History

[Tuttle and all the troops had time to kill during prolonged bouts of summer rain on Okinawa.]

People who don’t have to be outside are cooped up and getting restless. Poker games with well-worn decks are running continuously in the usual tents, campaign currency and paper IOUs moving around fluidly. No one has much stomach for setting up pranks in this depressing weather. Most write letters or sit and read in their off hours.

One well-worn bit of reading material is a copy of Yank magazine from back in June. The big cover story is a piece that directly asks the question, “How Long Will We Have to Fight the Jap War?” It’s the standard question here, and it has a lot of standard answers. Answers run from confident predictions to uncertain humor like “Golden Gate in ’48!” to more somber reflections that other soldiers don’t want to hear.

The piece in Yank gives a summary of the situation, and plenty of stats, but nothing in the way of any predictions. It ends with an admonition from the war department that however tough it gets, we have to keep up the pace or it will only get tougher. “The War Department plan calls for redeploying men from the ETO and the States so fast that the Japs will not have time to build up defenses or assemble reinforcements at spots where the Japs may figure the next invasions will come. ‘Speed is essential, for it is vitally important that we do not give the enemy time either to rest or reorganize his defenses.’”

Last I looked, there still weren’t any units from Europe in the Pacific. I suspect the boys already here will carry on with what they have for at least the next big job.

Pinup reading Yank by warbirdphotographer at deviantart.com

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[Tuttle got to meet his roommates for his Okinawa stay, Major Lawless making an immediate impression.]

Actually camp life truly isn’t hard here. The tent cities are well graded and drained. We have elevated wood floors. The climate is mild. And we can get to a hot shower without too much effort. I’ve been in worse shape at a cheap hotel in South Dakota.

I’m getting the feel of the place, and it has a real living pulse. A routine flow has taken hold, now that the fighting is over and facilities are up enough to support operations. Not that we’re by any means done building up Okinawan bases.

Every expansion is met with a ready need for more. A tank farm is barely filled for the first time before a line of trucks or ships or planes has formed ready to take on fuel. Each new mess hall only slightly shortens the lines at three others. Freshly paved road lanes are set upon promptly by hordes of loaded trucks, requiring constant maintenance.

This morning I walked with Major Lawless over the island to watch planes take off for a big raid that we were tipped off to. From the right vantage point one can see the airfields at Kadena and Yontan, which we took from the Japanese and promptly expanded, plus a new extra-long airstrip at Bolo point.

We were sending everything including the kitchen sink for a remodel of southern Japan that day. Long range fighters were going up almost side by side with Liberator bombers. Bunches of our new twin engine attack planes formed up over the East China Sea before droning off into the high overcast sky.

We watched for over an hour as the formations came together for their deadly migration. Thousands of men on the ground wrangled equipment, shifting from the hustle of fueling and arming planes to preparations for receiving them back, making repairs, and starting all over again.

F4U Corsair being loaded at Kadena

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[After finally getting ashore on Okinawa, Tuttle was shown around the island.]

“Job one here was air fields. The Army went right for the two big ones when we landed here at the beginning of April. By mid month they were flying fighters out of there directly into the fight.” We crested the center ridge line of the island just then and I could see the handy work of the engineers at Kadena and Yontan airfields. New long runways, composed largely of local coral, shone in the sun. Aircraft parking areas ran off in all directions, and more were being graded. “The 8th Air Force is still coming over from England, picking up B-29s along the way. Two other air forces are already here, running long range fighters and medium bombers.”

I asked about some large tent camps that were briefly in sight at the northernmost leg of our journey. I could just make out barb wire topped fences around the camps. “Those are for the Okinawan civilians, and the Jap POWs. For now they’re one and the same to us. Interrogators are sorting them out, which is gonna take a while. But it’s not like there’s anywhere for the actual civilians to go anyhow.”

