by Larry Colton
It was also a cultural awakening. Other than one trip to Oklahoma, he’d spent his whole life in Texas. That was his identity, his culture, his accent. Now he was surrounded by guys from New Jersey, Minnesota, California. They all had their different ways of expressing themselves. Not everyone appreciated his cocky manner. Fortunately, there were two other Texans on board, and he immediately gravitated to them, quickly picking up the nickname “Skeeter.” He wasn’t exactly sure why they called him that. Maybe it had to do with him always buzzing around like a pesky mosquito.
The Trout reached the entrance to Manila Bay on the afternoon of February 3. But the water around Corregidor was heavily mined, and it would be too risky to proceed to port. With tons of high explosives on board, the sub was a gigantic fireball waiting to happen.
After waiting until nightfall, Captain Fenno, a class of ’25 graduate of the Naval Academy, took off on a zigzag course through the heavily mined harbor. He was following a motorboat guided by a torpedo boat squadron commander, Lieutenant John Bulkeley. As Fenno maneuvered the 307-foot-long, fleet-type submarine in the wake of a fast-moving torpedo boat in the pitch-black night, it was as quiet as a church on board. Halfway to their destination, Tim heard a mine scraping down the port side of the sub.
For forty-five nerve-racking minutes, Tim and the rest of the crew held their breath. Finally, the ship pulled alongside the south dock and darkened its lights. The crew immediately went to work, passing cases of artillery up through the rear hatch and unloading them on the dock. Tim cast a glance toward Cavite across the bay, from where Japanese artillery emplacements could easily blow them to smithereens. In the distance, the sound of artillery fire rumbled through the hills of Bataan. Tim saw explosions; the night sky lit up like someone had waved a giant sparkler through it. Despite his being in great shape, his muscles quickly wearied.
While the ammunition was being unloaded aft, the Trout took on ten torpedoes through her forward hatch. Each torpedo weighed 3,000 pounds, and with no crane or hoist to help, the crew, aided by Filipino stevedores, grew even more exhausted. On the port side, the ship took on 27,000 gallons of fuel.
As he continued to work, Tim looked down the dock and spotted dozens of carloads of locals arriving. Because of the constant bombardment that Corregidor had been under, supplies had dwindled and food was scarce; the civilians had come in hopes of a handout. Seeing their desperate and pleading faces, Fenno ordered all possible supplies to be brought to the dock—cigarettes, medical supplies, and food. Tim helped carry up food supplies. When the job was finished, all that was left on board for the rest of the mission was the ingredients for spaghetti—breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Nearing midnight and the end of the unloading of the ammo, Fenno inquired what type of ballast was available to replace the twenty-five tons of shells that had just been removed. Without sufficient ballast, the ship would have trouble diving and be dangerously top-heavy when on the surface. He said he’d take anything—crushed rocks, stone, sandbags. But every sandbag on the island had already been used for protection against the constant bombardment. A new plan was hatched: the ballast would come from the gold bars and silver coins from the Philippine treasury hidden in the tunnel. The amount was staggering for the time: $38 million in U.S. Treasury checks, $31 million in American and Philippine currency, $9 million in silver Philippine pesos, and over six tons of gold worth $9 million. After a call to MacArthur, it was agreed that a portion of the treasure—$20 million—would be transferred to the Trout.
Soon tons of gold, securities, and silver were being loaded onto five-ton flatbed Army trucks for the trip to the dock. With the help of locals, Tim and the crew began loading 319 bars of gold, passing them by hand down the hatches into the sub. Each bar weighed forty pounds, a total of almost six and a half tons. It took only minutes to load them. Next came the 630 bags of silver, each bag containing a thousand pesos. Tim wasn’t sure how much each bag weighed, but by now they each felt like a ton. By the time the money was loaded, every available inch of space on the inside deck of the Trout was stacked with the bars of gold and the bags of silver.
As Fenno readied the ship for departure, Tim saw one of his crewmates, Doug Graham, furtively untie one of the bags of silver coins, reach inside, pull out a handful of coins, and stick them in his pocket. Tim had heard Captain Fenno talk about the integrity of delivering their cargo, and stealing ran contrary to Tim’s Baptist upbringing. He debated whether to blow the whistle on Graham but decided to sleep on it for a few days.
