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NOTICE:
Re: 17 May, 1945 The attached story "Destroyer Action" is being sent to
you and may be read by your immediate family and girl friend.
YOU ARE CAUTIONED, HOWEVER, THAT THIS IS NOT A RELEASE FOR PRESS OR
RADIO PUBLICATION…..
If you are approached by the press or radio concerning publication of
this story, or any part of it, inform them that they must get permission
from the local U.S. Navy Public Relations Officer to release the story,
and that in any event, the name DOUGLAS H. FOX MUST NOT be mentioned.
"A Pacific Fleet Destroyer" should be substituted for the name DOUGLAS
H. FOX.
R.M. PITTS
Commander, U.S. Navy
U.S.S. DOUGLAS H. FOX (DD-779)
C/o Fleet Post Office
San Francisco, California
DD 779/A12
DESTROYER ACTION
As told by
Miles E. Lewis, Chief Yeoman, USNR
San Francisco, California
"Man for man and gun for gun, the fightingest ship of the Navy." That
is what seagoing men think of U.S. Destroyers, the indomitable "tin
cans." And one evening off Okinawa Gunto, a former Japanese island,
U.S.S. DOUGLAS H. FOX added another page to the glowing chapters of
destroyer history. Commanded by Commander Ray M. Pitts, USN, of 333
N. Croft, Hollywood, Calif., she met and defeated an attack by a group
of Japanese suicide planes intent on her destruction. In this type of
action only one can survive, and once more a gallant destroyer steamed
away from the field victorious.
All hands will long remember that eventful evening on 17 May 1945. A
beautiful orange sun faded beneath the horizon, the warmth of late
spring was gone and men on station topside could be seen pulling on
their heavy weather jackets to guard against a cool night breeze. The
day before had been spent in renewing our supply of ammunition, depleted
in a previous action, and only this morning we had put to sea in search
of the enemy. In less than twelve hours after weighing anchor, we met
him and took his measure.
We were looking for trouble of any kind, but expect more opposition from
the "Divine Wind", or "Kamikazes," as the Japanese have named their
Special Attack Corps of suicide planes. Kamikaze pilots are dedicated
to self-destruction; they attend their own funerals before taking off on
a one-way trip and believe that they attain Godhood by destroying the
Emperors enemies at the cost of their own lives. When a target is
sighted they dive their planes into it without hesitation, making no
attempt to evade or escape.
While our swift Marine Corps Fighters hummed overhead, we felt that our
sails were properly reefed to Mr. Tojo's deadly breeze, but with the approach
of evening twilight we knew that the day-flying Corsairs must soon return to
their island base and we would face the night without their comforting
shadows.
"Sound General quarters!"
The harsh voice of the public address system echoed throughout the ship.
Up the ladders from below decks, scrambled the men off watch who had been
resting as best they could for the inevitable evening alert. Swiftly they
swung out their guns and pulled their battle helmets down over their
foreheads. Telephone circuits crackled and became alive with preliminary
reports, "Main Battery manned and ready!" "Machine Gun battery manned and
ready!" Quietly and with the quick, sure motions that bespeaks careful
training, the crew of the DOUGLAS H. FOX prepared for battle.
My station was on the bridge alongside the Skipper as his talker on the
Captain's Command Circuit. It was my duty to receive the reports from
the many groups of the battle organizations through the ship. When they
were all ready, to notify the Skipper. This was done in a matter of
seconds and he acknowledged my signal, made by forming "O" with thumb
and forefinger, with a quick nod. On our bridge we use many hand signals
in place of spoken words which are usually drowned out by the roar of
gunfire, when action is joined.
To call for maximum speed the Skipper would wave one hand in a rapid
circular motion over his head, the signal used by aircraft pilots to
turn on engines. A distinctive motion of his right arm indicated that
he wanted the rudder put hard over in that direction. In anticipation
of action, we now reviewed these signals so that our maneuverability could
be used to best advantage. The Skipper had in mind making the suicide planes
miss the ship in one way or another, just so long as they missed, like the
old Galloping Ghost using his famous swivel hips on the gridiron, leaving
tacklers strewn in his path. He felt that it should take the best tackler
on the Nipponese teams to haul down a scampering FOX.
Soon the voice of Lt. Comdr. C. H. Carlos, USN, of Cambridge,
Massachusetts, came over the Captain's Telephone, from his station
below in Combat Information Center, "There is a bogey (Jap plane)
seventy miles west of us." Something told us that we had felt the first
light gust of the Divine Wind, In a few minutes Mr. Carlos spoke again.
