Vessels that operated primarily or exclusively on the inland waterways

All U.S. Coast Guard Cutters with hull designation WPB [patrol boat] and WHEC [high endurance cutters]

USS Mark (AKL-12) [light cargo ship]; USS Brule (AKL-28)

USS Patapsco (AOG-1) [gasoline tanker]; USS Elkhorn (AOG-7); USS Genesee (AOG-8); USS Kishwaukee (AOG-9); USS Tombigbee (AOG-11); USS Noxubee (AOG-56)

USS Okanogan (APA-210) [attack transport]; USS Montrose (APA-212); USS Bexar (APA-237)

USS Benewah (APB-35) [self-propelled barracks ship]; USS Colleton (APB-36); USS Mercer (APB-39); USS Nueces (APB-40)
Barracks Barge (APL-26) [sleeping quarters]; Barracks Barge (APL-30)

USS Tutuila (ARG-4) [repair ship]

USS Satyr (ARL-23) [repair ship]; USS Sphinx (ARL-24); USS Askari (ARL-30); USS Indra (ARL-37); USS Krishna (ARL-38)

USS Belle Grove (LSD-2) [landing ship dock]; USS Comstock (LSD-19); USS Tortuga (LSD-26)

USS Asheville (PG-84) [patrol gunboat]; USS Gallop (PG-85); USS Antelope (PG-86); USS Ready (PG-87); USS Crockett (PG-88); USS Marathon (PG-89); USS Canon (PG-90)

Floating Base Platform (YRBM-17) [repair, berthing, and messing barge]; Floating Base Platform (YRBM-18); Floating Base Platform (YRBM-20)

Winnemucca (YTB-785) [harbor tug]

Vessels that operated temporarily on Vietnam’s inland waterways or docked to the shore:

USS Card (ACV-11) [escort carrier] mined, sunk, and salvaged in Saigon River Harbor during May 1964

USS Maury (AGS-16) [mapping survey ship] conducted surveys of Mekong Delta and other coastal areas and rivers beginning November 1965 through 1969

USS Henrico (APA-45) [amphibious attack transport] operated on Hue River during March ’65 and conducted numerous troop landings through March ’67

USS Montrose (APA-212) operated on Song Hue River during Dec. ’65, operated on Long Tau River during March ’67, and operated on Cua Viet River and at Dong Ha during May ’67

USS Talladega (APA-208) operated on Saigon River during Oct. ’67

USS Bolster (ARS-38) [salvage ship] crew operated on land

USS Canberra (CAG-2) [guided missile cruiser] operated on Saigon River from 31 March-1 April 66, on Cua Viet River on 15 Dec 66, and on Mekong Delta Ham Luong River on 15 Jan 67

USS Sproston (DD-577) [destroyer] operated on Mekong Delta and Ganh Rai Bay during Jan. ’66

USS Picking (DD-685) operated on Saigon River on 16 Nov 65

USS Epperson (DD-719) docked to Da Nang Pier on 4 Oct 70

USS Southerland (DD-743) operated on Song Nga Bay and Saigon River during July ’66

USS John W. Thomason (DD-760) operated on Nga Be River during 1969

USS Buck (DD-761) operated on Mekong River Delta and Saigon River during Oct. ’66

USS Preston (DD-795) operated on Mekong River Delta, Ganh Rai Bay, and Saigon River during 28-29 Sep 65 and 27-29 Dec 65

USS Warrington (DD-843) operated on Mekong River Delta Rung Sat Special Zone, North of Vung Gahn Rai Bay during March ’67

USS Dyess (DD-880) operated on Saigon River and Rung Sat Special Zone from 19 June-1 July 66

USS Perkins (DD-877) operated on Saigon River during June ’69

USS Orleck (DD-886) operated on Mekong River Delta during July ’69

USS Joseph Strauss (DDG-16) [guided missile destroyer] operated on Mekong River Delta and Ganh Rai Bay during 7 Nov-7 Dec 68

USS Waddell (DDG-24) operated on Cua Viet River during March ’67

USS Newell (DER-322) [radar destroyer escort] docked at port of Nha Trang during 22-24 Dec 65

