CHAPTER 1

Recruitment

Recollection #1:

Fall of 1943, World War II was at full swing, and I wastwenty-years old. For the past two years I had been a U.S. MarineCorp reservist while at the same time attending NorthwesternUniversity in Evanston, Illinois. At that time, a call to activeduty did not mean that I nor my fellow reservists, would haveto fight. Instead, we were to be awarded the title, Private FirstClass, along with a marine corps uniform, and sent to resideat a "marine barracks." In my case, "barracks" meant an N.U.fraternity house.

The plan was to no longer have any of us remain as justa marine "grunt" (marine slang for privates and non-coms).Instead, the plan was for us, as college students, to becomemarine officers. This meant we marines were supposed to stayin college until we were needed, and then, when called, go tothe officer's training school at Quantico, Virginia. There wewere to be graduated as second lieutenants. How long was itbefore I would have to go? I figured a year; meanwhile as thewar was raging worldwide the other marine reservists and Iwere supposed to remain in school. The reason for the delay,according to "scuttle-butt" (rumors) was that the marinesalready had a surfeit of officers and didn't need any more.

And so one day the time came when two dozen or so of mynewly recruited fellow marines and I lined up in civilian clothesoutside our "barracks:" in this case a fraternity house at theuniversity. This was in early September 1943. We stood there,shoulder pressed against shoulder, wearing mostly T-shirts andjeans (our marine uniforms were due to arrive days later). Andon the ground next to each marine was his suitcase containinghis other clothes and personal effects.

Standing in front of this lineup were two men in uniform.The one in the background was a marine captain, and the other,in front of him and nearest to us, was a platoon sergeant. Hewas in charge with the captain being there as an observer only.His cap set at exactly the correct angle and his brown tie tuckedinside his khaki shirt between the second and third button asmarine regulations required. His shirt sleeves and blue pantshad a red strip down each side (worn only by noncoms andofficers), had been ironed razor sharp and the shine on hisshoes blinded the eye.

So now the sergeant, let's call him Sergeant Lee, standingin front of us with his hands on his hips, barks out orders,"Attention! Line up! Tallest, left! Shortest, right! The rest standin between!" After a lot of shuffling the line gets formed; tallestleft, shortest right and the rest in between. Me? At six feet, Iended up amongst the few to the left. Sergeant Lee, again withhands on hips, shouts, "Attention! No talking!" I did my bestto obey. Head up, shoulders back, stomach sucked in. As fortalking, neither I nor anyone near me spoke a word, except forone person.

This was a guy standing three marines to my left. He wasabout my height and I did not know him, and in fact I had neverseen him before. What set him apart from the rest of us andhad raised the ire of Sergeant Lee was that he was talking, andmostly to himself. And not only that, his head was bobbing upand down, and he was laughing, giving the impression that hethought this whole procedure, as well as the sergeant, was abig joke.

Seeing this, Sergeant Lee walked over to him. He stoppedand said, "Okay, Loudmouth, knock it off." But Loudmouth paidno attention and kept on chuckling. This was too much for thegood sergeant. Standing back a few feet from his target, thesergeant made a tight right-hand fist. Then, with all his might,punched the marine in the stomach. It took but an instant,and Loudmouth began to gag and double over. Fortunately twomarines on each side of him seeing this, grabbed him just beforehis head hit the ground. Still holding him, they backed out of theline, laid him down, and then returned to their places. SergeantLee, as cool and collected as if the incident had never occurred,stepped back while turning to face us, commanded: "Attention!Line up!" Then, "Dress right." Lastly, "Troops, dismissed!" Andthat was it. From then on, the only time we college marinessaw the sergeant again was on the school's soccer field wherehe helped teach us how to march correctly. As f0r Loudmouth,no one saw him again.

So that was my introduction to the marines, as well as tothe war. It was also the day I felt I was beginning to graduatefrom my own fantasy world and enter the real world of reality.Now, a question is: could an incident as described above berepeated by the marines of today? I doubt it. It just wouldn'thappen. But things were different then. It was the early 1940'sand almost every one of my twenty-year old frat brothers hadleft or was leaving school. All in which were headed into eitherthe marines, army, navy, or the army air corps (later renamedair force). Therefore, there was scarcely an American familywho did not have a sad war story to tell such as what happenedto my Florida Uncle William's, and his wife Ruth's son, Bill.

In the spring of '43, their twenty-six-year old and onlychild, Bill, was piloting a four engine B-24 Flying Fortress("B" being the Boeing Co., the plane's maker) on a bombingmission over Germany when a German pilot flying a singleengine Messerschmitt 109 spotted his plane. This was followedby machine gun fire from the 109 which set all four of Bill'splane's engines ablaze and Bill had no choice except to dona parachute and bail out; all this having taken place at analtitude of 25,000 feet. Next, as the official report later stated,at 15,000 feet, the German pilot seeing Bill hanging beneath hisparachute and continuing to float down, spun his M-109 aroundand machine gunned him. My cousin Bill was dead before hehit the ground.

