They came from all walks of life having volunteered for PT duty. These are anecdotes of things that stand out in the teller's mind, after all it is fifty plus years ago, so they must stand out. As the host of this page, I wish to say at the outset that my tales are factual without prevarication or embroidery do to my seventy-seven year old infallable memory.

Beaty Lay, PT 185, Squadron 11:

Palm Trees: The one memory that really stands out was the directive not to shoot any palm trees but to shoot between them when straffing a Jap held island. Uncle Sam would have to pay Lever Bros. for palm trees that were damaged. We all thought this was stupid beyond belief and to this day I have avoided using any Lever Bros. products.

Pappy Mason: We called him Pappy because he had a flock of kids and was the elder of the squadron. Pappy said "He joined up because he figured a war zone would give him some peace and quite." A batch of raisin jack was always abrew wherever Pappy happened to be. After a batch brewing in a life rafts water keg blew up in choppy seas it was decided that wisdom dictated that hence forth such efforts be conducted on land. And so it came to pass that on one of the islands where the boats were tied up under the trees that a replacement Ensign scouted the peremiter of the site. Reporting to the Skipper that he had discovered what he presumed to be a cache of Jap personal belongings and some saki a making. The latter statement alerted the Skipper that the officer had inadverently stumbled upon Pappy's still and hoard of souvenirs. Such was the intiation of replacement crew members into the norm of PT life.

The Pork Chop Capper: If you recall, I said that I had a fistful of orders when I headed for the states, and that we left a copy of same at each stop. Well I didn't take any detours or extended stays at any bases and as a direct result still had a hand full of orders, and each set of orders presented to the ration board in your community would bring forth a complete set of ration coupons. In due time Dad and I were shopping in the grocery store and Pop was eyeing some pork chops. I could see his wheels spinning about the number of ration stamps required. So being a bit brash, fresh back in the states, with a couple years savings in my poke, I asked the butcher the price for the pork and to his query as to how many I said all and that's what I got, tray included. Now at this time, in the interests of my health and to slay any unhealthy bugs that might attack me I had layed in a store of rationed Meyers 'n Meyers Three Dagger a very black 150 + proof rum, which inevitabley was foreordained to get knocked over one morning about 2 a.m. and pour it's contents into the tray of pork chops on the shelf below. The fumes from the rum marinaded porkchops wafting thru the neighborhood brought numerous visitors who were only to willing to offer their pallets and taste buds as a taste bed. Damn!! but them were good chops, tho I've never tried that recipe again

Hawk Fry: It was while in Espirito Santos that we were directed to a water barge anchored in the bay to take on fresh water to fill our drinking water tanks. We pulled along side and when no one came forth to greet us, I hopped off the boat and approached the crew shack in the middle of the deck from whence sounds of a poker game were coming and after sticking my head through the window opening I announced in no uncertian terms that the damn fool directly in front of me could never expect to win with a lousey pair of dueces, but then what the hell, he never could play poker any way as I had beaten his ass innumerable times myself. To which he replied, without turning, that as soon as he finished seperating these losers from their money he'd see about that. I had recognized the voice as belonging to Hawk Fry , a fellow wayfarer from Powers, tho several years my senior, and he in turn had recognized my voice. After the hand was played out there was the appropiate whooping and "do you remember ing" while we watered up. We hadn't seen each other for a couple of years and I'm not even sure if I knew he was in the navy. But I did recognize the voice.

Ken Nissen, PT 245 , Squadron 20

Sea Sick: Ron 20 had 3-4 officers mess attendants. They were black boys-one of the few rates given to blacks then as the navy was not fully integrated in those days. Consequently they had little to gain or lose by any action they might take. It was to their credit that none of them were ever in any big trouble, even though they might do things that the rest of us probably would not get away with. One such occurrence came when the squadron left New Orleans for shakedown in Miami. Parish was sick from the time the boat he was riding left the dock until they tied up that night. I don't remember how long the trip took us but there was at least a day or two left. We refueled and got ready to leave next morning with no Parish anywhere. When we got to Miami Parish was sitting on the dock waiting for us. The hell with being sick all day he took the bus to Miami.

