Hugh
C. Paulk
While serving
as an Army officer in
Europe during
World War II, my
brother-in-law, Oscar,
met a skinny little waif
on the streets of Paris
and gave her a Hershey
bar. She gulped it down,
looked up at him with
her big brown eyes, and
said, "Encore?" Oscar
was thrilled. He could
understand French!
Oscar has hundreds of
stories about his war
experiences, and he
loves to tell them. Just
about any word or phrase
he hears triggers
memories. Simply asking
him to pass the butter
may elicit a response
like, "Speaking of
butter, there was a man
in my outfit who..." My
sister and their two
children can recite his
stories along with
him--word for word. I,
on the other hand,
almost never think about
my
World War II
experiences in the
Pacific.
On the TV program
20/20,
Barbara Walters
interviewed some of the
former showgirls
gathered to celebrate
the 50th anniversary of
the Latin Quarter, the
famous Broadway
nightclub owned by her
father. The program
featured the most
glamorous entertainers
of that era, including a
set of twins. Barbara
asked the twins, "When
you look back on those
days, what do you
think?" In unison they
said: "We don't look
back on those days.
They're over!" Those are
my sentiments exactly.
I was in college
about to be drafted when
the war started. Since
the army paid privates
only $27 a month, I
applied for midshipman
training and was
accepted. In spite of
the fact that I did not
know a conootin' valve
from a galloping pin, I
was dispatched to
Columbia University for
training to become an
engineer officer. My
assignment: the USS
San Francisco, a
heavy cruiser in the
Pacific.
For the first few
weeks at sea, my
thoughts were of the
world I had just left.
Did Ann and Clarence get
married? Did Kate get
that job in
Memphis? And, of
course, there were some
young women... Gradually
my life began to relate
more closely to what was
going on shipboard. But,
like the 20/20 twins, I
don't dwell in the past.
A long distance call
from a former shipmate
confirmed how
differently we veterans
regard our military
experiences. The caller,
who had seen an article
I wrote for the
St. Petersburg Times,
said, "I've been trying
to find you for ages!"
"Who is this?" "This is
Ray!" He told me his
last name. Silence.
"Don't you remember me?"
"I'm sorry, Ray, I
don't." "I was in your
division on the
San Francisco."
"Ray, maybe it would
help if you would tell
me a little about
yourself." Ray did, but
I still could not place
him. I am not a
deceptive person but I
did not want to
embarrass him, so I
said, "Oh! You're that
Ray," which was all he
needed to embark upon a
twenty-minute monolog.
Ray told me that not a
week goes by that he
does not communicate
with former shipmates.
He went on to say that
he had gone to
Nebraska recently
to see a man he did not
know, the brother of one
of our fallen comrades.
What's wrong with me? I
believe I was as close
to my shipmates as any
man on my ship. I served
aboard that ship three
years, a long time in
the life of young man
just out of college. She
had become my life, my
world. Her record was
spectacular. Except the
carrier Enterprise,
no ship in the Pacific
saw more action than the
San Francisco.
We took great pride in
her. Some, like Ray, now
consider her almost
holy, a feeling shared
among the survivors of
other ships. Emotions
run high. Ray and many
other veterans enjoy
reliving the past. They
attend reunions, publish
newsletters, and collect
voluminous
material--historical
articles, photos,
newspaper clippings, and
all kinds of lore.
Recently I read an
Associated Press
newspaper article by
Duncan Mansfield that
reminded me of those
days. It started:
Fifty years after
trying to kill each
other in a war, a
kamikaze pilot and
the American sailors
who shot him down
embraced, exchanged
mementos and forgave
each other. "The
enemy yesterday can
be your friend
today," 71-year-old
Kaoru Hasegawa told
the surviving crew
of the USS
Callaghan."