Suddenly, this then leads my mind to the story of my eleven-month-oldertwenty-five-year old brother, Burling. He, like ourcousin Bill, was a wartime pilot. And he, along with his copilot,flew a two-engine, cigar- shaped B-26 Marauder fighter/bomber. The word was that it was an extremely dangerousplane to fly and several were reported to have crashed withtheir young pilot trainees still aboard. One reason allegedlybeing that its wings were too narrow and short. At any rate,my brother had to fly the thing, and did so for twenty-fivesuccessful missions, taking off from a London U.S. Air Corpsbased airport to bomb Italian and German military airfieldsthat lay across the channel. Leading to late 1943, with therequired twenty-five missions under his belt, he came home,still remaining in the Air Corps.

But that's not the whole point of this story. The point is that,in the same room aboard the ship which took my brother toEurope, and war, in spring of 1943, were eleven other pilots,several of them B-26'ers. Of the twelve, only he and two others,neither a B-26'er, came home. Now was this because of thesuperiority of the enemy's flying capabilities or to an inferiorityof the B-26 planes? No one will ever know. But one thing I doknow, Jimmy Doolittle, the famed racing car driver, racing planeflyer and a war time four star Air Corps General, hearing aboutthe B-26 controversy, asked that he be given a B-26 for his ownofficial use. It's been reported that he thought it flew just great.But isn't that what you'd expect to hear from a Doolittle?

So now, everything you've read so far includes not only thebeginning but the end of my marine corps career. It actuallyceased in the spring of 1944 when I switched to the navy.Reason? Word had reached me that while there was no longera need for marine officers, there was a great need for navy ones,these to help in the execution and success of planned futurelandings of American troops on Japanese shores.

Which now brings me back to leaving NorthwesternUniversity. I soon found myself at Cornell College, located inIthaca, New York, taking special Naval courses which wouldhelp prepare me to become a Navy Ensign. A quick threemonths later, along with my new uniform and an Ensign's goldbars, I arrived at Melville, Rhode Island. There, I was to betaught how to command a Navy PT (Patrol Torpedo) boat, whichmeant learning how to fight a different way of war than as amarine. My boat, PT 108, and I, saw duty in New Guinea, thePhilippines, and Borneo; more of which I tell about in anotherchapter.

As an aside: during the war, and long before he became a U.S.President, John "Jack" Kennedy was also a PT CO (commandingofficer). His boat was number 109, and its sinking by a Japanesedestroyer and his return to the states, was and is legendary.But unfortunately, I never had the pleasure of meeting him,because before I went overseas he had gone home.

CHAPTER 2

Written On Conditionof Anonymity

Recollection #2:

(Many VIP's in business, the military, and the governmentdesire to get their thoughts out to the public while at the sametime are reluctant to be named; like the CEO of a big U.S.company who, upon being questioned by the NY Times, said,"Please don't use my name" because he didn't want his boardto know he was being interviewed. As did an Army GeneralI spoke to who asked "not to be identified" ... and the WhiteHouse official whom I called asking for an interview with himwhen I was working at the Chicago City News Bureau, and hesaid he'd speak "only on a condition of anonymity" because ofthe "delicate nature of the topic;" (and so, some of what followsis apocryphal, but a lot is not).

Dear Mr. Inquiring Reporter:

Rumor has reached me that your editor has assigned you todo a story about a VIP journalist like myself and I wish I couldhelp, but I don't think I can.

According to my attorney (whose name I can't reveal becausehe practices on a condition of anonymity), I'm prohibited fromwriting to you and disclosing my true identity, which includesmy name, gender, age, address, phone number and maritalstatus.

However, my attorney has acknowledged that it's okay towrite you that I'm around thirty-four years old, between fiveto six feet in height, weigh less than-but no more than-twohundred pounds and have hazel-green eyes. What's more, asa sop to me, he says it's all right to say I'm also a painter ofabstract collages. But I'm not allowed to describe on paperthe unique process I use to create such fantastically beautifulartwork, which if you saw it in person would immediately helpyou identify who I am.

This can be easily arranged by leaving your residence for avisit to NYC's Chelsea area. Here, 318 galleries are home to theworks of hundreds of artists, including me. And because mylawyer won't let a VIP artist/writer like me tell you my name,nevertheless by your touring all of the 318 galleries you shouldbe able to come upon it with almost no effort.

As you go from gallery to gallery, just pick out the paintingswhich you think look like abstract collages and then measuretheir frames with a tape measure. Those which turn out to bearound 43" x 32" could be some of mine. But to be really sure,examine the writing at the bottom right hand corner on eachpainting that you think looks most like a collage. If you see asignature scribbled on the canvas with black ink and in clumsyblock letters, that's my name.