With the final transfer of funds completed, the Trout turned and headed toward the open sea. On board was the richest ballast any ship had ever carried. Fenno’s instructions were to transport the money directly back to Pearl Harbor for transfer to the American treasury and not engage the enemy. But Fenno was itching to sink a Japanese ship. He set course for the East China Sea.
Two weeks after leaving Corregidor, Fenno got his wish. The Trout sank a 2,700-ton cargo ship off the northern coast of Formosa using three torpedoes. Tim was still wrestling whether to say anything about Graham’s taking the coins. It upset his sense of right and wrong, especially after he heard Graham talking about being a deacon in his church back home in Sacramento, but he finally decided not to make an issue of it. He was the youngest and the lowest-ranking man on the ship, and this was not a good time to alienate anyone. He would, however, turn Graham in after the war, he told himself.
The next week was uneventful except for the foul winter weather: gale winds and mountainous seas. It gave Tim a chance to continue his naval education. So far, he’d studied how to operate the bilge system, how to fire a torpedo, how to go into the engine room and start the big Fairbanks-Morse engine from scratch, and how to put power to the screws (propellers). Sometimes he felt like he was back in school again, constantly reading manuals, looking at drawings and blueprints, listening to the officers’ instruction. But this wasn’t like school back in Dallas, where he was rarely interested in the assignments. He liked studying about the submarine. It was important to him to move up in rank.
Not satisfied with just one sinking, Fenno scored another kill, this time an enemy gunboat passing through the Bonin Islands south of Japan near Iwo Jima. Fenno wanted more, but soon a message arrived from Pearl Harbor ordering him to return to base. Word had come from Washington—a sub loaded with gold and silver was too valuable to risk chasing after enemy gunboats and freighters.
On the afternoon of March 3, 1942, after fifty days on mission, Tim was topside as the Trout moored port side to the USS Detroit at Fleet Air Base in Pearl Harbor. Its precious cargo was quickly transferred to the Detroit to be taken to America. For the mission, Commander Fenno was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for “extraordinary heroism.” Tim and the rest of the crew all received a prestigious Silver Star Medal. And for his part in guiding the Trout through the minefields of Manila Bay, as well as his heroic efforts in the climactic final hours of the Philippine defense, including the personal evacuation of General MacArthur and his family from Corregidor, Lieutenant Commander John Bulkeley was presented the Congressional Medal of Honor by President Roosevelt.
At a time when there was almost no good news to report from the war, the Trout’s mission made headlines across the country and helped lift the nation’s beleaguered spirits. Seventeen-year-old Tim McCoy felt proud to have been part of such a heroic effort.
Tim sat in his hotel room, staring out the window, trying to figure out something to do to pass the time. He and the rest of the crew of the Trout were staying at the posh Royal Hawaiian. The Navy had taken over the three fanciest hotels on the island—the Royal Hawaiian, Moana, and Halekulani—to house and feed the sailors between combat patrols; enlisted men stayed for free, officers paid $1 for a suite. Before the war, these were the hotels for movie stars and rich tourists, off-limits to servicemen.
Tim was bored, unimpressed with Hawaii, or at least Honolulu and Waikiki. Sailors had taken to calling Oahu “the Rock,” compa
ring it to Alcatraz: isolated, overcrowded with military personnel, a departure point for the horrors of combat and possibly death. For many of these young men, the tension was relieved only by alcohol. For the first time in his life, Tim had awakened with the curse of a hangover.
Out his window, he saw men standing in line to catch a bus. He’d always been an impatient, fidgety kind of kid, and to him, Hawaii was a place where he was always waiting—waiting to wash his Skivvies, waiting for chow, waiting to be sent off to battle again. It also felt like a lot of the locals didn’t like servicemen. With the arrival of so many sailors and Marines, the population on the island had ballooned dramatically. Services were strained. In addition to the flood of service personnel, thousands of others had come to the island seeking the promise of important war work. At first these new arrivals, or malihinis as the natives called them, were greeted warmly, but soon this swarm of new people were viewed with a wary eye: they drank and cussed too much, made too much noise, and started too many fights.