USS Duluth (LPD-6) [amphibious transport dock] docked to pier at Da Nang during March and October ’71

USS Cleveland (LPD-7) operated on Cua Viet River and at Dong Ha, as well as Hue River, from Nov. ’67 through 1968 and Saigon River during Sept. ’69

USS Dubuque (LPD-8) docked at Da Nang on 15 March 70

USS Boxer (LPH-4) [amphibious assault ship] docked to pier at Cam Rahn Bay on 9 Sep 65

USS Carter Hall (LSD-3) [landing ship dock] operated on Cua Viet River and at Dong Ha during Dec. ’67

In the historical context of WWII and the Pacific theatre, American losses near Yap (now part of the Federated States of Micronesia) were substantial. Strategically located between the Philippines and Guam, Japanese occupied Yap was targeted almost daily from June 1944 to August 1945 at the cost of hundreds of American men, 110 of which remain classified as MIA. Pat Ranfranz (from Cameron, WI), founder of the MACP has spent over 20 years researching Yap during WWII and the stories behind each soldier and his mission, hoping to preserve their memories for generations to come. Pat’s uncle is among the soldiers who remain MIA.

The memorial displays the actual wreckage of an F6F-5 Hellcat flown by Ens. Joseph Cox (from Idaho), one of 36 planes American planes that fell near the island. Joseph’s plane was shot down with three other Hellcats from the USS Enterprise on 6 September 1944, and was only recently recovered moderately intact. “It is truly one of the most unique wrecks and now memorials in the Pacific,” explains Pat. “After the war, most of the wreckage throughout the world was picked over and removed. Fortunately, the Yapese have respected the wreckages as grave sites and taken care to preserve them and remember the American men who lost their lives during the war.”

Joseph’s plane was spared from the expanding Yap landfill in 2008 and relocated to government-held land. Displayed on a concrete pad next to a sign and memorial marker describing the man, the plane and the mission, the YVB together with the MACP were able to construct one of the finest memorials to American men lost in WWII’s Pacific theatre.

Attending the dedication were Ellis Cox, Joseph’s 90-year-old brother, Yap Governor Sebastian Anefal, US Ambassador Peter A. Prahar and other dignitaries. For more information about the memorial and Missing Air Crew Project, visit www.missingaircrew.com or www.visityap.com.

Although dedicated to the general history of British army aviation from 1878 to present day, the museum has enough WWII displays and exhibits to qualify as a solid WWII museum in its own right, receiving 25,000 visitors each year.

Starting with a chronological history of Army flying in peace and war, there are hundreds of interesting artifacts and objects in display cases. Army aviation started in the 1880s with gas-filled balloons, evolving with the use of airships, autogiros, gliders and airplanes, and, today, remote-piloted aircraft.

The first hall features Royal Flying Corps aircraft, observer/spotter and other light aircraft of the 1940s and 1950s, in addition to helicopters.

The WWII European Operations section features dioramas of a German field kitchen, and British pilots in a waiting room during the Battle of Britain. Nearby are the remains of a crashed aircraft engine. A chart shows the defensive areas of southern England during the Battle of Britain and photos of the devastation from air raids.

The large glider display hall illustrates how WWII glider operations were risky ventures, with many of operations amounting to little more than suicide missions. Fragile gliders, poor planning and new equipment, often untested in battle conditions, caused horrifying casualties on both British and German sides — far more than would be acceptable today. Glidermen must surely rate amongst the unsung heroes of WWII.

A comprehensive collection of authentic allied gliders includes a Horsa, Hamilcar, Hotspur and Waco.

The Operation Market Garden display features a diorama of the airborne soldiers at Arnhem with various artifacts including maps, uniforms, daggers, captured Nazi flags and pieces of glider equipment. Alongside, visitors can enter a Hamilcar glider. Unique photos of the Arnhem landings complete a great gallery.

The well-presented Operation Overlord D-Day display features an open Horsa glider, with battlefield objects such as parachutes, packs and weapons. Newspaper headlines and rare photos of the glider formations on the ground in England show commandos training, being inspected by King George VI, on a ship on the way to Normandy, debarking on a DUKW amphibious transport, and crossing Pegasus Bridge.