Sub Watch: That sort of set the stage for the trip from the canal to Espiritu Santos aboard a tanker. The first thing that happened was someone told Parish that if he got sick the merchant marine guys on the tanker crew were apt to throw him overboard. I really don't know how seriously he took that, but judging from where he came from and the climate toward blacks in those days I don't think he totally discounted the idea. Whenever anyone would ask him, Parish, how do ya feel you look a little peaked, he always shot back, fine suh, jus fine. We stood watch on each boat, supposedly watching for submarines. Parish spent all his off hours right along with the guy on watch on the boat he was riding. One evening Parish thought he saw something and raised such a commotion the XO took the glasses to look and try to turn him off. "Mist Eperly they's a submarine out there. Mista Eperly. Well whata ya know after a long look he spotted a ship's mast sticking up on the horizon. "Parish, how did you see that?" "Well suh us scared boys we sees good."

Warren P. Ganter, PT 185 , Squadron 11

Beaty, I have reviewed my 1944 diary. It was not much help. My description of the engines is strictly from memory. I recall it as being told by motor mac R.V. Higginbotham, PT185. How good is one's memory after 50+ years?

Here is what was in the diary:
7/10/1944 Engines removed from boat at Emirau.
7/12-7/17 In drydock to work on the bottom.
7/17 New engines installed today. Started painting the superstructure and sanding the decks.
7/21 Finished with decks. Went out for test run.
7/22 Another test run.
7/23 First patrol with new engines.

Here are some other interesting diary entries:

9/6/44 "Had a hot run on a fish today. Couple guys went over the side. No damage". (I remember this well. The TM shut her down. I can still see those props spinning).

9/13/44 "Guy fired a shot into fuel tanks. No damage". (One of our guys was cleaning? his side arm in the day room).

The only other screw-up I recall was when somebody put a round from the 37mm into the radar while at anchor. Don't remember which boat.

11/23/44 Last patrol at Emirau.

12/11/44 Left Emirau bound for Manus.

So much for the war. Keep in touch.

Bill Rankin, PT 379 , Squadron 28

A Friendly Fire: Ka Boom! Each one like thunder -- almost over our heads now and each explosion lighting up the night and each explosion closer. Until now we were making most of the racket with our guns answering the fire of a single machine gun at the little Japanese held town of Appari. It was well after midnight and we had just come out of the Cagayan River where our P.T. boats had silently entered looking for barges. The Allies had retaken the Philippines, and trapped soldiers hoped to avoid capture by sailing to the small islands just north of Luzon.

Our Skipper, Lt. Morton yelled “Cease-fire.” He said these sounded like 105’s and it would only take one that size to finish us off.

There was no moon, and with our mufflers still on he quietly turned the 379 out to sea and out of range. Our companion boat, P.T. 382 followed. With no tracers from our boats giving our position they had no way to tell where we were and the explosions soon stopped. The Skipper continued talking to those on the bridge. “We’d heard they had a big gun but they haven’t used it until now. When we came out of the river I figured that one little machine gun would be easy to silence --- but that big gun; that’s something else.” The rest of the night we quietly patrolled west of the town and meditated on how close those shells had come.

As the sun rose our camouflaged boats reflected a pink tinge from light morning clouds as we dropped anchor in Clavaria Bay. If they hadn’t bristled with guns they could have been taken for charter boats finished with a night’s fishing. After catching up on our sleep we cleaned the guns and reloaded ammunition for the next evening’s patrol. Mid-day we cooled off with a swim in the clear emerald waters.

It was an ordained ritual to tell our latest adventures to anyone we met and that evening we were to land a couple of Alamo Scouts on Fugi, a little Japanese held island about 20 miles off of the coast. They were part of an elite army group, similar to commandos, but even more daring, and we met the two at their camp. Lt. Dove was tall, sun tanned and alert, and with him was a small wiry Filipino, Sergeant Ramosa. Their gear, primarily a small inflatable boat and a hand-cranked portable radio transmitter was loaded on the stern of our P.T.

Before our officers could get back to talk to them, George, one of our gunner’s mates started in: “You guys should have been with us last night. It was black as soot man, we was shootin at Appari -- trying to knock out a Jap machine gun see.” He turned to Bill Stewart to affirm his story then turned back to the Scouts to continue.

Kleeberger, another gunner cut in, “Yea, like he says, we were shooting everything we had from me on the bow firing our 37 mm, to the crew on the stern firing the forties.” And Stewart broke in excitedly, “And every other gun in between. Then we fired flares from our mortar to light up the town so we could see what we were doing.”

Our Executive officer, Ensign Haberkost joined us at that moment, shook hands with the lieutenant and I said, "Yes one of the flares went off too soon and lit us up." That might have been our downfall -- anyway after that the Japs answered with something big, probably a 100 mm or so. The shells were going off right over our heads.”

