MEN OF BATAAN AND CORREGIDOR THANK WASP

Leo Burrows

 

 

 "MEN OF BATAAN AND CORREGIDOR THANK WASP": this message 
was laid in white sheets on the roof of the POW barracks, August 29, 1945"

 On August 28, 1945, Leo Burrows, a radio-gunner aboard a torpedo bomber on the U.S. aircraft carrier WASP (CV – 18), participated in a mercy mission during which badly needed food and medical supplies were dropped on a prisoner of war camp in Japan plus what ever the ship’s company cared to donate. Returning the next day, the following message was laid in white sheets on the roofs of the camp’s POW barracks, “Men of Bataan and Corregidor Thank WASP.” Burrows details this heart-rendering episode in a section of his memoirs now posted on the Center’s War Memoirs Project page.

 

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  Since mid-March the Third Fleet had been under ever increasing Japanese Kamikaze attacks... bomb laden planes crashed into ships by suicide pilots. The carriers WASP, SARATOGA, ENTERPRISE, YORKTOWN, and FRANKLIN had been heavily damaged by such attacks. The FRANKLIN with the lost of 832 lives.

Now the Navy Headquarters announced that on May 11th, the U.S.S. BUNKER HILL had been hit by two Kamikazes, both carrying 500-pound bombs. The attack had killed 416 and wounded 264 of my former shipmates. Frantically my eyes ran down the casualty list, recognizing many names, then I came to the “M’s” and there it was: MACNISH, THOMAS H. Seaman First, Killed ....... my Irvington shipmate was gone. I thought of that day, just about a year ago, when I first saw Tommy going to chow with the Irvington Herald sticking out of his back pocket. How I yelled, "hey, where did you get that Irvington Herald?” And his reply, "what the hell do you want to know for?" “Because I’m from Irvington!” I answered.

                                                     Torpedo squadron consisted of 18 of these planes:
                                                    24 pilots and 48 crewmen.

We had noon chow together and got acquainted. Tommy was what is known on a carrier as a "deck-ape," just about the meanest and most dangerous job aboard. Working up to sixteen hours a day on the exposed and searing flight deck. During launchings and landings "deck-apes" are constantly in harm’s way, subject to all the hazards of flight operations: crash landings, spinning props, loose bombs, fire, enemy air attacks and a few more. After every recovery of aircraft, a couple hundred "deck-apes" would have to push as many as sixty multi-ton planes aft to the parking position for launching. For this reason they often called themselves, N.A.P.s the Navy designation for Naval Aviation Pilot, but in their case N.A.P. stood for Naval Aircraft Pushers.

On more than a few occasions, as I crossed the flight deck to man my plane, I'd see Tommy and wave to him; he'd give me a thumbs up in return. If it happened to be a combat mission I was going on, I'd envy him staying on the relative safety of the ship. Now I am safe in the States, and Tommy lies buried at sea … somewhere off the coast of Okinawa.

                                              

Leo Burrows: "In early 1961 I was in Kansas City, Missouri on a business trip. I had a free afternoon, rented a car and drove down to Independence to tour the Truman Library. It is arranged in a time sequence of the events that occurred during the Truman administration, and includes government papers, press reports, as well as pictures....I did not observe any pictures as dramatic as the one I had of our drop of supplies to the Heroes of Bataan....Upon my return home, I sent a print of the original to President Truman along with a letter."

President Truman's reply is shown to the right.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In early June the Replacement Team was exiled to N.A.A.S. Oxnard, California, a holding pen some 650 miles north of San Diego. We were at Oxnard only a short time when Big John announced that he had volunteered to go back out again, this time as a member of Torpedo Squadron Eighty-Six aboard the U.S.S. WASP. She had been severely damaged in March when hit by a Kamikaze; now with repairs completed she was returning to combat and in need of an experienced crew. John had not committed either Damron or I for this duty ...... but we were not going to let him go without us.

The three of us joined Torpedo-86 at N.A.AS. Arcata and shipped out of San Francisco on June 13th aboard the WASP, an Essex Class Carrier, the same as the BUNKER HILL. On the 14th we flew a bombing exercise dropping 100 pound live bombs on a sled towed 900 feet behind the WASP. We had not had a hop since leaving Miami three months ago and our last carrier flight had been eight months ago. We would have preferred a familiarization flight at this point.