Looking down over the WWII Glider Hall is the Glider Gallery telling the story of the glider pilots and describing British glider operations.

D-Day exhibition
Great exhibits include a small parachute dummy that was dropped over German territory to confuse the Germans on D-Day. Other artifacts include maps, medals, towropes and allied money for the occupation of France, a Horsa glider, and memorabilia from the highly successful Pegasus Bridge glider landings.

A description of the Arnhem glider landings and the nine days of fighting that followed have a large-scale map diorama of the landing zones. The appalling, long odds of survival from glider operations are never better highlighted than from this operation. Of the 10,000 British Airborne troops over 7,600 men were killed, wounded or missing.

There is a section on Operation Varsity — the crossing of the Rhine in March 1945 — the largest single airlift airborne operation of WWII. An interesting recreation of a 1940s house, complete with a bomb shelter, is packed with authentic household goods from the era.

There is a lot to take in at this fine museum and for those who linger, there is a cafeteria. There is also a gift shop and bookstore with a variety of books about Army aviation. The pleasant staff is helpful and enthusiastic about their museum.
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The MUSEUM OF ARMY FLYING (Middle Wallop, Stockbridge SO20 8DY, United Kingdom; phone 01264 784 421, www.armyflying.com) is not situated near any major cities, but is well worth a visit, especially if you have an interest in Airborne forces, paratroopers and the aircraft and gliders that transport them. To visit, it is recommend that travelers take the train to Andover, then a taxi from to Middle Wallop, about 5 miles.

The museum is open daily from 10 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. Admission, adults, £7.50; children aged 5-16, £5, and senior citizens/students, £5.50. Allow at least two hours for your visit.

Armed with four 75mm Skoda field guns, the Merville Battery would have wreaked havoc with the invasion ships in the sea-lane that had to pass by Ouistreham to reach the invasion beaches. Because the battery endangered the British D-Day Sword landing beaches, the task of eliminating the battery fell to the 9th Battalion led by Lieutenant Colonel Terence Otway of the British 6th Airborne Division. Their task was to land by glider and parachute a mile away, move quietly on the battery, and then storm it.

The battery was formidable. It contained 130 men, 15 to 20 weapons pits, each with four machine guns and some 20mm anti-aircraft guns. Four reinforced concrete casemates six feet thick, two of which were covered over by 12 feet of earth provided almost unassailable mini-fortresses. On two sides of the battery, anti-tank ditch stretched 400 yards, 15 feet wide and 10 feet deep. Two belts of barbed wire surrounded the entire battery, one, six feet wide by ten feet deep. And minefields. The battery was considered impregnable by the Germans.

Due to the usual misdrops and mislandings, only 150 of the anticipated 750 airborne troops were assembled by 0250 hours. With a deadline of 0500 hours to capture the battery, they had to hurry — an offshore cruiser, HMS Arethusa was scheduled to begin its bombardment of the battery unless they heard from the commandos.

The advance party quietly cleared two narrow lanes through the minefield and wire barriers, marking it by leaving scuffmarks on the ground with their boots. Otway’s team, without heavy weapons or mortars, attacked just after 0400 after a German machinegun post opened fire on them, alerting the whole battery.

The assault parties split up once through the wire. While some attacked the weapons pits, others attacked the casemates, all the while under fire from all sides. Much of the fighting was hand-to-hand. In 20 intense minutes of battle, at 0445, they had cleared the gun battery and taken 20 prisoners. The cost was heavy — at the end of the assault only 75 paratroopers were still standing. Many of the German defenders surrendered once they realized that tough paratroopers were attacking. The cry “Fallschirmjagers” went up, and resistance quickly fizzled out.

The museum
Today the open air and indoor MUSEE DE LA BATTERIE MERVILLE (Museum of the Merville Battery), makes an interesting tour. Inside the first casemate you’ll see documents and maps, weapons and other artifacts that describe the assault. If you’re lucky you’ll meet some Airborne veterans there.