We turned to the south, along the west coast of the island, and the narrative turned to shipping. “Once the airfields were laid down, the top priority was getting the ports dolled up. Naha,” he pointed just ahead and to the right, “has the only port to speak of here, but it’s small. As you saw we set up dozens of new piers in the other bay to add capacity.”

The race is on to get enough port capacity to support the big bombers once they get up to speed here. All that bomb tonnage has to go from shore-to-ship-to-shore before it is delivered by air to Japanese factories and harbors and airfields. I was deposited back on to the largely naval side of the island, where I could forage for basic essentials I would need until my luggage showed up from Guam.

A stunning bit of news came and stuck around today. Unofficial reports say the large cruiser USS Indianapolis was sunk with great loss of life over a week ago. I checked up and there is no official word or press report about it, but guys ‘in the know’ swear that radio traffic went around about a big search and rescue operation that should be still going on.

One of my new tent mates is particularly anxious for news. Warrant Officer Henry Weber served on the Indy with her float plane team until last October. He was an old salt compared to most recruits coming in. “We had just taken on a batch of new kids in the aviation group when I was transferred. I took a real shine to my one machinist’s mate. I hope Mitchell got off, and good word gets to his momma. He used to write home just about every day.”

Float planes being handled on USS Indianapolis

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[Tuttle hopped aboard a cargo-hauling “Victory” ship for the last leg of his trip to Okinawa.]

I called the Red Oak Victory a Liberty ship, but she is actually a newer “Victory” ship, technically of the Boulder class. The Victory ships carry a little bit more than the Liberty ships, and go a lot faster. They take more than a week off a trans-Pacific route, and then get back another week sooner ready to take another load.

Mariners will have noticed that I called this ship a “USS” and I am not mistaken in that. The Red Oak Victory is under U.S. Navy command and crewed entirely by officers and sailors. She is not a civilian Merchant Marine vessel. Her main job up to now has been hauling ammunition, and delivering it directly to other ships while the fleet was still at sea.

This ship is armed almost as well as the small destroyer I was on in Hawaii. Small and medium caliber guns ring the upper decks, making air attack dangerous (to the aircraft). The one big gun is on the back, all the better for making distance between us and a submarine running on the surface. These guns would be run by a Navy contingent on a Merchant Marine ship. Merchant Marine ships have seen plenty of action in this war, some scoring multiple aircraft kills in a single attack.

As I write this Okinawa is already in sight. A ship like this can get from the Marianas to the Ryukus in four days, even when running a zig-zig course to frustrate a submarine captain trying to time a torpedo into the same place as our ship. The run is not done in convoys; the whole shipping lane is patrolled from the air. Navy sea planes get regular catches of big tin fish with bombs and depth charges, but the situation makes the Atlantic veterans in this crew nervous. A line of well armed destroyers would certainly make a more reassuring security blanket.

We made this run without incident, and are ready to unload. But we’re on the familiar military schedule of ‘hurry up and wait.’ Okinawa still does not sprout enough piers and cranes for our ships to be unloaded fast enough. We will anchor in the far spread arms of what has been renamed Buckner Bay on the east side of the island, before getting directed to a pier, which could be at the nearby naval base or all the way around the island at Naha.

I am taking the opportunity to catch up on reading. The ship has a decent little library, and takes on new magazines and books when it can. Much of the recent news is from the big conference at Potsdam, Germany. President Truman should be just on his way back from that big to-do, where it is supposed that the whole post-war world was neatly drawn up.

Except of course that sketch depends on the Japanese playing their part according to the artists’ vision. Toward that end they issued an ultimatum to the Japs, that people are already referring to simply as the ‘Potsdam Declaration.’ It is not a long document. It spells out concisely that we intend to completely re-make Japan, not just defeat her, and that we have the means to do both. I read the whole text, and took particular note of the end.

“We call upon the government of Japan to proclaim now the unconditional surrender of all Japanese armed forces, and to provide proper and adequate assurances of their good faith in such action. The alternative is deliberate and thorough destruction.”

