Monday, April 17, 2006

SAGA OF SHAME IN WORLD WAR II

It happened on our minesweeper in the South Pacific during World War II. Our little wooden ship with a crew of 29 men and four officers, and hundreds just like it, played a vital, risky role in the war against Japan.

The night before each invasion we sat in the galley writing letters to loved ones, They were placed in a bucket and left in the ship's safe. If we survived, the "bucket of tears," as we called it, would be doused with alcohol and set ablaze. The ashes would be dumped into the sea.

Our job was to clear the waters of mines so the big ships could sail safely into shore. If there were no mines we could cruise right up to the beach and see the Japanese in their bunkers waving at us as we sailed by. If the seas were mine-free they wouldn't fire on us. That would reveal their positions and they would become targets for gunners on the big ships waiting off shore. If the waters had been mined, we became their targets.

Our ship was shot at but never hit. Others weren't so lucky. They were sunk by Japanese fire or blew up when mines got tangled in the sweeping gear and exploded close to the ship. When one of our ships was hit, all that was left was floating debris and splintered wood.

Each night before an invasion the captain told us what to expect. We were warned on the eve of one invasion that there would be an unusually large concentration of mines. We were ordered to keep sweeping no matter the flack from the beach. We were assured the big ships and planes would protect us and bomb the hell out of the enemy. That assurance didn't set well with the crew.

Our ship survived. We were pulled out of he convoy at the last minute. Why? On the eve of the invasion, the machinist's mate on watch in the engine room was urged: "Why don't you throw a monkey wrench in the works?" The next morning our engines were dead in the water. We were yanked out of the flotilla and arrived three days late. It was a brutal invasion. A lot of minesweepers were sunk. A lot of sailors died while we waited in drydock for our engines to be repaired. There was a temporary feeling of relief when we realized we'd been spared the brunt of the battle. Guilt set in. We heard about the casualties. We saw disabled landing craft, a sea filled with debris.

The realization of our cowardice and complicity in a crime of sabotage caused us to search our souls and suffer the shame of what we had been party to. But to the best of my knowledge no one ever revealed what happened on that fateful night before the invasion in the South Pacific.

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