As you wander around the four casemates and smaller concrete weapons pits, now covered by earth, long grass and trees, you’ll get a good idea of how concentrated this battery is in such a small area. The assault must have been very violent in such small confines. A bronze bust of Colonel Otway stands in the grounds, close by a memorial to the 9th Parachute Battalion. There’s also a British artillery piece guarding the museum. A small gift shop is just inside the museum.
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MUSÉE DE LA BATTERIE DE MERVILLE (Place du 9ème Bataillon, 14810 Merville, France; phone/fax 02 31 91 47 53, visit www.batterie-merville.com) is open from March 15 to May 31 and Sept. 1 to Nov. 15, daily 9:30 a.m. to 6 p.m., and June through August, daily from 9:30 a.m. to 7 p.m. The museum is open during the winter by reservation only. Coach parking, handicapped access, WC. Admission for adults, €5; students, €3, and children under 6 are free. The Museum takes part in operation PASS.

Geography lesson
Wake is comprised of three atolls totaling six square miles in area and located in the North Pacific Ocean between Hawaii and the Northern Mariana Islands. Its highest elevation is 18 feet above sea level. It was discovered in the 1500s by the Spanish and renamed 200 years later by the master of a British trading schooner, Captain Wake. During the 1930s, Pan American Clipper seaplanes used it as a refueling stop. Eventually, the U.S. Navy realized its strategic importance and began to use it as a base.

Strategic air base
After Pearl Harbor, from 8-10 December 1941, Japanese air raids “softened” the island. Flying from their airfields in the Marshall Islands, 36 Mitsubishi G4M “Betty” bombers destroyed much of Wake’s airfield and supply depots. On 11 December, there was more naval shelling and an attempted Japanese landing that was repulsed by valiant resistance from U.S. forces. Two Japanese destroyers were sunk and the remainder retreated to Kwajalein. On 21 Dec, facing the reality of the situation, the last U.S. military float planes (the PBYs) departed from the island. Two days later, the remaining military personnel and civilian contractors on Wake surrendered to invading Japanese soldiers, the first time in history that U.S. Marines had ever surrendered. A relief task force that had been on its way from Hawaii was recalled when only 425 miles away, leaving the island in control of the Japanese.

The military personnel on Wake were eventually sent to concentration camps in China for the duration of the war. The civilian contractors on the island were detained to build fortifications and defenses for the Japanese. On 7 October 1943, the remaining civilians were brutally executed in response to a carrier strike and an expected invasion by U.S. forces. After the U.S. invasion succeeded, the two top Japanese officers there were hung for this and other war crimes.

Today, Wake is used by the Strategic Air Command as a base for tracking missile launches. It is home to approximately 300 military and non-military support personnel. Other than military use, its airfield has occasionally served as an emergency stop for trans-Pacific flights.

A rare visit
Our tour began in Hawaii where we boarded Continental’s Air Micronesia (Air Mic) flight to Guam. Ironically, we flew over Wake on this flight, crossing the International Date Line and losing one day and four hours. A day later, our charter flight from Guam would take us back to Wake, regaining that lost day and returning us to Honolulu time even though we would still be two thirds of the way from Hawaii to the Northern Marianas. The night before our flight to Wake, we attended a banquet at the Outrigger Hotel in Guam. Also in attendance were current admirals and generals as well as survivors of the 1941 invasion of the island. Opening remarks were made by Col. Warren Wiedhan, USMC (Ret) and Guam’s Governor Camacho. Rear Admiral Biesel, Brigadier General Broadmeadow and Brigadier General Ruhlman also spoke.

On 12 Dec 09, we departed on our chartered Air Mic flight from Guam at 5 a.m. Continental’s top management was also on board, along with a hand-picked crew. They were as excited as we were. Their families accompanied several of the Wake survivors on board. Before landing, the plane circled the atoll several times, allowing passengers seated on both sides of the plane good views of this top-secret missile defense station. Upon deplaning, most of us immediately photographed the Wake Air Station sign at the entrance to the airport lounge. Inside were a small museum, a shop with the usual T-shirts, hats and other souvenirs and a post office where mail is collected on Fridays. Our passports were rewarded with a large Wake Island stamp, something I have long coveted. We were then given maps and programs for our 12-hour stay. There are no accommodations for visitors on Wake, so we arrived at sunrise and left at sunset. Box lunches were supplied by the airline.