However, our take-off, along with half the air group, went well. We climbed to 10,000 feet to obtain an attack altitude and into a position behind the fighters and dive bombers, and commenced our attack. Just as John pushed over the two T.B.F.s directly in front of us collided in mid-air. The only action available to me was to slam our bomb bay doors, and put our bombs on safe. I looked out hopefully for chutes, there were none. Just two wrecks burning on the water below marking the graves of six men I'd never get to know.

The "Stinger's" (WASP) next call was Pearl Harbor, where Air Group-86 set down at N.A.S. Barbar's Point on Oahu. This was a welcome move to me, both Arty Reinhard and George Ubhaus, my friends since the first grade at Saint Leo's, were stationed on Oahu. Arty was a First Class Signalman aboard the U.S.S. ALLEN, an old but dependable destroyer. She had been tied up at Pearl on December 7, 1941 and credited with downing one of the attacking Japanese planes. Since then the ALLEN had been working the anti-sub circuit, escorting our own subs into port, and substituting as a weather ship. George was a corporal in the Marines and had been severely shaken up at Tawara, and now pulling guard duty.

Contact was established and the three of us, who had been separated for almost three years, met, went to a Navy beer shute, and carried on as if we had never been parted. For these three kids who grew up in Irvington to be on the same Pacific island at the same time, had to be more than chance. The Gods of War had indeed smiled upon them.

The Stinger's stay at Pearl was short. A 40,000 ton Essex Class Carrier with 94 planes aboard, plus an experienced crew and air group, is too powerful a weapon to be sitting in port. On our way west we hit Wake Island, on July 18th. Although we got shot at, it was sort of bombing practice prior to joining up with Task Force-58 At this point in the war Wake had been by-passed ever since Midway, three years ago........... Wake was weak. Wake was the first U.S. possession to fall to the Japanese in December 1941. I was in high school at the time, when a large Japanese invasion force simply over-ran the 550 Marines defending the island. I was attracted to the story by the heroic defense, and what was reported to be the last word from Wake. When the Marines were asked, by radio, what they needed most their reply was "send us more Japs." It was probably pure propaganda, but I presented the story, to about sixty students, in a Public Speaking Class and the event became a part of the war that I'd never forget.

Of the forty-six combat missions I flew, the strike at Wake was the only one I was really anxious to fly.

Ten days after raiding Wake the WASP was a member of Admiral "Bull" Halsey's Third Fleet, now launching a massive air attack against the main Japanese Naval Base at Kure, Japan. The fast carriers of Task Force Fifty-Eight put up 1,500 planes. Our mission was to obliterate Kure, which had once been the home port of the proud and powerful Imperial Japanese Navy.

The flak was heavy but not as accurate as to what we were accustomed. There were reports of enemy fighters, but I did not see any. We got a direct hit, with a 500-pounder, on an already damaged battleship. When Task Force Fifty Eight finished that day, there was nothing standing or floating at Kure.

As always the squadron paid a price for such a success. We lost one brand new crew, which had never flown a combat mission before. A trio, who had joined us a Barbar's Point, to replace the victims of the mid-air collision. I do not recall the pilot's name, but the enlisted air crewmen were Hancock and Hemenway, both 19 year old kids. We were all scheduled to fly the first strike that morning. Both Dave Hancock and Bill Hemenway joined me for breakfast, and asked what the strike would be like. I assured them probably not as bad as they thought, and asked if they were scared. Both answered "yes." "Good," I replied, " because I am, too." I went on to tell them that if they were like me, when they got into their plane, looked out and saw hundreds of sailors serving their country, by performing their duties on the flight deck and on the ship's island, they would say to themselves, "what the hell am I doing in here?" Then as the plane rolls forward the wheels leave the deck and the bird started to climb, if you are like me, you will say to yourself, "there is nothing I can do about it now, it's up to God now". The three of us then had another cup of coffee, and went up to our ready-room.

On the WASP I was pleased to see that the Navy was beginning to change its attitude towards black sailors. The twenty-millimeter gun quad, just outside the aircrew ready-room, had an all-Negro crew. Gun crews aboard the BUNKER HILL had been all white. This particular bunch of black guys was good natured, proud gunners, who had established an on-going tradition. Whenever they were at their battle station and we were manning planes, as we went by one of 'em would remove his helmet, so we could rub the top of his head for luck. "You gotta rub black if you gonna come back." No one ever challenged the tradition.