Hasegawa spent a
year researching war
records to find the
men who shot him
down and plucked him
from the water. Two
months after
Hasegawa was shot
down, another
kamikaze made it
past the gunners and
sank the 2000-ton
ship, killing
forty-seven of her
crew. It was the
last of 32 ships
sunk in the last
battle of
World War II:
the 11-week invasion
of Okinawa.
Mr. Hasegawa's plane,
which was carrying a
1,760-pound bomb, was
shot down on May 25,
1945, seconds before he
was about to hit his
target. To jeopardize
the lives of the whole
crew under battle
conditions to save one
man, even one of ours,
is not consistent with
navy regulations. But
the Callaghan's
captain chose to rescue
the unconscious pilot.
One day, much earlier in
the war, while
catapulting one of the
San Francisco's
planes, a line became
entangled with the leg
of a tall redheaded
sailor and dragged him
overboard. I can still
see his long arms making
overhand strokes as the
disappeared in our wake.
Top speed is required to
launch the aircraft, and
momentum carries a big
ship a long way before
it can be stopped. Yet
our captain ordered the
ship turned around and
the sailor rescued. For
that he was called
before a board of
admirals and sternly
reprimanded. He was
asked, "What would you
do if it happened
again?" "With all due
respect, sir, I would do
the same thing." After
the war, our captain
told me that the young
man's parents visited
him in
New York to thank
him. "For me," he said,
"that was the most
rewarding experience of
the war."
Sometimes I wonder
what that young man is
doing now. Mr. Hasegawa
heads Rengo Company,
Ltd., a worldwide paper
conglomerate with 3,600
employees. The survivors
of the Callaghan
invited him to attend
their 1999 reunion at
Pigeon Fork,
Tennessee, and
become an honorary
member of the crew. They
made him feel so welcome
that he plans to return
to the meetings here
every year.
In the epitome of
understatement, one of
his rescuers said, "I
think now that he
survived, he is glad his
suicide mission was not
successful." I know I
am: his target was the
USS San Francisco.
The USS Callaghan
was named for Admiral
Daniel Callaghan, who
had been killed, along
with all of his staff,
on the
San Francisco,
during the night Battle
of Guadalcanal in late
November 1942. She was
hit by one of the war's
first kamikaze attacks,
which killed 167 and
wounded more than 200.
During that night
action, a torpedo from
the Japanese submarine
I-26, meant for
the
San Francisco,
missed, and hit the
light cruiser
Juneau. Badly
damaged, the
Juneau tried
to escape from the
battle zone, but was hit
by a second torpedo.
That one hit the powder
magazine, causing the
ship to explode in a
great ball of fire. The
Juneau sank,
taking the lives of her
Captain and 687
crewmembers. Only 10
survived. The five
Sullivan brothers,
George, Francis, Joseph,
Madison and Albert, who
had enlisted together,
were on that ship.
Writing this caused a
flood of memories to
come rushing back to me.
Would you like to hear
about some of them? If
not, you had better stay
away from me. I may
write about them. If so,
I'll tell you more about
how I won the war than
you want to know.
EPILOGUE
Later on July
29, 1945, the day the
Callaghan saved the
San Francisco,
a kamikaze sank the
Callaghan.
Forty-seven of her crew
perished. She was the
thirteenth and last
destroyer lost in the
Okinawa area during
those final days of the
war. Ironically, her
captain had orders to
take her back to the
states on July 30.
Writing this caused a
flood of memories to
come rushing back to me.
Would you like to hear
about some of my
experiences? No? Then
you had better stay away
from me. I'll be telling
war stories, too.
Uh oh, here's one now
(blessedly, a short
one):
D-Day at Okinawa was
April 1, 1945.
It was
Easter Sunday,
April Fools' Day,
and our captain's
birthday. During a lull
in the action, I was
surprised to see our big
guns trained on one of
our own ships, a
hospital ship! Then I
remembered that those
guns were equipped with
telescopes. The men, who
had not seen a woman for
a year and a half, were
looking at the nurses!
Speaking of nurses...
Hey, what's wrong
with me?