Our group was divided onto two buses, which went off in opposite directions and eventually covered all the sites of the island. One bus started with Prisoner’s Rock where we saw a commemorative plaque marking the location of MacArthur’s meeting with Truman in 1950. The other bus started with a visit to the Drifter’s Reef Bar & Grill, passing stores, housing and a church. A tiki statue guarded the entrance to the bar, where we were interested to find that premium beers cost only $2. Outside the bar, we saw a Japanese bunker that had been uprooted and moved by the last major hurricane to hit Wake.

After our bus tours, we had free time to walk around. Some of our group swam in the lagoon. Wake also boasts excellent fishing and scuba diving. As we were exploring, Wake islanders frequently stopped to offer us a ride. They were extremely helpful and very interested in our tour. They treated us like important dignitaries. Of its approximately 300 inhabitants, about half a dozen are female. Most of the civilian workers are from Thailand. Signs were usually written in both English and Thai. Some of the sites we saw included the remains of the Pan American Hotel and a ramp into the ocean for seaplanes. Large jet fuel storage tanks were scattered about the island, which also boasts a nine-hole golf course. Remnants of a previous Brunswick bowling alley have become decorations in front of many people’s apartments.

In remembrance
Toward the end of the day, Brigadier General Broadmeadow spoke in true military form as John Dale, a 90-year-old survivor of Wake, laid a wreath at the Marine Memorial honoring the past heroes of the battles and the Japanese occupation of the island. We then boarded our flight back to Guam, full of positive memories of the experiences of our short stay. Was the trip worth $1,000 a day? You betcha! Though from start to finish, it lasted less than a week, it was the best short trip I can imagine.

It was very special for all involved: Valor Tours, Historic Military Tours, the U.S. military, the Air Mic crew, the honored veterans, and all the rest of us.

I am grateful for the perseverance of Valor Tours and Historic Military Tours in arranging this trip. It took extensive work, including many visits by HMT personnel to Hawaii and the Pentagon, to put it together and get the necessary permission. There is discussion that the “Return to Wake” tour may be repeated in 2010. These two organizations also conduct many other tours to historic and military locations. Contact Vicky at Valor Tours (Sausalito, CA; phone 800/842-4504) for more information. (My 7-11 Dec 09, trip cost was $3,500, round trip from Honolulu.)

The details
It was March 1944 and the Flying Goldbricks of Marine Scout Bomber Squadron 243 (VMSB-243), on their second Solomons tour, had the dawn strike from Green Island to Rabaul Harbor, about 150 nautical miles west, where the early birds were known to find Japanese ships.

Our fellow pilots of VMSB-236 were sacked-out on their “off” day. All they had to look forward to was a hodge-podge of missions: ship gunfire spotting for the Army Division holding the beachhead on Bougainville; chasing after fuzzily identified Japanese ships possibly within their range; maintaining planes on station for close air-ground support; the odd flight to Munda on New Georgia or even Henderson Field on the Canal for spare parts; anti-submarine patrols, or perhaps a totally new reason to be airborne, courtesy of Strike Command’s inventive and sadistic operations staff. They had the early breakfast day before, and we, the shit details.

Rotations
Two Marine Torpedo Bomber (VMTB) squadrons shared the day-on/day-off rotation. We occupied the same sleeping, mess and briefing areas. They took off after us, as they were faster. We’d see them in the target area, and they got back before we did. The fighters, Navy, Marine and New Zealand were based on another island and we only saw them in the target areas.

In many ways the early strike was the better deal because, unless something big developed while we were gone, we would be on standby on our return. That meant we could sack out after about 11 a.m. Standby meant one division in the briefing tent, two divisions on 15-minute alert, rotating every two hours within the squadron, so we couldn’t wander far.

Also, while all flights are entered in the flight log, strikes were highlighted and counted as combat flights. You could spend a career flying the shit details and not be considered a combat pilot and being a combat pilot was the only sure way to get rotated stateside at a reasonable time, in one piece.