"Combat air patrol is returning to base." Dusk was settling fast and
our sky-raiding Marines were being called in. The Captain cleared all
telephone circuits with a lifted hand and his talker stood ready to
relay a message. "All Stations topside," he said, "if you will look
on our starboard beam you can see our Combat Air Patrol. They are on
their way home. We are on our own from now on. Heads UP!" Nothing
more was needed to bring our crew to peak alertness.
The crew, made up of healthy American boys from most of the 48 states,
was a good one. Since putting DOUGLAS H. FOX in commission, six months
before, the time had been spent in training, shakedown, more training
and recently a little action. In general, it had been tiresome and
boring, but now we knew the test would come shortly. Much, very much,
is expected of a "tin can" sailor.
An electric tension spread through the men at their stations. Lookouts
were straining their eyes towards the darkening horizon. Gun crews
repeatedly inspected their weapons and the ammunition in its ready
stowage. The Skipper sat hunched in a seat on the open bridge while
our Communications Officer, Ltjg N. H. Witschen, USNR, of Jacksonville,
Florida conned the ship. We were ready.
A supporting destroyer reported an enemy plane to the west, low on the
water. The Divine Wind! Above the pilot house our gun director whined
as it trained out to pick up our first target. It seems to those on the
bridge that a train is passing overhead when LT. J. H. DAVIS, USN, of
Kansas City, Missouri, starts driving his director around like a whirling
dervish. The huge box-like gun director which carries several men to
work its delicate precision instruments, turned its face to the west,
came to an abrupt stop, backed up slightly, then settled down to a
steady turn, following with its powerful eyes the tiny black speck
far out on the horizon. Gun barrels rose and fell as they followed
the slow, even motion of the ship, their muzzles like puppies sniffing
at a rathole. The Skipper stood silently peering over the starboard
bridge wing; he need give no orders, long weeks of training has
relegated the authority to join in action to his gunnery officer,
and he knew Mr. Davis would start shooting at the proper time.
All this takes minutes to tell, but it happened in seconds.
Impatiently the Skipper was first on one side of the bridge and then the
other. At each new report he would jump to that wing for a look, then
signal to Fred Adamak, Coxswain, USNR, of Milwaukee, Wisconsin, at the
wheel to turn the ship and engage the most dangerous enemy. Our maneuvers
were sharp and fast. Before one turn was completed we were heeling over
to start in the opposite direction. Ensign Wallace Follette of Forest
Grove, Oregon and his lookouts atop the pilot house were riding their
stations like bronco-busters in a rodeo. At one time during the action
J. C. Crowe, Yeoman third class, of Catron, Missouri, was seen climbing
back up the side of the pilot house like a human fly. He had been
catapulted to the deck below by a violent maneuver.
Every gun on the ship joined the action and a sheet of flame signaled
the end of another Kamikaze. A third dipped his nose into a shallow
dive, aimed at our starboard beam.
Ellis Parkins, Chief Gunner's mate, USN, of San Antonio, Texas said to Daniel McDevitt, Chief Torpedoman's
Mate, of Philadelphia, Penn., "Its him or us!" It was him! Their light
machine guns riveted the mark of death across the motor of the onrushing
plane. With a tremendous explosion, Mr. Tojo hit the water just 50 yards
short of the ship and showered debris all over the gunners who had shot
him down.
The smoke from our guns lay astern like a shroud across the water.
Also our stacks were belching black smoke occasionally as the engineers
swung their throttles wide for more speed. Attempting to evade the
deadly blast of our guns, the enemy planes dived into the top of our
smoke pall and began a semi-obscured run from astern. But they could
not avoid the electronic eyes of our radar and we knew exactly where
they were and what they were doing. The Skipper passed word below to
"knock off the smoke," hoping to bring our pursuers again into full
view. From Lt. J.C. Jones of Hattiesburg, Miss., the Engineering
officer, came the quick query, "Do you want smoke or speed?" The
Skipper grinned, for he knew we needed speed too, and answered, "No
smoke," then signaled the rudder hard over in a confusing turn for
the half blind Japs astern. They should pop out of the haze and find
themselves facing the entire broadside of our anti-aircraft battery.
He peered into the smoke cloud astern, there two Nippers out there, both
closing. One burst into view and he shouted orders, turning his mount to
meet the headlong rush of a Kamikaze. Too close! The machines gun battery
would have to take that one; where was the other? "Train left," he called
to his trainer, Jesse York, Seaman first class, USNR, of Markham, Texas.
"Number two ought to be dead astern!" One quick glance at the blazing red
emblems on the Jap wing was all Frank Coultas, Seaman first class, USNR, of
Portland, Oregon, pointer, needed. He heard "ready" reports from the Gun
Captains behind him; a slight pressure on the handwheels brought his
crosswires into the enter of a whirling propeller. "Fire!" He yelled,
and his right index finger clamped the firing tripper in a firm grip.