After Kure, we were running out of worthy naval targets along the east coast of Japan. On July 30th we flew a long four and a half hour hop to the west coast, to hit a light naval force in the Sea of Japan. We flew from coast to coast and back to the carrier without being challenged by a single Japanese fighter. Even the flak was getting light: the war was winding down and so were our supplies.

The Stinger soon pulled out of the line and sailed east, twenty hours later we met the supply train. A fleet tanker pulled alongside, hooked up, and started to pump gas and oil. Aviation gas for the planes and bunker oil, not only to propel the Stinger, but to fell her fuel tanks so that she in turn could refuel destroyers.

Fuel tanks all topped off, the tanker unhooked and slipped away, while another floating warehouse pulled alongside. This one commenced delivering ordnance supplies ranging from 100-pound bombs to 2,200-pound torpedoes, and from 30-caliber machine gun ammunition to 5-inch anti-aircraft shells, all of which would soon be needed.

Ammo all aboard, alongside came another ship: a combination grocery, drug, clothing, shoe, and hardware store. It supplied the essential goods required to sustain the 3,500 souls who resided aboard the U.S.S. WASP, and sent her on her way.

The hundreds of fighting ships in the Third Fleet, often referred to as "the Fleet that came to stay" were supplied in the same manner, and kept at sea for over a year, ever since the Marianas. To me it was a logistical miracle.

On the 7th of August the first Atomic Bomb was dropped on Hiroshima and a second on Nagasaki on the 9th. On the 9th and 10th we were busy bombing airfields on Honshu, which were suspected of launching Kamikaze attacks. The planes were in position for take off on the 10th, when the Task Force came under an air attack. We were ordered to get out of our planes and take cover. Gus Clucas and I headed for the fantail, taking half of the air crewmen on the strike with us, while the others went forward to the bow. The BUNKER HILL had lost half its flying personnel when hit mid-ship. The WASP did not want a repeat.

Back on the fantail we watched the action, all ships firing away. Suddenly a Kamikaze broke through and headed straight for the WASP. Gus gave me an anxious look, at the same time he pointed to the flight deck sixty feet above us, and then to a destroyer about a quarter mile aft of us. I got the message. There were sixty planes parked up there, with a total of about 20,000 gallons of gasoline in their tanks, 36 tons of explosives in their bomb bays and 38,000 rounds of ammo in their guns. If that Kamikaze hit, we are deep in hell. Our only salvation is swimming to that can.

As the Kamikaze closed, the accuracy of the twenty millimeter gun crews improved. Their shells were now slamming in to him; suddenly he began to smoke and break up. A section of the fuselage, with a flaming wing attached, broke off and tumbled towards the WASP. It crashed into the radar antenna, hung there, and then fell harmlessly into the sea. It was the last Kamikaze attack of the war.

Five days later, on August 15th, John was the flight leader of an attack on an electronics factory just west of Tokyo. Most of the Torpedo-86 pilots outranked John; they had been long time flight instructors, with little or no combat experience. Although he was a little short on rank, John was a combat veteran with 45 missions to his credit.

After our group of 36 fighters and bombers had joined up we headed for our target. Half way there we received a frantic radio call: "REBEL LEADER, REBEL LEADER, (our call sign) THIS IS REBEL BASE, HOSTILITIES HAVE CEASED, RETURN TO BASE." We continued to fly towards the target. Immediately the air was filled with: "Rebel leader, didn't you get that last message? The war is over. Let's get the hell out of here."

John replied: "knock it off you, you guys, this is Rebel Leader. There was no authenticator given with that last message." (An authenticator is a code word tacked on to the end of a signal to verify its authenticity.) He then requested a repeat of the last message with the proper authenticator, which was done to his satisfaction. We immediately executed a one-eight-zero turn, jettisoned our bombs into the sea, and headed home.

On our way we received a call from Admiral William "Bull" Halsey, telling us that according to the terms of surrender, there were to be no Japanese planes airborne. If we were to see any of them up there, we were to remember Pearl Harbor and, "shoot the bastards down in a friendly sort of a way."