The little sergeant looked up quizzically at his officer and Lt. Dove’s face tightened as he asked, “Was anyone hurt?” Haberkost shook his head and the lieutenant gave a weak little smile, “I think that was our gun.”

He then gave us his version of what happened. We have a 75 mm just behind the town -- in the jungle, and we heard your boats come up the river.”

By this time quite a group of sailors had formed and our engineer Waldman spoke up, “How could you -- our mufflers were on.” “Well, we did, but we didn’t hear you go out again and when we heard your gunfire we thought that was the Japs firing at you.”

The small Filipino soldier broke in, so we lobed our shells to where the gunfire was coming from. We figured we’d give those little sons o’ bitches something to think about. Lt. Dove wiped his brow. You sailors are lucky. Our last shipment of ammunition had the new proximity fuses on them, and they don’t have to make a direct hit. They go off just by getting close to a target.”

At this Ensign Haberkost got out his handkerchief and wiped his face, That explains it -- the skipper and I wondered how they could be exploding without any contact. The Scout’s face relaxed and he broke into a broad smile

“Well, with friends like us, who needs enemies?

GMCM Jack H. Duncan, PT 103, Squadron 5

U.S. Rifle, M1903A3, A Springfield: So, I'd been through boot camp, torpedo school, and torpedo boat school. This was in mid-1943. Already a third class petty officer before the age of 18, the Dutch ex-passenger liner Noordam delivered me to Noumea, New Caledonia. Somewhere along the way, I had my 18th birthday, too. Guess the lack of a party or celebration of some kind made me miss it.

Off the ship after about a month in transit, issued combat gear--what? Now picture this! A small-statured, barely 18-year-old carrying a white seabag full of uniforms, a ditty bag, a bucket (to wash clothes in) a hammock, mattress, blankets, pillow. That was a load, but in the next couple of days they also added green herringbone fatigues, helmet, pack, bayonet, boots, ammo belt, canteen--all of the stuff an infantryman carries, including a Springfield rifle, Caliber 30, M1903A3!

So here was this kid already staggering under the weight of the seabag with hammock lashed around it and now he is further burdened with all the gear a Marine might carry.

Well, the rumor spread that there was much trouble "up the Line", meaning in the Solomon Islands. All available man (boy?) power was needed to resist the Jap's onslaught. This rumor was reinforced when a bunch of us trained, but untested PT Boat sailors were embarked on an LCI (Landing Craft Infantry) and set sail for "the Line." The rumor was confirmed when the LCI anchored off Lunga Point on Guadalcanal.

"They can't do this to us, can they?" We're gonna reinforce the Marines!" "Do we know enough about Landing Party Manual stuff to fight on land?" So went the talk.

Suddenly we up anchor and head across Iron Bottom Sound for Tulagi and the major PT Boat base in the South Pacific. Unload at Calterville, draw tents and machetes, cots and mosquito nets, set up a tent in the raw jungle after clearing a spot in the rain forest--of course, it was raining--why do you think they call it a rain forest? Mud, mud, mud!

After getting everything set , the four of us who were tent mates got to spend one night in the slop. Of course, that night when I tried to get into the soggy sack, a pepe--a huge, reportedly poisonous millipede--had taken up residence, so the night was not too restful. What else would join me?

Next morning, a scroungy-looking Ensign slogs his way through the mud and yells my name. "I'm Mr. Green, skipper of the PT-103, and you're my new torpedoman. Let's go!"

So, I'm rescued from the infantry and headed for a PT Boat where I was supposed to go in the first place. Hurray! Saved!

Let's go? Cripes, I have to repack all this stuff--hammock, seabag, web gear, mattress, rifle. It's going to take a while. Ensign Green waits and helps me get it all together. We hop on an LCVP and head up the river to where the PT-103 was tied up to some trees linining the bank.

The eighty-foot Elco PT looked awsome in its green paint with all of its guns uncovered. The "VP pulled alongside, and some old guys (in their mid-20's--they were that old) reached down and helped me get all my gear on deck. As I clambored aboard, they ask me where I had gotten all of this stuff, as they began to throw it overboard into the river. Hammock, ammo, ammo belt, mattress, rifle--Rifle?

Yep, PT Boats were small, fast, heavily armed boats, and carrying any more weight than was necessary was not tolerated. Over weight meant diminished speed. Speed was their main defense--other than 3/4 inches or so of mahogany. So the junk that was such a burden to me "went into the drink"--But the Rifle?