We are here to unload a full cargo of heavy bombs for the heavy bombers. I survey the vast mob of other ships anchored here waiting to unload assorted deadly cargoes, and I have no doubt about the thoroughness we intend to exhibit.

SS Red Oak Victory museum ship

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Born August 3, 1900, Ernie Pyle told the story of America by telling the stories of Americans. When he perished under fire in the Ryukus, an enormous void was left behind in the world of journalism and in the hearts of soldiers, mothers, sailors, bothers, tradesmen, and every other sort of reader everywhere. Even our own Walt Tuttle was speechless over the event.

Among many lengthy obituaries, the New York Times had this to add.

Ernie Pyle was haunted all his life by an obsession. He said over and over again, “I suffer agony in anticipation of meeting people for fear they won’t like me.”

No man could have been less justified in such a fear. Word of Pyle’s death started tears in the eyes of millions, from the White House to the poorest dwellings in the country.

President Truman and Mrs. Eleanor Roosevelt followed his writings as avidly as any farmer’s wife or city tenement mother with sons in service.

Mrs. Roosevelt once wrote in her column “I have read everything he has sent from overseas,” and recommended his writings to all Americans.

For three years these writings had entered some 14,000,000 homes almost as personal letters from the front. Soldiers’ kin prayed for Ernie Pyle as they prayed for their own sons.
http://www.nytimes.com/learning/general/onthisday/bday/0803.html

While terribly modest about it, Pyle’s fame allowed him into places other people could not intrude, especially into the confidence of greasy workers and low-level enlisted men. [Tuttle confessed to riding Pyle’s coattails into low places many times.] He had this story to share about one modest but distinctive honor.

“Whenever a flier was fished out of the North Sea or the Channel, the RAF
rescuers gave him a little felt insigne about an inch high, in the form of a half
wing — showing a fish skipping over the water. This was a membership badge in
the ‘Goldfish Club.’ It was sewn under the lapel, and displayed when occasion
demanded. It wasn’t worn outwardly because, I presume, we didn’t want German
agents to know how many guys had been fished out of the water.

The boys had another memento of their salt-water bath. They all had Short
Snorter bills. But they had started a new series of signatures on bills which they
called ‘Dinghy Snorters.’ Only fliers who had had to ditch were allowed to sign
those bills. They flattered me by asking me to sign, and said mine would be the
only non-Goldfish signature permitted on their bills.”
http://www.shortsnorter.org/Ernie_Pyle_US_1_dollar_HAWAII_090108.html

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[It wasn’t all work and no play even in the raw Pacific theater.]

Baseball is nuts here. Every base has a team, with natty custom uniforms and groomed fields to play on. Every field unit, down to battalion size or even smaller, has a competitive team with whatever equipment they can get a hold of. Somehow every ship with more than 9 sailors on it shows up with a team itching to play (I suppose they practice over the water with sharks and rays as bases). Leagues form up spontaneously any time two teams are within a day hike of each other. The Navy formally organizes a larger league for the whole Marianas. You’ve probably read about the top level leagues run by the military. If you don’t follow, know that last year Navy beat Army for the “Pacific World Series” in Hawaii. Both are dead serious about putting up good teams for the rematch this year.

Today a top-flight match was played on a professionally laid field. Construction teams here did not neglect sport and recreation facilities, and Trimble Field is one of their best. Named after Jimmy Trimble, who passed on a pro contract to fight with the Marines and was killed at Iwo Jima, the field has a fine scoreboard and a few small grandstands. The top teams of the Third and Sixth Marine divisions faced off for a full nine inning game. It’s an open secret that major leaguers in the military are kept out of risky combat roles, but the Marine divisions still have plenty of ringers.