But enough of that. Since my attorney won't let me identifymyself when I write to you, or anyone else for that matter,the result is, I'm in VIP identity limbo. And right now this isan embarrassing place in which to be. For instance, today Ipromised my live-in partner I would write to Great Aunt Susieat 118 Pine St. East Moline, Illinois, to congratulate her onturning ninety-five.

Now I know what you're thinking ... you'll get hold of thattown's phone directory and search it until you find the nameof the person who lives at that address and in that way you'llfind out my name.

Sorry. Great Aunt Susie is my live-in partner's secondcousin, once removed, and thus, as no kin of mine, she doesn'tknow me from Adam or Eve. Of course, you could use thephone and call her and ask: "Did you get a birthday card fromout of town?" And she, who even at ninety-five still has all hermarbles, would reply: "I sure did. It was from some nut whosigned it anonymous."

Then, just suppose I wanted to get an art critic to review mylatest painting. One way would be to mail a letter to the Timesand ask the art editor to send a critic to my studio. Well, no onecould blame the editor for thinking that he or she is dealingwith a weirdo and not allow a reporter to visit me. Especiallyafter not seeing a signature at the end of my letter, but instead"written on condition of anonymity."

That's not good. Think of how the editor might react ifinstead of writing to him or her I used the phone? After myspeaking, "Hi there" the next thing my lawyer would requireme to say is, "I'm speaking to you on a condition of anonymity,and ... hello? ... hello?"

No, that way is no good either. This brings me around torepeating. I'm not the right sort of VIP for you to interview.Even though I'm a great artist/writer and also have lived anincredibly exciting life, the straps on this straitjacket of un-identityin which I've been encased are being pulled tighterand tighter, thus preventing me from writing to you aboutthings which have happened to me, to which could result inyour authoring what could be a prize-winning article. Sorryabout that.

So instead of interviewing a VIP like me, may I suggest amovie star? I've gotten to know several and can give you thenames of some really famous ones whom I'm sure won't turnyou down. Write him, or her, and mention my name, and ...oops, I almost forgot. You'd be starting the letter with, "I'mwriting you at the suggestion of a person who has written meon a condition of anonymity, and ..." Well, what do you know?We're right back to where we started.

Yours truly, Anonymous.

CHAPTER 3

Sharks Galore

Recollection #3:

America's war with Japan ended on August 5, 1945, resultingin many of America's military stationed in the Philippines topack up and start to sail off to the good old U.S. of A. But alas,not me. I, still a Navy Lieutenant JG, remained at the country'ssouthern Pacific Ocean seaside city, Samar, where PT BoatSquadron 10 was now based. My boat, PT 108, on which I hadserved as its CO (Commanding Officer) had been hauled ontodry land, laid on its side, and stripped of all of its armament;this consisted of its two torpedoes and all of its guns. Then,along with two other weapons- denuded PT hulks, were liftedby a crane, piled in a heap, and set on fire.

Destroying them this way, rather than having them returnedto the U.S. via cargo ship, still useful to our navy, was the brainchild of a McCarthy-like U.S. senator who harangued aboutnot allowing the Russian navy to get hold of them, because theRussians might employ them against us. What nonsense!

Well, the burned PT boats fire's embers soon died down,and I began to wonder: what next? The answer came a fewweeks later when I received orders to leave the Philippines andto report to a navy base at Guam. And I did, arriving thereafter a six-hour flight on a four-engine C-54 cargo plane, lyingamongst its trunks and canvas bags. Stepping off the plane Iturned around to thank the plane's pilot, who was close by, andmy goodness, he was a kid, probably no more than eighteen butwearing Air Corps wings. Such a thing would be unthinkabletoday, having an eighteen-year-old boy piloting a giant four-engineplane, but that was all perfectly normal back in thosedays.

Still following orders, I hopped aboard a cab and reportedto my final destination; a 130 foot long all wooden U.S. Navyminesweeper, YMS 463. After saluting its flag and its captain,I went below to my tiny cabin with its two bunks, one on topof the other, and stowed my gear. It turned out I was just oneof its five officers, only two of us really needed, but rather thanhave a lot of guys like us go home to jobs that didn't exist, itwas thought by Washington politicals that it would be bestto "keep the boys overseas" until the job situation improved.Great, except when you have three Navy officers having to livein a tiny cabin with just two bunks, that's another matter. Butwe survived.

Soon our orders came through stating that YMS 463 shouldproceed to the Truk Island atoll and lagoon, where a dozen ormore Japanese World War II navy vessels, including destroyersand cruisers, lay rusting away in ocean water two hundred feetdeep. Not only that, but also floating underneath its surfaceand close to the wrecks were 1,400 mines. Each was droppedthere by Allied planes several years earlier in order to keep theJapanese warships from sailing from Truk intent on sinkingany Allied shipping which might be passing by on its way tothe Philippines.

(Continues...)