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Adapted From: "The
First Kamikaze." Navy Medicine 85, no. 5 (Sep.-Oct.
1994): 6-11.
The [escort aircraft carrier] Suwannee's [CVE-27] sick
bay had one standard hospital bed and four tiers of three bunks.
We also had an operating room, and adjacent to that, a pharmacy
and a sick call area, and a dental office. For the ship's company,
we had a senior medical officer; I was the junior medical officer.
Each squadron usually brought a surgeon with them. We also had
about 12 corpsmen and a chief pharmacist's mate. We had a dentist
aboard as part of our Ship's Company Medical Division. Of course,
he would help out with first aid, health and sanitation inspections,
and things like that, but he was kept pretty busy with his dental
duties, because in those days the general public had pretty poor
dental hygiene. And a lot of these boys coming aboard had probably
never seen or heard of a dentist before.
Earlier Operations
The Suwannee's first deployment was to support Operation
Torch, the invasion of North Africa, in November 1942. In addition
to providing air cover and helping to destroy the Vichy French
Navy, we also ferried over a bunch of Army P-40s [Curtiss Warhawk
single-seat, fighter-bomber aircraft]. On the way back, we ran
into a terrific storm with a 59-knot gale. Tremendous waves peeled
back the forward part of our flight deck. After repairs at the
Portsmouth Navy Yard the Suwannee went to the Pacific.
We arrived at Noumea, New Caledonia, in January 1943 and amazed
the South Pacific veterans by steaming into the harbor with officers
and crew at quarters in whites. We spent the next 7 months or
so based at Efate Island. From time to time we'd sortie out and
run up the "Slot" to Guadalcanal to support various
operations. We made a quick trip back to San Diego in September
1943 for resupplying, refurbishing, things of that kind. But we
made it back in time for the assault on Tarawa. We took part in
the shore bombardment for that operation, and then, in succession,
supporting landings at Apemama, Kwajalein, Eniwetok, Aitape, Hollandia,
Saipan, Tinian, Guam, and Moratai.
I recall one very narrow squeak off Saipan one night. Our radar
had picked up a bogey some miles out. You could hear reports of
the action on our PA [Public Address] system. "He's 15 miles
out, 10 miles," and so on. As the plane approached, our spotters
actually saw him release a torpedo which came straight for us.
I was at my battle station in the forward battle dressing station
which was at the waterline and I heard the torpedo strike the
side of the ship and then glance off. You could hear it bouncing
off throughout the length of the ship--glunk, glunk, glunk, glunk.
It never exploded. The explanation was that the pilot released
the torpedo so close to us that it didn't have time to arm before
it struck. I remember when we got back into dry dock, seeing the
scars along the star board side of the ship where the torpedo
had scraped from front to back.
Leyte Gulf
On 12 Oct 1944, we left Seadler Harbor to participate in the Philippines
invasion, supporting the landings at Leyte. As I remember, our
fleet was divided into three groups--Taffy 1, 2, and 3 off the
east coast of the Philippines. Our group, Taffy 1, was the southernmost
and was to support the landings on Leyte. The Army seemed to have
no great trouble with the initial landings on 20 Oct, and we were
able to successfully repulse Japanese aerial attacks on our group.
But of course, the Japanese Navy came down to try to knock us
out of our positions. By 18 Oct, we received reports from our
search planes that the Southern Japanese Fleet had put out from
Singapore and was heading for the Philippines. By 22 Oct, our
submarines had spotted the Japanese Center Force heading for San
Bernardino Strait. The Southern Force was destroyed at Surigao
Strait during the night of 24 Oct. At the same time, Admiral Kurita's
force came through the San Bernardino Strait to the north expecting
to catch us in a pincer maneuver. Even those of us doing mundane
jobs were aware that something was going on from all the radio
activity and reports.
On 25 Oct we had gone to general quarters at dawn. After being
released from general quarters, I had had breakfast and gone back
to my stateroom to take a shower. Our captain announced on the
PA system that the whole Japanese fleet was attacking Taffy 3
to the north of us. I looked out on the forecastle and sure enough
it looked like there were a hundred ships on the horizon. At that
point general quarters sounded and I had to go below to my battle
dressing station in the forward part of the ship. It was one deck
below the main deck--two or three below the flight deck. We were
just about at the waterline. There was nothing unique about the
battle dressing station; it contained 25-30 bunks and medical
supplies stored in lockers and was just below and aft of the catapult
engine room. There was an open deck one deck above so you could
look out on either side. This was ordinarily used as a barber
shop and had a couple of barber chairs there. Many times during
general quarters I would sit in one of those barber chairs because
it was the most comfortable thing I could find.
The Kamikazes
Shortly thereafter, we were hit by the first Kamikaze. Our sister
ship, the [escort aircraft carrier] Santee (CVE-29), was
actually hit first, but 19 minutes later another Kamikaze managed
to get through all the antiaircraft fire and crash into our flight
deck about amidships and penetrate to the main deck. This attack
did not do nearly as much damage as the second attack the next
day.