Stogsdill's vision was blurred by the crash of his guns, but an instant
later he could see clearly, see the wispy tongues of flame that had begun
to grow in the white froth of our wake. He pressed the button on his sound
powered telephone and reported, "Splash, on Tojo."
By now reports were coming in from damage control parties. Ensign Leo
Fay of Boston, Mass., officer-in-charge of Repair One was seriously
wounded but still directing his men in a compartment which had taken
the full force of the bomb blast. Ammunition was on fire at both gun
mounts and unwounded survivors were busy throwing these burning parcels
of destruction over the side. Hoses were led out and jumpers rigged
around broken sections of Firemains. Ensign R.R. Conley of Ochelata,
Oklahoma led another Repair Party forward and took over from Ensign
Fay who was suffering from multiple injuries and died the next day.
Fires were brought quickly under control and it was determined that the
ship had suffered no underwater damage. Wounded were being treated in
the Officer's Wardroom Mess by Ltjg. O.C. Stegmaier, of Jefferson City,
Missouri, where he had a miniature hospital with an improvised operating
table and many other facilities for administering first aid.
We breathed a little easier now. Darkness had settled down; only a
sliver of moon hung in the sky, not enough light for concentrated
attacks. Exactly six minutes had passed since we had fired the first
shot. A supporting Destroyer closed us at the Skipper's request to
send over medical assistance. Just when a new bogey appeared and we
squared off our remaining guns to engage him should he close. The
other destroyer opened fire, but the two ships were so close that our
guns were masked and needed to hold fire until clear. A quick maneuver
brought us around, but accurate shooting from the "tin can" commanded by
Commander A.B. Coxe of Washington, D.C., drove this Nipper away. He was
labeled snooper, one who had not joined the Kamikaze Corps.
But this time the maneuver was too late. With a roar like the passing
of a great wind the first plane came in on us. Machine gun bullets in
hails, hammered him in mid-flight, but his aim had been true and he
continued to hurdle on while parts of his place disintegrated and fell
away before our eyes. His tail melted and drifted lazily down as he
passed our stern. The pilot, already dead, could be seen slumped
forward over the controls. "Heads up, bridge," was heard on one
telephone circuit as a talker aft tried to warn us that this one had
not been splashed. Then Frances O'Hara, Seaman second class, USNR, of
Pekin, Illinois, bridge talker on the battle circuit, sounded off "HIT
THE DECK--HIT THE DECK!" We had practiced this before, to throw
ourselves out prone on the deck in an effort protect ourselves from
flying splinters. It reminded us of tackling dummy drill in football
season and in practice we had resented the bruises, the indignity of
the whole procedure. Oh how glad we were that the Skipper had made us
do it over and over again before, until each of us could melt instantly
into the smallest allotted spot.
The wreck of this plane might have missed us too, had it not been that his
wingtip grazed our mast, taking off the port yardarm, and thus deflected, he
spun around into the ship. The same wing nipped the Director, clipped off
the bridge windshield and crashed against the face of a 5" gun mount. The
remainder of the plane caromed against another gun mount, killing seven men
and wounding many others. His bombs exploded between these mounts and flames
shot high in the air. Shrapnel and jagged splinters rained about the decks
and the floor boards heaved. Aside from the great rushing sound or "swoosh"
of the plane passing overhead there was little noise. We climbed instantly
to our feet and began to untangle the telephone cords and replace our
helmets, all of us a little dazed from the concussion. The Skipper was
already inspecting the bridge to see if any controls were knocked out.
He spoke to Thomas MacNamara, Storekeeper first class, USN, of Boulder,
Montana, another talker, "Tell damage control I want a report immediately!"
His request was not needed. The well trained damage control parties directed
by Lt. J. H. Howard, USNR, of New York, N.Y., were already probing into the
flames and wreckage.
What had become of the second plane in that smoke screen? If he were
going to hit us we would have felt him by now. To a man, the thought
hit us at the same time, and we peered out into the gloom for some
sign of him. There astern was a little flicker of light, flames
licking away at the remains of a crashed plane. Were those remnants
of the one we had received aboard? Or could it be--? The command
circuit carried the voice of Lt. Davis, "tell the Captain that Stogsdill
splashed the second Tojo in local control." A sign of relief, Claude
Stogsdill, Gunner's Mate first class, USN, of Dorchester, Mass., was
Mount Captain of an after 5" mount.
During the action of fire he stood with his head out the top of a small
hatch, observing the effect of fire from his mount and issuing orders
to his crew now and then as he received instructions from Lt. Davis in
the Director. His job had been to train the crew to peak efficiency.
Once the action was joined, his job was done, his men were on their own.