"Yeah, we got too many rifles onboard. Now what we really need are machine guns", was the answer I received when I questioned the procedure. So, somewhere up the river from what is now the small city of Saspe in the Solomon Islands lies my M1903A3 Remington rifle, manufactured on 4/43.. We may have been on the same ship together coming across the Pacific, but I never even got to shoot it.

But, in one of my gun safes today is a brand-new M1903A3 Remington rifle manufactored on 4/43. I acquired it somewhere--don't remember where--but it replaces my first-ever issued rifle.

For the next couple of years, my M1928A Thompson was my friend, and we slept together, so I really didn't need a Springfield.

Oh, the "3 Boat" also had a .30-60 Lewis machine gun, a single-shot 37 mm anti-tank gun, two twin 50's and a 20 mm Oerlikon, plus four ancient, World War I, Mark 8 torpedoes in tubes and two depth charges. We kept adding guns, as we elbowed our way through the Solomons, New Guinea, and into the Dutch East Indies. Ask me sometime, and I'll describe the ordinance we carried after the "Homefront" started making the stuff we needed.

A Leap Into Leap Year: It was a dark and stormy night. No, it really was! February 29, 1944, as I rember, at New Britain Island at the huge, key Japanese base at Rabaul.

The saga begins down at the PT Boat Base Nine, I think, on Stirling Island in the Treasurys off the south coast of Bougainville where we received our briefing. We had returned there following our invasion of Green Island north of Buka. Below deck in the crew's quarters, the skipper of the PT-103 laid out the charts of Simpson Harbor at Rabaul and told us we were going in. It might have been the laconic, taciturn LTJG Ockerman, a Kentuckian, who was our skipper at this time, but my memory is not strong enough to wager money on it. We were to remove everything off the boat that was of value to us, as the boat probably would not be returning. Remember, "We were expendable." We were to be sacrificed to draw fire away from the lead boat, the PT-319.

(Why the hell did I feel euphoria and as one of the "chosen"? Youth?)

Revered Commander--later Admiral--Specht, the boss of the Mortor Torprdo Boat Squadrons' Training Center in Melville, R.I., was to be the leader of this raid. He would be riding the 319, having flown out from the States especially to take us deeper "into harm's way by dint of entering the inner harbor of Japan's principal South Pacific bastion.

First, we had had to leave idyllic, but waterless Green Island and go back to Treasury to prepare for this raid, to get briefed on what we were to accomplish and how. Strip the boat of everything not necessary to fight the boat, perform routine maintenance on the torpedoes at a tender (was it the Portunis?) to make sure they'd work properly, overhaul all of the guns, load float flares to drop over the side as diversions, unload our personal gear, fine tune the three twelve cylinder Packard 4M2500 engines, each pulling 1550 horsepower while drinking 420 gallons of aviation gasoline per hour at top speed. We had yet to install the bigger engines.

We were shown on the map where the five Jap radar stations guarding Blanche Bay were sited. The skipper pinpointed the twenty shore batteries made up of 4.7-inch and 6-inch guns which lined the five-mile guantlet we had to negotiate to enter Simpson Harbor. He showed us the location of the anti-submarine torpedo nets we were somehow to crash to enter the inner sanctum in order to torpedo the Jap transports inside. They were supposedly evacuating some of the trapped 100,000 Jap troops on the island.

We would go back to Green, refuel and rest, then head for Rabaul. All of the squadrons in the area were to strafe nearby beaches and generally raise hell in support of our raid. The New Britain and Green Island-based PT squadrons, as well as CDR Arieigh Burk's destroyer squadron, would try to attract the Jap's attention, so they would not notice that three PT's were entering their front door.

The PT-319 of Ron Five would lead the group, which would travel in single file and carry CDR Specht. My boat, the PT-103--also of Ron Five--would be the second boat with Ron Nine's PT-161 bringing up the rear.

As an 18 1/2-year-old Torpedoman Third Class, I was interested only in what I was to do. Now, as a septuagenarian trying to dredge up memories fogged by a lifetime of adventures, I wish I had paid more attention to what others were to do. I do know that I was a key player in the scenario; at least my four Mark 13 aircraft torpedoes--each packing 600 pounds of TNT--were.

The three boats were to sneak in under the cover of a dark moon, crash the nets protecting the harbor from submarines, torpedo the transports, and attempt to escape at high speed. We would start when the harbor would be illuminated by Army Air Corps B-25 bombers from Green Island that were to drop flares exactly at midnight.

If the Japs opened fire, the 161 was to attract attention to herself first and sacrifice herself. If the opposition got more intense, then the 103 next was to drop float flares, lay smoke and try to draw all of the fire.