On the morning of the 26th we had maybe 25 wounded in the forward
battle dressing station from the action of the day before. And
we had things pretty much under control by that evening. In fact,
we were not even at general quarters. My stateroom was only two
decks above our battle dressing station and I told my corpsman
that I was going up there to get a change of clothes and maybe
lie down a minute, and that if he needed me to come and get me.
For some reason, exhaustion just got the better of me before I
even got up there and I crawled into a bunk in an adjoining sleeping
compartment just forward of our battle dressing station and fell
asleep.
I was asleep when the second attack occurred. The thing that woke
me up was the sound of our antiaircraft guns going off. When I
heard the guns, I jumped up and started for the dressing station.
Just as I got to the doorway there was a terrific explosion and
we lost our lights. I went into the dressing station and helped
our corpsmen pull some of the wounded out from under wreckage
when there was a second explosion. That one shattered all the
bulkheads and broke water mains.
After the first explosion, my corpsman lit out for my stateroom
to get me, thinking that's where I was. But when he got up there
he found that my stateroom had been demolished and thought I was
gone. I will never forget how after we got working again, he looked
up and saw me and said, "My God, you can't be here."
Indeed, he thought I was dead. "I'm so glad I'm not here
by myself," he said.
The second explosion forced us to evacuate the battle dressing
station. After the first explosion, there was smoke and fire fed
by aviation gasoline pouring onto the deck above us. The wreckage
in the passageway and ladder to the deck above by bomb and ammunition
explosions, prevented entrance or exit to or from our dressing
station. But up to that point we could have remained where we
were, at least temporarily. However, the second explosion further
wrecked our compartment, buckled our bulkheads, and ruptured water
mains above and in our compartment, so that we began to flood.
As the water level rose to knee height in our compartment, the
ship was listing uncomfortably and lying dead in the water without
steerage because of destruction of the bridge and wheelhouse.
Isolated from the rest of the ship with only the reflection from
the gasoline fires above and a few flickering battle lamps for
light, I saw my wounded partially covered with wreckage and already
awash and knew that we had to evacuate.
I think there were about 30 of us, including two corpsmen, two
stretcher bearers, and perhaps 25 wounded resulting from the action
of the day before, mostly consisting of extensive burns, blast
and fragmentation injuries, traumatic amputations, compound fractures,
and multiple severe lacerations. About half the wounded were able
to help themselves to some extent in dragging themselves about,
but the remainder required stretchers to be moved.
Though I did not know the extent of damage to the compartments
aft of us, I knew that they were unoccupied and sealed off during
battle conditions. I informed my corpsmen that I would try to
find an escape by this route as it seemed to offer our only hope
of evacuation. We opened the hatch to the adjacent compartment,
and I was able to get through it and lock it behind me without
flooding from our compartment. Feeling my way with the help of
a pocket flash light, I found the compartment to be intact and
dry, though without light or ventilation. Then I worked my way
aft through several adjacent unoccupied compartments in the same
way until at last I reached an open space on the main deck. Now,
feeling certain that we could make our way out by this route,
I returned to my group in the forward battle dressing station.
There, with my corpsmen and stretcher bearers, and with the valiant
help of some of the mobile wounded, we were able to move our stretcher-bound
wounded through the hatches from one compartment to the next without
leaving or losing a single member of our party to finally emerge
on the open deck. From there, we entered the Chief Petty Officers'
Mess, to find 2 corpsmen tending to about 20 more wounded. So,
we joined forces to organize an amidship's dressing station and
began to gather additional wounded in that area.
On the deck above, we found about 15 or 20 more wounded, mostly
burns and blast injuries, who had made their way into bunks in
the Chief Petty Officers Quarters. There was no immediate possibility
of moving them to our already overflowing and understaffed amidship's
station. One of my corpsmen and I gathered up what medical supplies
we could carry and made our way up to the Chiefs' Quarters to
treat the wounded there. Just as we arrived at the entrance to
the compartment, a sailor, apparently in panic, came running along
the passageway screaming, "Everybody's going over the side!
The Captain's dead! Every one on the bridge has been killed! Everybody's
abandoning ship!" Now, havoc! Now, contagious panic and cold
fear! The wounded who had crawled into the compartment began struggling
to get out, screaming hysterically, "Where's my life jacket?
Who took my life jacket? Turn that loose! G'mme that! No, it's
mine!" Some were shoving toward the entrance, fighting and
scrambling over one another. My heart sank as I stepped into the
threshold to block the entrance and shout over and over, "Get
back into your bunks! There's no order to abandon ship! You don't
need your life jackets!"
I could see this was only having limited effect; so, with much
inward trepidation but outwardly extravagant bravado, I made myself
step into the compartment from the threshold, remove my own life
jacket and helmet and hang them in clear view on a coat hook near
the entrance Then, I had to consciously force myself to move away
from the entrance and the comfort and security of my life jacket
and go into the compartment to tend the wounded, fearing that
at any moment some panicky sailor might snatch my life jacket
and bolt, setting off a wild melee. It seemed to me that time
hung in the balance for an eternity, but finally one after another
of the men quieted down and crawled back into their bunks, so
that gradually things began at last to calm down and sort themselves
out.