Unless--- unless there was a target for him that Mr. Davis could not
take under fire with the forward guns. "Commence firing!" Mr. Davis'
command was echoed by the crash of our main battery, five inch anti-
aircraft guns that hurled steely defiance at the enemy. Rapid fire now,
and the throaty roar deepened like an express train entering a tunnel.
Then silence. Far in the distance a glowing funeral pyre marked the
grave of a Kamikaze. A little man from across the sea stood humbly
before his God-Emperor.
But the moment's silence was deceptive. More bogey reports were heard,
and suddenly they were all around us. The Main battery opened up again
and was quickly followed by our lighter weapons as the enemy pack closed
in for a kill. Lookouts atop the pilot house were heard "starboard 2 up
3, starboard 9 up 5, port 6 up 3," singing out the position of enemy
aircraft in their sectors, all low on the water and closing fast. The
Skipper by now had given his waving signal speed and Marshall Williams,
Radioman third class, USN-I, of Denver, Colorado, was telling the
engineers to "pour on the coal." This they did, and the bow of DOUGLAS
H. FOX lifted high and sent the spray flying.
Once more Commander Coxe brought his ship alongside and his medical
personnel jumped onto the deck of the DOUGLAS H. FOX. Reports were
received on the bridge concerning the condition of our wounded; a few
men were in serious condition and the Skipper asked for medical assistance
from still another destroyer which was approaching the scene. He then
decided to return to base and upon the arrival of a relief destroyer, we
set course to a friendly harbor.
Heroes? There were many, a roster of the ship's company would just
about cover it. But still a better name for DOUGLAS H. FOX men, that
fateful night, one that they understand better and are proud to
wear---Good Destroyer Sailors… "Tin Can Men."
YMC, Miles Lewis, 17 May, 1945.
THE SECRETARY OF THE NAVY
WASHINGTON
The President of the United States takes pleasure in presenting the NAVY CROSS to
ENSIGN LEO DANIEL FAY, UNITED STATES NAVAL RESERVE
For service as set forth in the following
CITATION:
" For extraordinary heroism in the line of duty while in action against the enemy. He was in charge
of the Forward Repair Party of his ship on 17 May 1945 off OKINAWA GUNTO when that ship was engaged
by several enemy planes, one of which crashed into the forecastle causing injuries to Ensign Fay from
which he died within twenty- eight hours. In spite of a broken leg and arm, a serious head wound and
forty percent burns, he directed the men under his command in repair activities which are directly
responsible for saving the ship. He continued to exercise this command with consummate courage and
skill until he was carried away from this station. His conduct throughout was in keeping with the
highest traditions of the armed forces of the United States."
For the President,
James V. Forrestal
Secretary of the Navy
September 1945
Ensign Fay was married to Elizabeth Marie Fay, 24 Bridge Street, South Dartmouth. Mass.
BRONZE STAR MEDALS (with Combat "v") were also awarded to:
Lt. Commander Conrad H. Carlson, USN
"For meritorious achievement in connection with operations against the enemy while serving as
Evaluator in the Combat Information Center on the United States Ship DOUGLAS H. FOX in the
vicinity of Okinawa on 17 May 1945. During a highly coordinated Japanese suicide attack against
his ship on radar picket station, his outstanding designation of the targets resulted in taking
under fire all of the attacking planes and the destruction of five. His devotion to duty was in
keeping with the highest traditions of the United States Naval Service."
Lt. James H. Davis, USN
"For meritorious achievement in connection with operations against the enemy while serving as Gunnery
Officer of the United States Ship DOUGLAS H. FOX in the vicinity of Okinawa on 17 May 1945. During a
savage Japanese suicide attack the superb skill with which he controlled his guns resulted in the
destruction of five enemy planes. His devotion to duty under severe enemy attack was in keeping with
the highest traditions of the United States Naval Service."
Claude E. Stogsdill, Gunner's Mate First Class, USN
"For heroic achievement in connection with operations against the enemy while serving as mount captain
on board a United States destroyer. On 17 May 1945 off Okinawa, when his ship was attacked by Japanese
aircraft, he caused his mount to deliver accurate and effective gunfire in local control and shot down
one enemy plane diving on the ship. His outstanding leadership and conduct was in keeping with the
highest traditions of the United States Naval Service."