To Tim, like most Navy men, Honolulu was a dirty town inhabited by Japs, Chinks, and dark-skinned people running around unwashed and barely able to speak English. Racial slurs and epithets were part of normal conversation. Men who’d never interacted with people of color or different ethnicity now found themselves in the minority. Tim didn’t feel comfortable walking the streets. The atmosphere felt tense, especially with so many of the men wandering the streets drunk, most of them not good at handling their liquor.
Another thing Tim didn’t like about the island was the lack of women. Most of the white women on the island had returned to the mainland after December 7. Tim heard an estimate that the ratio of men to women in Honolulu was 500 to 1. With such scarcity, sailors looked at every woman they saw as if she were a Betty Grable or a Hedy Lamarr. The Navy and the USO staged dances, but as with everything else on the island, the men had to stand in line to wait their turn to dance. Tim had been to one dance at the Navy Rec Center in Waikiki, but with over a thousand men attending and only about thirty women, he left early.
He wasn’t interested in the brothels, either. Honolulu brothels were now servicing up to 30,000 men a day, and for many of these servicemen it would be their only encounter with a woman before they died. There was also the chance of catching a venereal disease. (More men in World War II would get VD than be wounded in action.) To a huge number of young servicemen, it was worth the risk. Not to Tim.
“I have no desire to be the hundredth guy some whore does it with in a day,” he said. “Or, for that matter, the first. I can’t even imagine.”
Tim quickly glanced at his cards, then glared at Petty Officer Joe Boyle sitting across the table. For some unknown reason, Boyle had made it his assignment to ride Tim. Along with four crewmates, they were playing poker in Boyle’s room at the Royal Hawaiian. One of the other players was Doug Graham, whom Tim had seen steal the coins on the Trout. Between Boyle, Graham, and the ten beers he’d downed, Tim was feeling irritable.
“Where’s your ante?” asked Boyle.
“I forgot,” replied Tim, tossing a matchstick into the pot. He took another swig of his beer.
“Is everybody from Texas as stupid as you?” needled Boyle.
Tim set his cards down.
“Kiss my ass,” he muttered.
“What did you say?”
“You heard me, asshole.”
Boyle slowly stood.
Common sense should have told Tim that fighting with an officer was a sure way to get washed out of the submarine service, sent to the brig, or court-martialed, or all three. But at that moment, none of that occurred to him. He unloaded from somewhere south of the lobby, his right fist nailing Boyle squarely on the jaw. Down he went, out cold.
Tim turned and headed out the door. He didn’t know anything about maritime law, but he was pretty sure he was in big trouble.
8
Gordy Cox
USS Sculpin
The physical part of boot camp was easy for seventeen-year-old Gordy. He’d always been wiry and full of energy. All of the hockey and skating, as well as riding his bike up and down hills in Yakima to deliver newspapers, had prepared him well for the calisthenics and marching. Plus, he had a good attitude, happy to be on his own, proud to be in the Navy. Unlike many of the inductees, he didn’t grouse about sweeping the Grinder or spending endless hours learning to tie knots. He’d even been able to send part of his weekly $21 boot-camp pay home.
Gordy was good about writing to his mother about life in the Navy. He always used U.S. Navy stationery and always signed with his whole name—Gordy Cox—but never added an “I Love You” or any other sign of affection.
February 1, 1941
The Navy gave me $100 worth of clothes and I have to learn a different fold for each article.… I’ve never seen so many crack-pots in one bunch as in this company.… We start marching Monday with a gun as big as a cannon.… The sun is plenty hot here and my neck is getting burned and my feet are sore.
February 26, 1941
I had my first liberty last weekend. I think San Diego is the prettiest town I was ever in, especially Balboa Park.… While I’m thinking of it you had better write me an invitation to come home on leave. They won’t let us go if we don’t have a written invitation from home.… I am going to take a test in a few weeks and maybe I’ll qualify for the Communication and Clerical School, the radio division of it, but I doubt I’ll make it.… I have never heard so much profane language in my life, but haven’t heard any new words.