The 319, and our beloved CDR Specht, was to escape at all costs.

When the the 161 and 103 Boats were put out of action, we surviving crewmen were to swim to mid-channel and remain there. PBY Catalina flying boats called "Dumbos" would spot us if we would fire two tracers from our .45 pistols. Then, the Dumbos would land and rescue us. Nice plan!

My personal preparation was to load 50 rounds of ball .45 and 50 rounds of tracer .45 into my lifejacket along with several cans of pemmican and two canteens of water. My pistol was wrapped in a special plastic bag issued for that purpose. When the 103 was blown out of the water, I'd survive, swim out to mid-channel and simply wait for my plane ride while bobbing up and down in my kapok lifejacket. No big deal.

Well, after running up from Treasury, we sallied forth from Green during a mild storm with the spits of rain only a harbinger of what was waiting for us. We rounded Cape St. George on the south side of New Ireland and entered St. George Channel, then the Duke of York channel in the darkness. Our boats were tossed about fearsomely as we approached Simpson Harbor.

Rain, which had begun as light patters, now fell in torrents. Our foul weather gear consisted only of ponchos, and with the wind, the spray, and the rain, we were all soaked and cold.

It was pitch black. Just before midnight, we found the torpedo nets and with the engines muffled, we hung onto the nets with our boathooks, all the while standing by to release our torpedoes.

One hour passed. No planes. Two hours. Nothing.

We watched as several Jap patrol or work boats entered the nets via an opening and observed the phosphorescence they stirred in the tropical waters. We could see trucks with black-out lights driving through the city. We could see the blue exhaust of Jap planes taking off from the airfield. We saw the gun flashes as "31 Knot" Burke used his destroyers' five inch guns to shell the Duke of York Islands. We saw other flashes as our PT buddies knocked on other doors.

Three hours; where are our planes to give us light? The wind and rain are intense.

Four hours; we have toget out of here or we're all dead! Reluctantly, we backed off the nets and retraced our path back through the channel, sneaking along at about 5 knots with our mufflers blowing the exhaust under water.

Daylight caught us just outside the Duke of York Channel heading for Cape St. George. The waves were now tremendous. One minute we would be high on a crest and we could see for miles; then we would fall into a trough and it would seem that we were in the bottom of a canyon. Our cruising speed of 27 knots would have meant disaster in this sea where we now crept along at perhaps 10 knots. I was on forward lookout in the forward turret when the 37mm ready box of ammunition was torn loose from the deck by green water pouring over the bow. Rounds of sensitive high-explosive, tetryl-loaded ammo were being hurled around the deck by the tossing boat.

Without a "by-your-leave" or anything else, I bailed out of the turret and crawled forward. I could envision these sensitive rounds detonating and blowing the bow off the boat. Clutching roud after round, I threw them overboard as I hung on for dear life to anything I could reach.

Having cleared all of the loose rounds, I was exhausted and nearly drowned as I returned to the turret, my body bruised and battered from the pounding. Relieved from watch, I slept the rest of the trip back into Green Island's lagoon, only awakening as we nosed up on the sandy beach like a landing craft.

Another of our Ron Five boats, the PT-107, which was strafing the beach to the south of Simpson Harbor took such a big wave that one of its torpedoes was ripped off the deck, launching rack and all. A couple of other boats sustained hull damage when they brushed against each other in the darkness. Several PT crew members in the raid were injured by the pounding.

Why didn't those B-25's drop their flares? The story we were told was that it was raining and they couldn't take off. No Kidding?

And so an entire well-planned raid was for naught because the "fly Boys" thought it was raining too hard. Yet another example of the waste of war. Were there really Jap transports in the harbor? All the time spent by the hundreds of many and many boats and ships--all for naught.

I enter this in my memory as the most physically miserable time in my life.

Ron Five next got to go on up north and invade Emirau Island as our reward so that we could help isolate the other big South Pacific Jap base at Kavieng, as well as blockade Rabaul from the north. I'll bet some "top brass" somewhere earned a medal or two for this mess.

This is just the start of "Tales By . . ."

You are invited as a PT Boat crew member to contribute your "Tales By . . ." E-mail your name, pt boat and squadron and as many memories as you care to. We all remember things a little differently, so telling the same tale that someone else has told just adds another insite to it. I think our legacy needs to be noted, so send in your tales, so they can be recorded, as we, as a group of mariners, are diminishing rapidly. We were a hearty group, and our tales need to be told.