PERSONAL ACCOUNTS FROM THE KAMIKAZE ATTACK - MAY 17, 1945
Bruce, Got your letter this morning and enjoyed reading it. It's amazing
what one starts to think about when trying to recapitulate what took place
50 plus years ago. As you know most of us aboard the Fox were rather young
not having seen our 20th birthday as yet. All 300 plus of us were thrown
together to attempt to do a job that had to be done, but very few knew how
we were supposed to do it. When we saw the Destroyer in port on the 17th
that had been on picket station 9 on the 16th with most of it's super
structure missing, as well as hearing they had lost 150 men, it sent a
chill down our spines. The main reason being, we knew who was going to
go out on picket station 9 that night. The Zellers, our sister ship,
was also going with us. Our skipper said he knew that 9 was the worst
of the stations as it was directly between Okinawa and Japan, and that
was where most of the kamikaze's would be operating at dusk. He also
said he would see that we not only got out there, but he would be
responsible for getting us back. He did that, but 11 did not come
back alive.
My battle station was gunner on a 20mm gun on the gun tub of stack two.
When the kamikaze's started coming in, all hell broke loose and our five
inch mounts, of which we had three twins, all of the quad 40's, the six
twin 50's, and a passel of 20 mm. were sending out an awfully lot of lead
and noise The feeling I had as all of this firing was taking place was
that it felt about as effective as if someone with a saucer of green
peas was tossing them out one at a time. Probably this feeling came
from seeing how aggressive the Japanese planes were and how nothing
seemed to stop them. Every so often you would see one splash, but
they just kept coming. The safety valve on the boilers had been tied
down, as I understand, and we were putting out smoke like mad. The
Captain called the engineering officer and said cut off the smoke.
The reply was, do you want speed, or do you want smoke. We continued
with our smoke. By the time we were hit, we had lost all of our five inch
guns. The one on the fantail had plane fuel all over it where a kamikaze
had just missed us, spilling gas all over. A spark would have caused all
sorts of problems and probably more lives, and so we could do very little
in defending ourselves other than the smaller guns. Possibly leaving the
smoke going could have been our downfall, but who is to know. The plane
that got us with a 500 lb. bomb came in through the smoke, passing just
over my head close enough so we could feel the heat from his engine. It
clipped off part of the yardarm, knocking out mount number two as far as
firepower was concerned and demolishing mount number one.
It was scary and something one never forgets. We were supposed to be
repaired in the Philippines, but they had no room for us. Plan number
two was to repair the ship in the Hawaiian Islands, but still no room.
From there we were sent to the Bethlehem naval yard in San Francisco and
they did accept us. This was great for me as Modesto, CA was my home.
Our journey from the grave yard back to S. F. was quite a story in itself.
We hit a storm that would make people on a good sound Destroyer nervous,
but where we had 4 x 4's shoring up our bow, it was a bit spooky. I had
the opportunity to be at the helm from time to time, and when we were
taking 45 degree rolls, I'm sure my hair was standing on end. From my
understanding, after the Fox was repaired word was that we were to head
back out to the Pacific to help in the battle. Most of us were dreading
it. In fact it took a couple of years before I felt at ease when a plane
would pass overhead. About that time the bombs were dropped on Japan and
the war came to an end. I spent V J day in Modesto. When we did report
back to the ship the orders were we were to head for New York for Veterans
day. That was mighty good news.
Anyway Bruce, I'm sorry to have rambled, but hopefully it will give you
some of the feelings and observations I had then. I hope it doesn't sound
too melodramatic, but with age one tends to tell things differently.
Regardless of what anyone says, war is scary. Ted Sypolt, Plank Owner,
in a letter to Bruce Hanson, who's father was on Fox.
CLYDE WELSH, S1c, to HENRY SEEGERS, GM3c, on JANUARY 21, 2001. Both are
Plank Owners.
Hank, The battle I was talking about, was the first one about a week
before we got hit, and we got credit for just one of the seven that
was splashed. The other skipper took credit for six, and that was what
I was asking about. How many did we really get? If you remember it
rained all the next week. As for the trainers station; the fuse setter
had his face pushed into the glass and was taken to the wardroom, and
the sight setter was killed. They had to take a part of the plane off
him to get him out. He was the mailman we picked up in Pearl and Bornemann
replaced. Also I understood that the trainer wasn't spotted for some time
before they got him down and into sick bay. He made it. I saw him in New
York around Navy Day with his folks. I don't know who you threw over board.
It may have just been - pilot parts. We didn't need them any way..