March 22, 1941
Boy we sure live in a swell barracks now. There is linoleum on the floor which isn’t half bad to swab.… I still only make $21 a month. I got paid yesterday so I thought I’d send you a little money. You need it and I don’t, and if you don’t need it now you can stick it away. If I keep it I’d just waste it.
Gordy set down his test paper. He’d answered only half the questions, and he had no doubt he’d flunked. For most of his life he’d been told he was slow, so there was no reason for him to believe he’d do any better on a test now that he was in the Navy.
The test was one given to the thousand recruits who’d just finished the seven weeks of boot camp. Those who scored in the top 20 percent would go on for special training. The rest would be assigned to a ship and go to sea. That was fine with Gordy.
When the results of the test were finally announced, Gordy was one of the 20 percent who’d passed. They assigned him to Communications School.
“I can’t imagine how dumb those guys who failed must be,” he said.
March 30, 1941
I’m trying to listen to Jack Benny and write at the same time.… Well, we got started to school yesterday. I have to learn to type. It doesn’t seem so hard. They also gave us some dot and dash we have to learn.… I’m flat broke.
April 10, 1941
There’s a bunch of guys came in from Newport Training Station. Most of them are from New York. They sound as bad as the Texans.… Thanks for the card and the dollar but I really didn’t need it.
April 16, 1941
There’s a few guys here who keep getting me mad, but don’t think I’ll have any trouble.… Just think, in one month and a week I’ll start drawing $36 per month and an automatic promotion to second class seaman.
May 12, 1941
I saw Martha Raye yesterday and a glimpse of Edgar Bergan [sic], but old Charlie and Snerd were in their suitcase. There are quite a few movie stars that come down here. Lew [sic] Costello the comedian was here. I got to talk to Budd [sic] Abbott for a little while. Well, so much for famous people. After all, they’re the same as everyone.
June 10, 1941
Saw Bob Hope the other day. You probably heard the program over the air.… There are lots of Texans down here that are better than us. Just ask them.
August 17, 1941
Well, I’m still here and they haven’t shipped me out yet. I haven’t done any work lately except scrub a little paint.… I never saw so m
any dopes, most of them never do anything sensible.… Most of the guys are disgusted now but I think it will be better after we get out to sea.
Gordy graduated from Quartermaster Signalman’s Radio School in Communications School and was waiting at the base in San Diego for assignment when there was a call for volunteers for submarine service. He’d never thought about being a submariner and had no intention of signing up, but while standing in line, a friend gave him a shove in the back and he was a volunteer. He could’ve easily stepped back into line, but not wanting to draw attention to himself, he agreed to go. The next day he signed the papers, and a week later he was on a ship heading to the sub base at Pearl Harbor.
September 12, 1941
I’ve been ashore out here and it is a dump. There isn’t anything here. The town of Honolulu is like Front St. in Yakima, all of the people here are Japs or something that looks like almost Japs. If a person sees a real Hawaiian he’s lucky.… I’m making $46 a month now and would like to save some of it.… A person has to have a lot of money out here to have a good time. I can’t figure out where they get all that stuff about romantic Honolulu. It’s the dirtiest and shackiest [sic] town I’ve ever been in.
October 2, 1941
Suppose everyone has gone back to school by now. I kind of wish I were going back with them. I guess I didn’t realize that I was doing alright then or else I thought the Navy was too much of a good thing. It wouldn’t be so bad if a person could see some white people when he went ashore instead of a bunch of Japs, Chinks, and Hanakies. The Hanakies look like Philippinos [sic] only blacker. The only people that will talk to you are someone trying to get your money or a drunk sailor. Speaking of dumb sailors reminds me about the other night. Elmer, a friend of mine, talked me into drinking two or three beers and if it hadn’t been time to come back to the ship then I probably would have been a drunken sailor. It’s sure a job to keep from going out and getting drunk or something. There’s nothing else to do.… I haven’t gotten a letter from you since I came back off leave. Have you forgot that you have a sailor son or did you disown me?
