate representing Virginia, writes in the forward of the book, “The accord has stood the test of time, greatly lessening the number of ‘incidents,’ and has served as a model for similar confidence-building agreements between other nations around the globe.”  One secret of INCSEA's success was that it was not just another agreement managed by career diplomats. This agreement would be managed by naval officers on both sides; some of the same men who were or might be tasked with enforcing the agreement at sea.

The Sovremenyy-class destroyer Otlichny, which was then based in Severomorsk on the Kola Peninsula, passes Old Point Comfort on its way to Naval Station Norfolk on July 21, 1989.  Otlichny, the Slava-class cruiser Marshal Ustinov, and the replenishment oiler Genrikh Gasanov made the historic port visit to Norfolk amid easing tensions between the United States and the Soviet Union. (Hampton Roads Naval Museum file)  
Visitors to the three Soviet Northern Fleet ships that made a port call at Naval Station Norfolk, Virginia in 1989 received an information pamphlet bearing this cover. (Hampton Roads Naval Museum file
It is clear that incidents plummeted during the 1970s as a direct result of the agreement, and it maintained open lines of communication between the navies despite a resurgence of incidents during the 1980s, most notably after the Soviets shot down a Korean airliner in 1983.  It can also be argued that the lessening of tensions under INCSEA ultimately resulted in an historic port visit made to Norfolk by a Soviet flotilla in 1989.  But did the agreement prevent World War III?  Dr. Winkler makes no such claim, but it is not a stretch of the imagination to believe that many of the confrontations covered in this book (particularly those that took place before INCSEA) could have spiraled out of control into a larger confrontation. The regular meetings and other protocols put into practice by the agreement definitely changed the behavior of the Soviet and American navies, but the world's oceans have become much more complicated, and crowded, since then.

Territorial waters, internationally recognized as having a 12-mile limit, have traditionally been guarded by force of arms, but there are also exclusive economic zones (EEZs), which have vastly expanded because of changes made to the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea (UNCLOS) over the last quarter-century. Winkler reveals that the changes to UNCLOS were not prompted by the Cold War at sea, but the "Cod War at sea" between political allies (and economic adversaries) Iceland and Great Britain during the 1970s. Although it might sound humorous, World War III just might break out over such a dispute.  The Argentine coast guard sank a Chinese fishing vessel for poaching in its EEZ in 2016, but the rapacious fleet just keeps coming.

Most globes and maps of the world are careful to delineate political boundaries between nations, oftentimes rendering countries in different colors. The oceans, however, from the shoreline of one nation to another thousands of miles away, are generally a solid blue the world over. If maps were to faithfully represent the territorial waters claimed by various countries, plus their EEZs, then these maps and globes would confuse even veteran mariners. That is partly because sea boundaries would differ from nation to nation, as some claims are internationally recognized, while others aren't. While many modern maps note disputed land areas such as Western Sahara and Kashmir, The Peoples Republic of China's (PRC's) self-declared Exclusive Economic Zone in the South China Sea doesn't generally show up, unless you count those made by the Chinese themselves, citing age-old charts giving them the rights to those waters. Other nearby countries have their own maps to refute those claims, and the disputation will go tortuously onward until someone inevitably gets hurt.

While the history of wrangling between the Soviet and American diplomats before and after INCEA are well-covered, coverage of incidents between the Americans and the Mainland Chinese are notably lacking. The People's Liberation Army Navy (PLAN) does not make an appearance until the final chapter, specifically, page 202 of Winkler's 213-page book, as though maritime confrontation with that nation only became an issue after the Tienanmen Square democracy protests were crushed in 1989. Although updated to include the Military Maritime Consultative Agreement reached with China in 1998, itself a version of INCSEA, coverage of the long and sporadically violent road leading to that agreement is fragmentary.


Aerial incidents with the PRC go back nearly as far as those with the USSR. A Navy P2V was shot down over the South China Sea by Chinese antiaircraft fire on January 18, 1953, at the same time 768,000 American and other United Nations troops were fighting over one million PLA "volunteers" in North Korea. Let us also not forget that the longest-held American prisoner of the Cold War, John T. Downey, was shot down the year before that and imprisoned for over two decades by the Chinese.  In April 2001 they even got their hands on a Navy EP-3E electronic surveillance aircraft after one of their J-8 fighters collided with it and the American pilot landed on Hainan Island. Norman Friedman observed in the May 2001 U.S. Naval Institute Proceedings that "a cold war with the Chinese is developing, and the EP-3E incident will be seen, in five or ten years, as an important early indication of just where the situation was going."

The 9/11 attacks that occurred just over five months later and the ongoing wars which followed have preoccupied the Defense Department ever since. The monstrous financial costs of those wars have undoubtedly diverted crucial investment away from the U.S. Navy, which has struggled to back up the “Pacific Pivot” attempted by the Obama Administration. Today the Hainan Incident has been all but forgotten.


Although that incident does receive coverage in Incidents at Sea, there is a pressing need for a more comprehensive history of run-ins with the PLAN and their proxies.  The resurgent Russian navy is potentially no less lethal than the PLAN, yet in terms of a real possibility of a massive war at sea, China is a much more likely candidate. The PRC's communist party has withstood every challenge it has encountered since 1949, ascending to the top of the communist world even as it faced down and destroyed its greatest domestic challengers fifty years later, yet it has yet to unify the whole nation under their red banner.

For 69 years, the United States Navy and those of its allies have been the only thing standing in the way of national unification. While recent Russian fleet activities, particularly those involving its sole remaining carrier, have been the subject of derision or even scorn, PLAN activities have been nothing to make light of, with formations made up of modern vessels surrounding its first aircraft carrier that can be seen from orbitA second carrier is undergoing sea trials, and undoubtedly more are on the way.  


Despite the lighter treatment of the PLAN, suffice to say that this Incidents at Sea is rooted in decades of painstaking research and extensive interviews with key players in the history of naval diplomacy between United States and the Soviet empire, followed by the Russian Federation.

The Hampton Roads Naval Museum's library contains many books on weapons and warfighting, but not enough on diplomatic mechanisms and peacemaking, which makes Incidents at Sea a most welcome addition. Dr. Winkler has refined a book explaining how World War III has been avoided on the high seas (so far) with the Russians, but perhaps a second volume along these lines, one dealing with the Chinese, is now in order.



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