Oh, that book I was telling you about. The Fox is in there, but just a
paragraph. The guy that wrote it didn't have any of the crews input to
add, and he gave us credit for seven planes. But the rest of the book is
great stuff and has stories about some of the ships that were hit. The
ship that was with us the first time we were out, got hit in the anchor
with a five inch. The USS Zellars DD 777, my other can, and the Aaron Ward,
the ship that didn't have any thing left between the bridge and Mt.3,
that was anchored close to us before we got hit, were in the book. All
122 Destroyers that were hit are in the book. Did you know that the number
of Tin Can sailors that were wounded or killed (over half were killed) in
just 90 days, totaled 9760. That's 13 % of the total casualties
experienced by the Navy in the war. Of the 122 hit, 47 were ether sunk,
scuttled or scrapped. This has me upset. I didn't know that and I doubt
that many do. The Japs have a shrine honoring their Kamikaze's. We didn't
even get a "thank you", or "kiss my ass", for that battle. No group of any
U.S. Force lost anywhere near 20% of the crews as the Destroyers on the
picket stations did, nor has much been said about the 122 ships (82% of the
148 Destroyers on station), that were hit. Didn't mean to go on so long
Get me squared away with that first fight, ok. P.S. How about sending this
out. Maybe we can get some talk going between the Plank Owners, so the kids
can get to know how it was. To one good Tin Can sailor from another. Clyde
Welsh, S1c
Note: The book which Clyde referred to is probably "The Two Ocean War" by
Samuel Eliot Morrison (1963), who as the official historian for the Navy
wrote a fifteen volume history from which this book was condensed. The
following paragraphs are copied from page 556.
"Although your historian himself has been under kamikaze attack, and
witnessed the hideous forms of death and torture inflicted by that weapon,
words fail to do justice to the sailors who met it so courageously. Men on
radar picket station, to survive, not only had to strike own the flaming
terror of the Kamikazes roaring out of the blue like thunderbolts of Zeus:
they were under constant strain and intense discomfort. In order to supply
high steam pressure to build full speed rapidly in a destroyer, its
superheaters, built only for intermittent use, had to be lighted for
three and four days running. For days and even nights on end, the crew
had to stand general quarters while the ship was kept "buttoned up".
Men had to keep in readiness for the instant reaction and split- second
timing necessary to riddle a plane bent on sacrificial death. Sleep became
the rarest commodity and choicest luxury, like water to a shipwrecked
mariner."
"The capture of Okinawa cost the United States Navy 34 naval vessels and
craft sunk, 368 damaged, over 4900 sailors killed or missing in action,
and over 4800 wounded. Tenth Army lost 7613 killed or missing in action
and 31,800 wounded. Sobering as it is to record such losses, the sacrifice
of these men is brightened by our knowledge that the capture of Okinawa
helped to bring Japanese leaders to face the inevitable surrender. "
Conversations at the 2002 Reunion with Mel Saucier, Lloyd Garrett, Plank
Owners, etal
"We were sailing without air cover, when we saw about 11 Kamikaze's coming.
Every time you look up, here's one here, and here's one here, and here's
one here. I don't know how many of 'em we shot down, but the plane that
hit the yard arm, we already had the tail blown off of it. It hit the
yardarm, spun around and nailed the gun mount, just peeled it like an
orange. I think it killed all seven men in there. There were three more
killed in the powder room. We were dead in the water, just sitting there
for a while, but we didn't come under attack." Mel Saucier, S2
"The morning after we were hit, we went up to the
gun mount that was demolished, and
these guys looked like that hash, which is what we had for breakfast that
morning. You could see so many guys with their trays scraping that hash
over the side. They just couldn't eat it. I was by stack number two, on
the 20 mm, and in fact, when it came in, it hit the yard arm, which wasn't
too much higher than my head, so I could feel the heat of the engines as
they went over. Lloyd Garrett, S2c(TM )
"I was on the bridge manning a twin 40mm director when I spotted a
bogie coming down in our smoke stack, just missing the radar antenna
and then crashing, and blowing up #2 gun mount. We lost all our power;
we were dead in the water. That's what I remember vividly. I lost many
good friends that were manning the gun mount". Pete Del Puppa, S1c(FC),
September, 2000.
"I had a great time at the San Diego reunion (2000) and hope to be at
the next one. I was in the Forward Fire Room during general quarters
and for regular duty until October 1945. Thereafter was in the Engine
room and the Oil and Water King. Norm Handley, S2c.
S2c Dave Turvey's Recollections From May 17, 1945
My name is Don Morrison and I'm a Viet Nam era Navy veteran. My uncle David O. Turvey was one of
those seriously wounded on the Fox that day. He never did talk too much about it, but just before
he died of cancer in 1993, he related to me some of what happened. He recalled someone picking him
up and saying "this one's dead too" and he managed to groan and somehow convey that he was still
alive so he didn't go over the side. He spent two years at Oak Knoll Naval Hospital before being
sent home. Funny part is, when I was injured in Viet Nam and sent to Oak Knoll for treatment, Uncle
Dave came to visit and discovered that I was in the same ward he was in in 1945, Ward 45-A. He was a
good man and worked at Mare Island Naval Shipyard for several years as security before retiring.
I still miss him. Don Morrison, July 3, 2006.
