An Account Of War
Paul J. Frisco
Paul J. Frisco, a veteran of the war in the Pacific served onboard the USS Cushing, DD 797, a Fletcher class destroyer, throughout WW II. He recalls in his memoir a time when the fearsome enemy was not just the Imperial Japanese Fleet. Read the engrossing "An Account of War" to understand an aspect of naval service about which little is written.
It was begun as a mission of war.
U.S.S. Cushing, DD797, a Fletcher class destroyer, set sail from Ulithi Atoll during darkness and heavy rain squalls on the morning of December 10, 1944, in company with Task Group 38.1 and proceeded to rendezvous with Task Force 38, Third Fleet, under command of Admiral William (Bull) Halsey. It was a large force, comprised of fast attack aircraft carriers, battleships, cruisers, and destroyers, embarked on a mission against Japanese installations on Northern Luzon and Taiwan, (Formosa). The prime targets were airfields and planes. It was as formidable a force as could be put together, unlike the hit and run raids of those first six months of war. The Bull set sail with the best his country could put forth in ships, men, and equipment. He was determined to hit the enemy often with sledge hammer blows, always advancing closer to their home islands.
On the morning of December 14, The Third Fleet was on station somewhere between northern Luzon and Taiwan. The air strikes were unleashed and continued all that day and through the 15th and 16th. Satisfied that the mission and its objectives had been successfully accomplished the order was given to retire from the area. On the morning of December 17, Task Group 38.1, which included the Cushing, joined with the fueling group to top off their tanks. However, the weather had gotten steadily worse, all fueling operations had to be suspended until calm seas returned. Many destroyers, low on fuel, prepared to maintain their stations around the task groups as protection against submarine and air attacks. During the night, the storm grew in its intensity and reached typhoon proportions. When morning came all semblance of the mighty armada sailing in proscribed formations was lost, scattered to fight their individual battles for survival.
The enemy on December 18, 1944, was the sea. The counter attacks of the Japanese paled in comparison to the now frenzied waters the fleet sailed. Gale winds whipped a cold rolling fury with waves that measured in building heights. What was a calm mirrored sea, whose surface was broken by flying fish just forty-eight hours before, was now a lethal force of wind and seas, unleashed with unconscionable rage. It was death. An enemy not fought in an all out surface engagement. There were no weapons to hurl in defiance, no guns or torpedoes to stop the enemy. This was now a fight that called for seamanship, with every man tested against the elements of wind and sea.
The sea, the sea was the enemy.
Typhoon winds swirling tidal waves in endless progression upon all the ships of the Third Fleet, struggling to hold course. Waves rolling with all the fury of thunderclouds and high-pitched winds drowning out all sounds that come from ships. It was as though every engine, turbine, all machinery was muted. The storm held dominion over the task force.
Waves sprewed in huge gulps as if to swallow each vessel. Mighty carriers plowed into mountainous rolls then gushed green water off their flight decks. Battleships, magnificent behemoths, ponderously pitched into broiling waves, sinking low, bow down, sterns rising, and teetering, immobile, then righting in majestic manner, sending torrents of water from their bows. Cruisers faring no better or worse than the bigger men-of-war, held their own. It was the destroyers, thin-hulled "tin can do everything" escorts to the fleet, that suffered most. Small and light, they sailed the indifferent seas with the determination of a big-gunned battle with the Japanese. Time and again they were struck, subjected to merciless batterings. Imperious seas, wind driven whorling uncompromising vortex, crashing like shells onto ships, stoving, tearing, twisting metal gun shields, reducing life boats to splintered rubble. Water cascading with pile-driven forcefulness, wrecking havoc topside as well as below decks. No one dared walk on deck unless out of necessity. Aboard the Cushing men fought to keep afloat. A man was reported to have been washed overboard. The captain directed a search but to no avail. The seas were too heavy and the light not suitable to find a bobbing head. An empty kapok life jacket was been off the port beam. All hands secured from life-saving stations and returned to their duties, in a world and waters few have seen.
There was danger, real and imagined. Fear no different than the fear when going into battle. And there was that nauseous uneasiness, working through many a man's innards, lurking, waiting to explode from the mouth with its yellow-green mucus. Holding back, knowing if one gave in he would be a whinning invalid to the sea. Too sick to care if he lived or died. He would become a something - something of no use to himself or the ship. A typhoon can do that to a man.
The sea was the enemy.