Back on the WASP, a mild celebration included a Mass of Thanksgiving and a victory dinner. Mass was said on the hanger deck. The WASP had been built in Boston, and drew most of its crew from the nearby Newport Boot Camp, whose recruits were largely from the local area, including Boston with its predominantly Irish and Italian Catholic population. The Mass was well-attended. At the conclusion of the mass Father Dillon conducted Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament, and 2,000 grateful sailors sang the hymn, “HOLY GOD WE PRAISE THY NAME” with greater fervor than it had ever been sung before or since.

THE WAR WAS OVER.

But the Country paid a terrible price. 256,330 Americans made the Supreme Sacrifice.

Some were shipmates, some were good friends, most I never knew, but all were HEROES.

I had fallen in with a wild foursome of characters in Torpedo-86, all air crewmen who had been in the squadron since its commissioning. Gus Clucas, who flew with the C.O., was the leader. Gus had attended Dartmouth for two years and was the starting center on its football team. Another member, Norm Aberlie -- not the brightest guy in the world -- was a shanty Boston Irishman who loved nothing better than a good street brawl. Mike Tapp, a Sooner, was Abe's opposite, a peaceful soul with a brilliant mind and a quick wit. Warren White, from Maryland, a born school teacher type, filled out the foursome.

I joined them for the Victory Dinner. The ship's cooks did a masterful job of turning out a banquet consisting of soup, turkey, ham and an array of vegetables, fruit, pie, ice cream, coffee, and

Cigars; all five of us consumed it with delight. Well-satisfied, the five of us sat there, talking, drinking coffee and smoking our cigars. Then as we got up to leave, Aberlie, in the truest tradition of a United States Sailor, griped, "If this is the stuff you get when you win, I pity the poor Japs." When we got top side, Gus came to the conclusion that we should continue the celebration with an appropriate drink. With which we all concurred.

From our Yeoman, Gus has learned that the Squadron Personnel Officer, Lieutenant William Dane, a known boozer, kept scotch in a steel cruise box in the squadron storage compartment with a crowbar, borrowed from a damage control station. Gus snapped the huge pad lock which secured the box and found four bottles of scotch. He took one and we retreated to the privacy of the port aft 40-Mil gun tub, and proceeded to pass the jug around. After about an hour it began to rain, we stashed the bottle in Gus's plane, and returned to our ready room.

Much to our surprise, the Lieutenant was there looking for us. It was also obvious, that he too had visited the cruise box, and for the same reason we had. The room was crowded; he led us through the passageway to the officer's ready-room which was empty. There he exploded in a mad rage, "you people stole a bottle of my scotch and you are gonna pay for it!" "How much do you want for it, Lieutenant?", Mike interjected. He paid no heed to Mike, but continued on for another few minutes of how he was going to report this crime and our insubordination. How we were going to be court martialed, sent to prison and dishonorably discharged from the Navy. Suddenly he stopped talking and made a not all too certain move to leave. “You know Lieutenant", Gus said, It's against Navy Regs to have booze aboard in the first place". "So what are you going to tell Commander Stefenhagen"? (Stefenhagen was the squadron's C.O., with whom Gus had been flying for the past two years).

The armada, while awaiting further orders, continued to cruise off the coast of Japan. Now with the war and Kamikaze behind her, the WASP was under attack again: this time the enemy was an angry sea. On August 25th a typhoon, with wind gusts up to 78 knots and 70 feet waves, struck the Third Fleet. The great waves breaking over ship's bow caved in the leading 55 feet of the WASP's flight deck.

While the ship rolled and pitched, I headed for the flight deck, up through the island. Once on the open deck, dressed in foul weather gear, I secured myself with a belt to a steel rail which was welded to the ship's island. I watched with dismay as waves broke over our flight deck and destroyers disappeared from the surface like submarines. There was scuttlebutt that several ships sunk in the storm, but it was never confirmed. The truth is that the Fleet should have left the area before the typhoon hit.

Eight months earlier, on December 17 and 18th a typhoon had hit the Third Fleet in the Philippine Sea and sunk three destroyers, with the loss of 800 officers and men. This disaster was not reported until after the war.

From the condition of the flight deck, as a result of the storm, we had concluded that flying from the WASP was now a thing of the past. However, two days after the storm, armed with acetylene torches, the ship's Engineering Department proceeded to cut off the caved-in section of the deck, and let it drop into the sea. The new forward part of the deck was tested and found safe. Now it was just a matter of moving the planes back 40 feet from the normal take-off position and let them rip.