Excerpted from "My Navy Experience Aboard the Fox", a Sixteen Page Narrative Written by
James A. Fleming, Lt.jg, 1944-1946, for his family and friends in 1991.
I graduated from Villanova in 1935, married Anne Reynolds in 1938, and with one son born in 1940, I
volunteered and was accepted for officer training in December 1943. In June 1944 after six months at
various schools I was sent to Treasure Island and then to Bremerton to pick up the Fox then readying
for sea duty. (After covering training over the next four months, Lt. Fleming gives a vivid personal
account of the Kamikaze attack of 17 May 1945 off Okinawa).
My general quarters station was on the port wing of the bridge, just outside the door to the pilothouse.
I controlled the AA guns on the port side, which included a quad 40 mm, a twin 40 mm, and eleven 20 mm
guns. I wore a life jacket and turtle hat, and my phone was directly to the guns. On either side was a
talker, one connected to the bridge, and the other to C.I.C. I became convinced that nothing could get
through our defense. With tracer bullets it created what looked like a saucer of fire, truly beautiful
and reassuring. We went to general quarters a half hour before dawn, a half hour before sunset and
whenever enemy planes were reported in the area. Proper sleep was impossible, so you got what you could.
I arranged with my two talkers for twenty minute rest breaks. We slept standing up, our arms on the rail
and head down. It helped to relieve the tension, but really there was no sleep.
Captain Pitts, always trying to improve our readiness, decided to train the "black" gang to man the guns
while the deck group went below for training. We were in this condition when we encountered our first
enemy raid. On May 17, 1945, at dusk after our Combat air Patrol had been recalled to base, our first
contact with the enemy was a single plane which was shot down by our 5" guns. The a well concentrated
attack developed. Some said there were eleven planes, others claimed twenty (how the hell anyone had
time to count was beyond me). They came in from all sides like bee's.
At this point an enemy was reported coming in on the port quarter, following our smoke. He was reported
as having his tail shot off but he was able to head for our bow. His wing hit our mast, shearing it off.
He dropped his bomb into the second 5" mount, and it blew up a the base with more noise than I have ever
heard.
Everyone was at their battle stations. I was on the port wing, just outside the bridge door, directing
the AA guns . On my right was my talker to the bridge. On my left, was a big kid about eighteen, who
reminded me of the fat guy in the Laurel & Hardy movies. He was the talker to C.I.C. The concussion
of the bomb blew me back into the flag bag. I have no idea how long it took me to recover. My instinct
told me to get back to my station. I ran my hand down the line of my ear phones. The end had just pulled
out of the jack, so I plugged it back. The noise on the line sounded like the center of a bee's nest.
Again by instinct I gave the proper command, loud and clear, "Quiet on the line!" The noise went dead,
just as if I had pressed a button, but for only a few seconds. Back came the reply, "Ah blow it out
your ass!" Again a few seconds of silence, then spontaneous laughing. I still say this eliminated all
tension and returned everyone to proper order. Word soon came over my phone that a bogey had splashed
over the fantail covering that whole area with gasoline. All guns were ordered to cease fire.
At that time I realized the talker on my right was missing. It was getting dark, and I reached down to
the deck with my right had to see if he might be laying on the deck. Doing this, I covered the entire
area of our battle station. My hand was now covered by some kind of grease but nothing solid. John was
of Greek extraction, and as hairy as an animal. His one ambition was to fire a 20 mm gun. Unfortunately,
he was too short, and was unable to lower the barrel of the gun. He even went to the trouble of getting
a wooden box to stand on, to show Jim Davis, Gunnery officer, that he could handle the gun. This was not
acceptable, but Jim said he would place him where the action was, and gave him to me as a talker. He
proved himself capable of performing a very necessary link in our communications. At dawn, we found
chunks of flesh on the deck covered with the hair we used to identify him. It was assumed that the
concussion carried the main part of his body overboard, No doubt he saved my life. At 2145 we secured
from General Quarters, set Readiness Condition II and held general quarters for muster. It was then
that John Constantine Pilafas, S1c, USNR, was declared missing in action. (Seaman Pilafas was one of
ten Fox sailors who gave their lives for our country. May they rest in peace forever).
A great amount of tension was evident. All the seriously wounded were on stretchers outside the
Wardroom waiting their turn for medical care. I walked by to see if I could in any way do something
to ease their pain. I talked to a few, some were screaming with pain. This I will never forget - one
of the disabled called out, "Oh Mr. Fleming, for Christ's sake shoot me". I told him he would be fine,
and got out of there. The smell of burnt flesh was horrible, and sometimes I imagine that I can still
smell it. I went down the port passageway where the less seriously wounded were being treated in our
Sick Bay. Fred Adamak, Coxswain Third Class, was waiting his turn. He had a piece of shrapnel through
his right cheek, but seemed perfectly at ease. He had trouble talking, otherwise he assured me he felt
fine.