I hitched a ride up to the field, which wasn’t hard because practically everyone was heading there. Upon arrival I gave up hope of watching much of the action. The few grandstands were burdened with brass, and guys were standing ten or twenty deep along the foul lines, all the way out further than Ty Cobb’s longest home run. People watching was going to be my sport for the afternoon.

Baseball on Guam, 1945

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[For the first time Tuttle got to watch a large bomber attack form up and head off into the sunset toward Japan.]

The large Army air bases are fifteen miles from where I am near the giant naval station, but the bombers can be heard before they even get airborne. The insistent hum from thousands of cylinders in hundreds of radial engines shoves through the few gaps in the range of hills that cover Guam. The hum becomes an angry buzz as the engines rev and the 200 inch diameter propellers rip into the warm evening air, pulling the planes in close groups down parallel runways. The sound sharpens and takes focus as pairs of bombers come into view past the hills that had hidden them, slowly climbing over the water.

The evening sun warms each shiny silver bird with a fiery orange hue. I think it must look much the same when they circle back over a freshly fire-bombed city, widespread fires lighting up the sky as the injured city calls out her attackers in the sky.

The planes turn and continue climbing, moving to where they will meet bomber groups from the other islands. On each mission dozens or hundreds of planes from Guam meet a similar number from Tinian and/or Saipan. Together they pick up dozens or hundreds of fighter escorts near Iwo Jima.

The whole force moves toward Japan, where it will either split up or focus on just one large or important target. At night aiming points are found by radar. Coast line features, river junctions, and large landmarks show up well on even the most basic set. Thankfully Japanese defense radar and night fighters haven’t been very effective so far. That was a big unknown when the Army Air Force first started night bombing runs last spring, and at that time they had no option of fighter cover.

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[Tuttle wrote in real time as he was flown over the U.S. Navy’s island-smothering buildup on the Mariana Islands.]

Our plane ascends into an expansive blue field of distant white puffs, scattered high clouds well above our sight-seer’s flight plan. We start west bound, with a warm mid-morning sun behind us. As we gain altitude Tom makes a long lazy turn to the north. We level off and he points out some of the minor islands north of Saipan. After the big fighting was over we secured a few of them. Others are simply cut off. Whatever Japanese garrisons are left there will be tending vegetable gardens until the end of the war.

Turning back to the south, we pass Saipan on our right. Some areas where the fighting was hard are still pock marked and denuded. Other substantial areas are clear-cut and developed, including multiple airfields larger than the one we left. The 2nd Marine Division is camped somewhere between the clusters of runways and rows of Quonset huts. The rapidity of development since just last fall is awesome.

Tinian comes up quickly, and if our bases on Saipan are impressive, Tinian is simply gob-smacking. The whole island looks like it lost a fight with a giant cat. Parallel lines of broad white scratches cut across it at irregular intervals, with raw blisters of new buildings and other facilities ringing each big paw swipe. The largest ‘wound’ is called simply North Field, which has four parallel 8,000 foot runways and scattered parking for a secret but triple-digit number of heavy bombers.

Tom intends to cut across the middle of Tinian, to get me a better look, and communicates that to the appropriate party by radio. He is reminded to steer clear of the north end of the island, but otherwise cleared. We cut altitude and airspeed and move toward the center of the island, which from a low approach still looks tranquil and lush with green fur. Clearing the first line of trees, and conspicuous gun emplacements, the scene changes quickly.

I can barely see the ground for all the variety of patrol planes, long range fighters, inky black night fighters, and broad acres of shiny metal bombers. Most are parked out in the open, on pads off of curving paths that slink off of the runways and service ramps. The pads are scattered and staggered so an attacker can’t wreck a bunch of parked aircraft at once, but I think I could drop a rock from this plane at random and have even odds on dinging two of them in one go.