Wake-up was some wise guy shaking your cot while pointing a flashlight in your face, saying, “Time to rise;” it was usually something more colorful.

Knowing the drill, we operated on autopilot in the dark when awakened. Get out from under the net, fumble for your flight suit and don it, hoping it wasn’t already inhabited by creatures we would rather not imagine, zip it up, shake out and put on socks, fish for your boondockers, shake them out and put them on, then head for the blacked-out chow tent by way of the head (often just a slit trench).

There were three important things to locate in each pilot’s camp: the head, the chow tent and the briefing tent. We didn’t worry about the flight line, they had transport and it was their job to get us there. Ship’s store and PX were rear echelon luxuries. Booze ration was the two ounces of medicinal brandy issued after a strike — a huge plus for strike duty.

In the Solomons, a squadron had about 40 pilots and we flew someone else’s planes; stateside we had 25 pilots and 18 aircraft. Our ground echelon was still at our rear base on Efate, New Hebrides; only the flight echelon was rotated into the combat zone. We got VIP treatment going and coming. The rest of the time we just stood in line and hoped for the best, even when going on R&R.

Cuisine
About 80 of us stumbled into the chow tent and plopped down on benches. The tables were set and food was served boarding-house style.

There was no menu, so each meal was a potential surprise. The only sure things were coffee, bread, peanut butter, apple butter, pineapple juice and the omnipresent Pet milk.
Powdered eggs and meat, or pancakes were what we hoped for at breakfast, though not in any predictable sequence. We were at the tail end of the supply pipeline, so the goodies were siphoned off along the way.

Getting ready
The war was still expanding and rotation replacements were few and far between. I met lots of guys who had been out over two years, while we were the new kids on the block — out only 14 months with eight more to go. Sporadic conversation touched on everything except the day’s mission; all we really knew for certain was that we were going to take off for somewhere about 4:40. If someone said they had the straight poop on targets, we knew they just had bum scuttlebutt; I don’t even think our briefers ever knew the exact targets before breakfast, as info was always changing.

After breakfast we got our gear: cloth helmet; goggles and gloves; Mae West jacket with shark-repellent pouch and yellow dye marker; pistol belt with pistol; cartridge pack; first aid kit; canteen and knife, and our personal chart board with E6B dial computer (we called them Ouija boards). We kept pencils, note pads, candy bars, etc., in our flight suit pockets. The only identification we wore was our dog tags.

The briefing tent was the bailiwick of a group of former professor types and three combat experienced naval aviators. Navy Commander “Swede” Larson, whose torpedo squadron made history in the Guadalcanal campaign, ran Strike Command. He knew of what he spoke.

We huddled on benches while the professor-types identified the targets from aerial photos taken the day before. We were given radio frequencies, identification codes, plane assignments and formation details plus TOT (time on target), rescue facility availability, latest info on safe areas on nearby islands and how to approach the natives.

Briefing
This particular morning we were briefed on several Japanese ships reported to be in Rabaul Harbor the night before. My division of six Douglas Dauntless Dive Bombers (SBD) was to hit the most northern transport. Chances were they left overnight and we might catch them on the west side of New Ireland headed north toward Truk. If underway, we were to hit the most northeastern one.

The plan was to fly northwest and cross New Ireland to be in position to pursue, attack, or fly south to Rabaul and hit the ships or secondary targets. Early fighter reconnaissance flights should tell us where the ships were or thought to be. Hey, nothing was cut-and-dried in our operations. We always had secondary, and sometime tertiary, targets depending on the target area weather and/or new information received after our briefing.

The one advantage we had over our fellow Navy pilots was our base wasn’t going to sink or fail to be in the designated location when we returned. When flying from Piva Two strip on Bougainville we were often delayed in take-off and had to circle offshore several times before landing while the Japanese shelled the strip, causing our move to Green Island.

We climbed aboard open-top trucks after the briefing for the ride to the flight line in the dark. We were pretty quiet. I rehearsed the briefing in my mind and, as a captain and division leader, tried to assume my most leaderly posture for the captain, four lieutenants and six enlisted radio-gunners who counted on me to bring them back safely. Scared? Hell, yes. Afraid is not a Marine option. Being single was one less thing for me to worry about.