On Friday, 18 May 1945 at 0515, Ensign Leo Fay, the only officer fatally wounded, and a large group of
enlisted wounded were transferred to the U.S.S. PCE 853 for transfer to the Hospital Ship APA 170. At
1315 the deceased men were transferred to Zamami Shima Cemetery, Kerama Retto. We also buried five or
six men at sea with military honors. This I never understood, unless they were so mutilated they
couldn't be properly indentified.
I am not sure of the date or time, but all officers were in the Wardroom and Mr. Carlson, Executive
Officer, asked for a volunteer to supervise the corpsmen on the forecastle who were trying to match
up body parts, heads, legs, arms etc with the proper bodies. After a long pause, seeing this had to
be done I volunteered. Sickening is the only word I can use to describe this experience. The largest
part of a body was placed on the deck in a long row. Then an attempt was made to match various parts
on the deck with a body. Dog tags were not available. We used tattoos, color of skin, hair color, and
body size. This was one hell of a task. It was done very carefully, and the men who actually did this
should have received high recognition, but they did not. Each body was then placed in a white blanket,
which went into a weighted canvas bag. This experience confirmed my feeling about the men buried at sea.
The Fox was in drydock in San Francisco when the war ended. After VJ Day a ten percent reduction in
Navy Reserve personnel was initiated. I hitched rides by air to Chicago and then took a train home.
I was discharged February 16, 1946, and my son was then 3 years old. A strange letter arrived from my
wife some time after the Kamikaze attack. She had a horrible dream that our ship had been hit, which
coincidentally was when the Fox was actually hit. We both have always felt it was a transcending event
by our minds at the exact time.
Lt. jg James A. Fleming, USNR, from a narrative written in 1999.
James Fleming died on September 5, 1996, at the age of 83. We are indebted to E.A.Wilde, Jr.,
Cdr. USNR (Ret.), who served aboard the Fox in 1950-52 for parts of this account, and to James A.
(Lex) Fleming Jr., Captain USN (Ret). On June 10, 2008 the following note was received from Lex
Fleming:
"My father was very proud of his service in the Navy and would absolutely revel in the fact that you
and others find it to be of interest. It played no small part in my heading to the Naval Academy in
retrospect. I and many others appreciate you all keeping the light burning in the Destroyer and Navy
world."
Recollections of Eddie Elliot, Baker 3rd, 1944- 1946
Yes, I am a plank-owner. The first thing I remember about the Fox was joining the first crew in Seattle.
I was a Cook (striker). And my first job was baking about 24 turkeys for our Thanksgiving dinner. Luckily
a corpsman came by about 5:30 a.m. with "Pink-ladies" to make the job more enjoyable.
After shakedown we left San Diego for Pearl Harbor. It was somewhat frightening at my age 18, seeing the
Carrier Franklin coming in, in bad shape, knowing that your heading in the direction she was coming from.
We left Pearl in the morning with sealed orders. Sometime later the Captain let us know we were headed for
Okinawa. We escorted an old Battleship, I believe it was the Mississippi. We had sonar contact and dropped
depth charges, and fired our "Y guns. My GQ station was a projectile handler in the aft Twin 5". When
we arrived in Okinawa, we tied up alongside the USS Arron Ward, which had also been hit. Needless to say
right in the area of my GQ station. Before our picket duty we joined in bombarding the island with our
5 " guns while the Battlewagons did 16" over our heads.
During a daylight operation we brought down a Kamikaze and brought him on board. On his person he had a
letter from his girlfriend which was read to the crew, telling him how proud she was of him for joining
the Kamikaze group. I don't remember if he was still alive or dead, but he was gone. On the night we were
hit, its amazing how quick you grow up.
Below deck in the squirrel cage the 5"projectile which weighs about 50 pounds felt like 5 pounds to the
keep the guys above busy. Luckily it paid off. We caught one trying to sneak up in our smoke. After the
attack we went topside to clear the 5" brass. We sure had a pile. Then learned of the buddies we lost.
We also lost our Baker, a hell of a way for me to become Baker 3rd class.
It's easy to see why only the young go to war. The older and more life experienced, would or should try to
find a better way. The next morning the sight was horrible. We tried to clean up the disaster. I still have
a part of the aluminum skin and fiber material from the Jap plane, and shrapnel which looked like a Ford
transmission gear broken into pieces. I know this because after leaving the service, I spent the next 40
years doing tune-up and electrical work on Fords.
Eddie (& Dee) Elliot, December 7, 2006
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