A southerly turn and another twenty some minutes flying brings us to Guam. I am still writing notes about Tinian as the facilities on Guam make themselves clear. Guam is the new home-away-from-home for a large part of the United States Marine Corps. The scene from Tinian is repeated, a dense clutter of war material making up most of the landscape. But the shiny bombers are here replaced by long rows and expansive clusters of tents, Quonset huts, and a growing variety of more permanent structures.

Guam today hosts two divisions of the United States Marine Corps. Before the war there wasn’t even such a thing as a Marine Corps division. Now there are six.

Seabees base on Guam 1945

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[Tuttle kept up writing during his long journey across the Pacific.]

The Navy runs a fine airline. I am just settling in from a series of flights, island to island, on NATS, the Naval Air Transport Service. It must be right to call NATS an airline, because it has its own in-flight magazine, updated monthly. The magazine has everything one would find in a commercial airliner publication: travel tips, information about destinations served, news about partner airlines, and features about the different aircraft flown and general airline operations. Except, in this case the details are decidedly special interest: safe handling of explosive souvenirs, care of the injured in Guam, the Navy taking over planes and routes from Pan Am, and forced-air warming of planes which stop in northern Alaska.

The humor section of the current magazine includes a bit about one hard-fighting Marine who swears he is done fighting forever, even with his mother-in-law. Letters to the editor and assorted amusements fill out the magazine inside its two-color cover. I left the Jean Parker pin-up photo for the next fellow.

The Navy has brought me to the Mariana Islands, specifically to a base they call Marpi on the northern coast of Saipan. Saipan is the northern most of the three major islands we hold here. It is part of what the Japanese took to be the main line of defense of their enlarged empire. It took several flights to get here from Hawaii.

Seats on NATS flights are normally hole-in-one carnival prizes for anyone who doesn’t have explicit orders to move across the ocean at aircraft speeds. On short notice I squeezed on to an already overloaded R5D (Navy name for the C-54, which is the Army name for the DC-4) cargo plane which was going straight through to Manila, stopping only for gas. The hold was jammed full, mostly with a ‘confidential’ cargo . The crew was happy not to have the usual load of VIP passengers to fuss over. With their plane full of cargo they had just one passenger seat to offer, and they practically recruited me to fill it instead of someone actually important.

My “air hosts,” including the actual air host, showed me one special feature of our plane. It has refrigerated storage, just for bringing whole blood across to combat areas, several hundred crated pints at a time. There were a few dozen units loaded on my trip, and you may wonder why, as there is little active combat and the blood only lasts a few weeks if well cared for. Not all injuries come from combat. In fact, only a narrow majority of casualties in most campaigns are a direct result of being bombed or shot at. We have well over a million men out here moving around, building things, or practicing destroying things. Injuries happen, and all of them are a long way away from anything you would recognize as a hospital.

The hosts I mentioned for the flight were Lieutenant Frank Spalek and Lieutenant Carl Kube on the flight deck, and Flight Orderly Raymond Holman, coincidentally all from different parts of Nebraska. A flight orderly is to the passenger just a steward or flight attendant, but they also do half the work of the ground crew and all the work of the galley crew on a civilian flight. If a box of cargo comes loose or a life jacket is misplaced or a passenger gets a cold cup of coffee, it’s on the record of the flight orderly.

NATS Packet cover, July, 1945

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[Tuttle watched people play as well as work, and Hawaii was a great spot for play even in war time.]

A soldier, sailor, or Marine can find something to do or see on any budget of time or money. Small shows run all afternoon and well into the evening, as late as the recently relaxed curfew and blackout rules will allow. Surfboards and small boats can be rented. Young men are always looking for a contest. It is now regular sport for crews from different units to race the fast traditional outrigger row boats as soon as they learn how to handle them with even minimal proficiency. You can bet some wagers are taken on those races.

Speaking of vice, prostitution was still legal here until late last year. The tax office is not happy about the regulated trade going away. The Army and Navy medical staffs are worried about a jump in venereal disease rates. What hasn’t changed is that there are thousands of young men here with time and money on their hands.

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