That evening we got the unexpected word that there would be flight quarters at 0800 in the morning. Only this time, we learned, we would be dropping food and medical supplies on a prisoner of war camp instead of bombs on an enemy position. Knowledge of the operation spread rapidly throughout the ship.

Soon sailors from every division on the WASP were bringing mattress sacks filled with cartons of cigarettes, boxes of cigars, candy, and gum to our ready-room, to drop along with the food and medical supplies. It was a spontaneous act of charity by the Ship's Company, done at their own expense, and reflects the compassionate nature of the American Sailor.

We found the POW Camp without any difficulty and made a perfect drop. In fact, our drops were so good, we were ordered to repeat the performance the next day, which again included a contribution from the ship's crew.

Our eight plane section came in low over the camp, the same as the day before, only now we were stunned by the message that greeted us. On the roof of the barracks the POWS had spelled out: "MEN FROM BATAAN AND CORREGIDOR THANK WASP" We made good drops and slowly turned to go back to our carrier, but the usual meaningless chatter was missing as aircrews contemplated what they had just witnessed. My thoughts, like others, went back to those dark days of early 1942 when the cry from the Philippines was: "NO MOTHER, NO FATHER, NO UNCLE SAM, WE ARE JUST THE POOR BASTARDS OF BATAAN."

Uncle Sam's Navy was three and a half years late in reviving the survivors of the "Bataan Death March". But thanks to the immeasurable effort and sacrifice of an entire nation, we did rescue, regretfully not all, but many of the HEROES OF BATAAN.

P.S. Here for the first time I am revealing, in print, an episode that took place after we made our first drop. John took us on a short sight seeing tour of Japan, on which we observed the devastation of the country.

Along the way we spotted an abandoned airfield; we slowly circled it a few times and then shot an unauthorized touch-and-go landing. For this act of stupidity John, Grant, and I claim to be the first Americans into Japan at the conclusion of the war. After this we made our second landing of the day (which was authorized), and aboard the U.S.S. WASP, it turned out to be my 100th and my last carrier landing… John always brought the bird back aboard the boat.

Now there was only one last detail to attend to, the formal surrender of Japan. From the "Bridge" we learned it would take place aboard the U.S.S. MISSOURI on September 2nd in Tokyo Bay. From the "Mess Cooks" we learned that, immediately following the signing, the WASP would sail for Pearl Harbor for repair of the flight deck, and then HOME ....... we hoped.

The Navy Brass wanted a show of force during the surrender ceremony.... as if the Japanese had not been aware of our dominant air power for the last year. All carriers were ordered to launch their entire Air Group, for a fly over of the MISSOURI during the signing. Putting up close to 2,000 planes, at one time at this point, had to be the product of the same mentality which, prior to Pearl Harbor, had planned on winning a Pacific War with a lot of battleships.

John, Grant and I took a negative view of this pending rat race, and happily our name did not appear on the flight roster. Now, as a spectator I could watch what I considered the greatest show on the surface of the sea: the launching and landing of hundreds of Avengers, Corsairs, Hellcats, and Helldivers on 24 Essex and Independence Class Carriers.

As soon as the last plane was airborne, I climbed to the flight deck. I wanted one more long look at the ships which had been the vanguard of our drive across the Pacific. I saw Aircraft Carriers, Battleships, Cruisers, and Destroyers, stretched out in every direction, to the horizon and beyond. This was the main body of the most powerful Fleet which had ever sailed the seas, with more firepower than the combined strength of all the Navies that had ever existed. In battle she had met and eliminated her enemies. She had earned her "WELL DONE". All too soon, too many of her fighting ships like THE U.S.S. BUNKER HILL, with 11 Battle Stars and a Presidential Unit Citation, would be sold for scrap, and then turned into razor blades, to give us one more close shave.

No longer would her gallant crews answer the call: “ALL HANDS MAN YOUR BATTLE STATIONS", then with accurate and angry guns fight off an enemy air attack.

No longer would the ship's P.A. system blare the battle command: "PILOTS MAN YOUR PLANES". Followed shortly by: "LAUNCH ALL AIRCRAFT."

No longer would her planes, armed with bombs, torpedoes, and rockets roar down her deck at dawn and disappear into the darkness.

The war was over. We were at peace and I was glad. The final curtain had come down on the most stimulating and tragic event the world