In the meantime one of our corpsmen tending the wounded on the
flight deck saw the plight of those isolated by fire on the forecastle.
He came below to report that medical help was critically needed
there. It seemed to me that we would have to try to get through
to them. So he and I restocked our first aid bags with morphine
syrettes, tourniquets, sulfa, Vaseline, and bandages, commandeered
a fire extinguisher and made our way forward, dodging flames along
the main deck. Along part of the way, we were joined by a sailor
manning a seawater fire hose with fairly good pressure, and though
the seawater would only scatter the gasoline fires away from us,
by using the water and foam alternatively as we advanced, we managed
to work our way up several decks, through passageways along the
wrecked and burning combat information center and decoding area,
through officers' country, and finally out on the forecastle.
Many of the crew on the forecastle and the catwalks above it had
been blown over the side by the explosions. But others trapped
below and aft of the forecastle area found themselves under a
curtain of fire from aviation gasoline pouring down from burning
planes on the flight deck above. Their only escape was to leap
aflame into the sea, but some were trapped so that they were incinerated
before they could leap. By the time we arrived on the forecastle,
the flow of gasoline had mostly consumed itself, and flames were
only erupting and flickering from combustible areas of water and
oil. Nonetheless, the decks and bulkheads were still blistering
hot and ammunition in the small arms locker on the deck below
was popping from the heat like strings of firecrackers. With each
salvo of popping, two or three more panicky crew men would leap
over the side, and we found that our most urgent task was to persuade
those poised on the rail not to jump by a combination of physical
restraint and reassurance that fires were being controlled and
that more help was on the way. Most of the remaining wounded in
the forecastle area were severely burned beyond recognition and
hope. All that could be done for the obviously dying was to give
the most rudimentary first aid consisting of morphine, a few swallows
of water, and some words of companionship, leaving them where
we found them and moving on to others.
Nonetheless, within an hour or so after being struck in the last
attack, power and steerage had been restored, fires were out,
ammunition and gasoline explosions had ceased, pumps were working,
and ruptured water mains had been shut off. But it was miraculous
that we escaped destruction during this period, because we were
vulnerable to further air or submarine attack.
By this time we had done what we could for the wounded on the
forecastle, and I moved back to the amidship's dressing station.
From there my corpsmen and stretcher bearers were searching out
and gathering wounded. By nightfall, we began to run short of
medical supplies and I realized that we needed to salvage the
supplies left behind in the forward battle dressing station. I
was able to recruit a small group of stretcher bearers to help
me and successfully made our way back to the forward battle dressing
station. We found the compartment was still flooded with knee-deep
water, but most of our supplies were salvageable in wreckage above
this level. We were able to load up our stretchers with plasma,
dressings, sulfa, Vaseline, and morphine and haul them out. After
two or three trips we had all our supplies safely out and distributed
elsewhere.
Coming Home
For the ensuing 3 days we still had our hands full continuing
to search for, find, and care for our many wounded scattered throughout
the ship and burying the dead at sea. Then we proceeded to Kossol
Roads, [in the] Palaus, where we transferred our most seriously
wounded to two hospital ships, the Mercy [AH-8] and the
Bountiful [AH-9]. From there we went to Seadler
Harbor, Manus Islands, to further "lick our wounds"
for 5 days. There we cared for our less seriously wounded and
made temporary repairs so we would be seaworthy enough to proceed
to Hawaii.
We arrived at Pearl Harbor on 19 Nov. As we limped up the channel
to the naval base, every Navy ship at anchor or in dock there
"manned the rail" in a salute to the Suwannee, and
our radio received this message: "Welcome to Pearl! Your
successful fight against great odds will live as one of the most
striking tales of Naval History. The people of our country and
those of us in the Naval Service are gratified and proud of your
outstanding performance of duty against the best the enemy could
offer. As long as our country has men with your heart, courage,
skill, and strength she need not fear for her future. To each
and every one, a `Well Done' -- s/ADM [signed Admiral] Nimitz."
We stayed in Pearl Harbor only overnight, just long enough to
transfer our remaining wounded to the Naval Hospital and to take
on supplies, and then headed for major repairs at the Puget Sound
Navy Yard in Bremerton, Washington, where we docked on 26 Nov.
1944. The repairs took about a month. Because I was junior medical
officer, I had to stay aboard for a week or so while it was being
repaired and when the first section came back from leave I was
able to go on leave. While I was on leave orders came through
for me to report to the Naval Dispensary, U.S. Training Center,
Gulfport, Mississippi. I went to Bremerton to be released and
to pick up what was left of my belongings. While there, I walked
through the ship once more. realized I must have led a charmed
life. The bunk I had been lying in at the time of the first explosion
had been destroyed by the second explosion. It was absolutely
unbelievable.
I departed with great pride in my ship and shipmates and their
accomplishments, for I had witnessed innumerable instances of
cool courage, bold bravery, and unselfish heroism blended with
faith, friendship, and self-sacrifice. But I will say that I had
gained no fondness for naval warfare, and I was thankful to go
on to other endeavors.
Note: For his heroic work on Suwannee, LT
Burwell received the Silver Star.
5 June 2000