Every reading of the barameter confirmed the battle being waged that tumultuous day. To the destroyermen it was a struggle to the death, with no quarter given. Fuel tanks all but emptied, the threat of broaching, turning turtle, was an ever present possibility. More and more, ships rode the top of waves then plummeted into a deep trough with water on all sides. In that valley of eddied waters lay a greater jeopardy. Surrounded by smashing seas and demented winds of no direction and currents running contrary to all, the terror of broaching seemed imminent Quartermasters monitored every roll, calling out the degree of angle, noting the increase in roll.
There was also the pounding and buffeting from the incessant pitching and rolling. At times it seemed as though the ship wanted to go in more than one direction. Deck plates rippled at their joints, flexing like rubber bands. Maintaining an even keel was an impossibility. Fuel consumption was rapidly depleting the storage tanks. This prevented the normal flow of oil from portside to starboard, or vice versa, something so necessary to maintain an upright sail. Without this, plus the ever increasing buoyancy put a destroyer in grave danger. Some, like Cushing found themselves in the last extremity. Thus, Captain Louis Volk, U.S.S. Cushing, ordered that sea water be pumped into the empty holds, in a manner consistent to the maintenance of stability under such adverse conditions.
A message was relayed to all ships that two light aircraft carriers were unable to hold their course and were off their stations. A cruiser and two destroyers were ordered to company the troubled vessels. Later that afternoon, as the storm was peaking, word was passed that another carrier was out of control and unable to effect proper steerage. This occurred just as Cushing was riding a thirty or forty foot wave to its crest. Those on the bridge and topside could see her, a derelict, guided by fierce winds and angry seas, bearing across her bow. The general alarm was sounded. Men made their way across treacherous watercoated decks, half walking, half sloshing to their stations, fighting wind and torrents of water all the way. Hatches were dogged shut and water tight security enforced. Then they all geared themselves for the collision that seemed inevitable; a destroyer plowing into an aircraft carrier. They waited, held their breath, while some prayed. When the the wave swelled then curled downward it slammed DD 797 into the valley of water. The captain issued a series of orders to the helmsman who steered away from where the derelict carrier would be. Their actions were vindicated when the next wave took them, and the carrier was nowhere to be seen. There was a sigh of relief breathed by all hands. That danger now passed, all the crew had to contend themselves with was the typhoon. Still a brutal force, a true enemy to be reckoned with. All that day and throughout the night the battle waged.
When on the morning of December 19, the storm had eased and the sea seemed less threatening, refueling operations were begun. After Cushing completed taking on her complement of precious oil, it was noted in her log that she had been down to nine percent capacity. It was much the same story on all the destroyers. Inspection was made to determine the extent of damage and repairs initiated where possible. The crew was informed that the man overboard report was erroneous, and all aircraft carriers, including the derelict that came so close to being rammed, were on station, holding fleet course and speed. A check of the task force revealed that several snips, destroyers, were missing and unaccounted for. The remainder of the day and much of the night a massive sea and air search was made for the missing ships and their crews.
Before daylight of the following morning the Third Fleet was ordered back to Luzon to carry out further air strikes. However, the weather once again intervened and was bad enough to have the raids cancelled. A search was renewed for the missing men. The results proved to be most disappointing. All that was found were nineteen men in the water, a number of life jackets, but no ships. A pall fell upon the mighty battle fleet. The joy of success against the enemy was gone. Admiral Halsey ordered his fleet back to Ulithi.
When U.S.S. Cushing, DD 797, made it's way through the reef, into the atoll, in company with Task Group 38.1 Task Force 38, Third Fleet, on December 24, men not on watch stood on deck looking at each ship as it passed. Every ship had sustained damage as from a major battle. Not one entered the lagoon unscathed. It was a long silent procession of injured vessels making for their assigned anchorage slots. There were no bands playing, no cheers, or jumping and slapping one another on the back from the delirium of being alive. There was none of that. Instead, there was in every man an exhaustive satisfaction of having done all that was asked of him during the mission. It was a private thing. Each knew the genuine fear he bore during those moments the issue was in doubt. Yes, it was a very private but universally shared experience. Each man would live with his own memories of December 17 - 19, 1944, off the coast of northern Luzon. He would remember always the three destroyers, Monaghan, Hull, Spence, and their crews. The near eight hundred men who fought one hell of a battle. Yet, lost to the enemy, the sea.
And each man would think of those he knew who who went down with their ships, men with whom he went through Boot camp or training school, shared a liberty and a beer or two. Never again would they sail to the next mission, face the Japanese, or weather the next storm. They would remain forever deep within the depths of the sea. They would have no markers, no head stones. Their only monument would be locked within the memories of all who entered Ulithi Atoll that afternoon. Something they would never surrender to the enemy, the sea.
