E.L. ROBERTSON 1987
Recently I found in my files, the following letter which was prepared in 1987 but not mailed, when I did not think I could make the Boston re-union. I was able to attend after all, and it was my first SWANSON re-union.
Dear _________:
As you know, I was the first Officer to report for duty in the Swanson, and was her first Engineering officer, her second Executive officer and third Commanding Officer. Altogether I served aboard for more than 3 years after commissioning, having been detached in June 1944, as I recall it in Lae, New Guinea. During that time we had considerable excitement.
I deeply regret being unable once again to attend the reunion; I’d love to see some of my old shipmates. The closest I’ve come lately was a visit at my marina here by Mann’s married daughter, who bore greetings from her father. It was good to talk to her and to tell her about the time her dad, dressed as a Brooklyn Navy Yard workman, came leaping out of Mount 2 as the ship was finally departing and yelled to the bridge to return to the dock and get him back ashore. Hundreds of other workmen lining the dock took up the hue and cry. The confusion was unbelievable, until Manni could no longer keep from laughing.
Since I can’t be with you perhaps you might enjoy a few anecdotes which which couldn’t be told at the time they happened, for reasons that will become obvious.
The first one concerns our most illustrious shipmate, John Lindsay. By the time the ship reached New Guinea in early 1944, he had been assistant Gunnery officer for quite some time. He was a good one, too, and impatient to become Gun Boss. About that time a despatch to the whole 7th Fleet came out asking for Officers to volunteer for training as Beach Masters in the Seventh Amphibious Force. Next thing I knew John was in my cabin with an official letter from himself to Commander 7th Fleet, via me, his C.O. volunteering to train as a Beach Master.
“What do you want to do, get killed? “ I asked him.
“Captain,” he answered, “When I asked for destroyer duty I thought I’d see some action, but we haven’t had much. I’d like to see some.
“You’ll get plenty before long right here, John.”
“Yes, Captain, but I want to get into the real action. I feel as if I were caught in a backwater. The war is passing me by.”
“John, I’ll forward your request.” I told him. “But in my endorsement I’ll recommend disapproval, and I’ll tell you why. You’ve spent over a year as a Gunnery Assistant, and in my opinion you’re fully qualified to become Gunnery Officer of this or any similar destroyer. In fact as you know I’ve already reported you qualified, and any day you can expect orders. Now, what would happen if all the qualified destroyer Gunnery Officers suddenly became Amphibious Beachmasters? “I’ll tell you what would happen: a lot of good, well trained officers would be wasted. Now think it over for a while. I’ll forward your request, but I’ll recommend disapproval.”
That same day John approached me on the bridge and told me he had reluctantly decided not to submit his request. I forgot about the matter, but it was not over, as you will see.
Meanwhile in March 1944 the assault on the Admiralty Islands took place. As many of you remember, the assault was made by the First Cavalry Division, which had no artillery to speak of. B-24’s supported them in the early stages but their bombing which was high level only, appeared inaccurate. In fact Swanson took a near miss from them. You remember the assault troops were nearly driven into the ocean and that the Sea Bees building the airstrip had rifles in their hands and their backs to the beach.
While this was going on, the 4 destroyers including Swanson, which were naval gunfire support were little used at first. Finally by necessity, the Arm called on us for more and more support. As it became apparent how accurate our fire was, the First Cavalry Division Commander realized he needed a Naval gunfire liaison Officer who could keep him briefed on our capabilities, limitations, procedures and so on. He asked for one, and Swanson was designed to provide him.
Aha! I thought. John Lindsay wants a little experience in amphibious warfare, and is ideally qualified for the job. He’s my man.
John was ecstatic when I told him. As the Swanson stood in towards the northern shore of Manus Island he appeared on deck, wearing his helmet, with a Colt .45 strapped to his bandoleer of ammunition. His khaki shirt and trousers were immaculate. The ship slowed, the boat was lowered, and that was the last we seen of him for a week or so.
But we heard him often over the gunfire support circuit. He was on top on his job. Target coordinates were concisely given, together with orders firing, checking fire, spotting and the like. As the days went by it was apparent the First Cavalry Division was gaining confidence in the accuracy of our gunfire, to the point of calling for moving barrages as they advanced.
Finally Japanese resistance broke, except for isolated pockets, and the need for a Naval gunfire liaison officer ceased. We had a message from General Swift thanking us for Ensign Lindsay’s services and giving us a rendezvous for picking him up.
What we found out later was that John was not exactly living in style ashore. Most of the time his headquarters was a foxhole in the jungle front lines, which he had to dig himself. There was usually six inches of water in it because of the frequent rain, and the mosquitoes tormented him twenty four hours a day. He subsisted on 2 C rations a day, and his two packs of Luckies were soon gone. Worst of all was the night – both sides’ fires at anything that moved, so he had to stay in the foxhole with his head down from 6 PM to 6 AM. And it was not equipped with a latrine. Thus it was not long before he began to miss his comfortable bunk and his tree hearty wardroom meals aboard the Swanson.
I could not believe what my binoculars showed me as the boat bringing John back to the ship approached. He was slouched over in the stern with his helmet in his lap, his hair disheveled. He was covered with mud from head to foot, his clothing was torn and he apparently hadn’t shaved since leaving the ship. He was so weak he needed help getting up the ladder we put over the side for him.
To my surprise he came directly to the bridge, where I was.
“Captain”, he said, “I apologize for coming on the bridge looking like this, but I just wanted to tell you that I don’t want to be a Beachmaster!”
That evening he came down with malaria, but fortunately he was on his feet in a few days.
I’ve seen John several times in the past thirty years, and we’ve both laughed over his tour with the Army.