Flight line
The flight line, a series of revetments, was blacked out and as our trucks drove by, the plane captains called their number, someone would holler “Whoa,” and the truck stopped to let that one off, and then proceeded. A very high tech operation!

With no regular plane assignments, we flew planes we had probably never flown before — we had full faith in the ground crews. A walk around inspection is very difficult in the dark, even with a plane captain holding a hooded flashlight. I had an ace in the hole. SSgt. Sylvester “Sal” Garalski of Detroit, my radio gunner for almost a year, was a trained aviation machinist mate who volunteered for flight duty. Sal was always at our plane before me and did his own walk around before I arrived. He was going up in it, too!

This particular morning he met me and said everything was OK before I did my walk around and signed the yellow sheet accepting the plane. (We only saw our gunners on the flight line and tried to give them a brief outline of what we hoped to accomplish on the flight before getting into the plane. Afterward we had the intercom to exchange information.)

Pilots climbed aboard over the right wing while the plane captain stood on the left to assist getting our seat-pack parachutes and shoulder straps adjusted, our rag helmet radio cord plugged in, and exchange any last minute comments.

They did favor pilots who got them started quickly and could put them squarely in the chocks on return. Their best reward was getting the pilot’s signature with no discrepancy notes on the yellow sheet on return.

In the dark
There are many variations of darkness, from the proverbial dark-and-stormy night, to clear dark-of-the-moon type. All naval aviators were required to get in a minimum of two nighttime hours each month to maintain proficiency. When WWII started, the older pilots not in a squadron would try to pick moonlit nights, coining the phrase “a field officer’s moon.” When WWII was over, the experienced pilots much preferred a clear dark-of-the-moon night. I sure did.

Darkness on the ground and being up in it are two different things. When one is boring holes in the black, darkness takes on a life of its own and plays mind games with one’s vertigo, like giving you the feeling you are upside down or in a turn. The only solution is to blink hard and take a hard look at the gauges, for you may be and must take corrective action. If not, just shake your head and thank God for the gauges.

This particular night had been low overcast, which made for poor visibility and a lousy time for formation flying. With a prediction of possible overcast and squalls in the target area, we knew we were going to earn our flight pay that day. At least it wasn’t raining.

The SBD had a single rotary engine with a partial exhaust collector ring, so exhaust flames initially blinded us when we saddled up and headed out for take-off. Jeeps with blackout lights led us to the taxiway where we could turn on our running lights and hope we were following the correct plane.

Our standard flight formation was two step-down Vs of divisions. The skipper or exec led the first, and the exec or flight officer the second, as one of the three always remained on base so we didn’t lose all three at once. I led the third division in the first V to the leader’s starboard. If there were more than 36, the extras would form a third V astern.

Daytime practice was to take off in three-plane sections but at night singly, so I was not able to identify the plane ahead until it pulled into the runway and I could make out its tail markings.
Rack up another for the line chief; he got us out in proper order. I was number 13 to take off so I revved-up, checked my mags, swallowed hard, gritted my teeth and in full pucker, released the brakes. There were subdued directional runway lights and the running lights of the plane ahead for guidance. After I was airborne, I kept scanning the turn-and-bank indicator, air speed, rate of climb instruments and the lights ahead while getting the wheels up. I could see the exhaust and lights of several planes ahead.

Then we were over the ocean, and you haven’t seen black until you see the ocean at night under an overcast sky. We made a standard rendezvous and there were enough running lights visible for me to get us in position to the starboard and below the skipper. By this time we had completed a 180° turn and were approaching the island under the overcast. Then all hell broke loose!

Plan B
Marine Corps standing order: EXPECT THE UNEXPECTED. For some reason never given us, a New Zealand anti-aircraft 20mm battery opened fire — another bite out of my parachute. We were still under about 2,500 feet of overcast skies with our running lights on, and had just taken off over them. When tracers lit up our sky, and despite being on radio silence, several expletives and garbled messages erupted.

I automatically turned starboard with no way to give any hand signals. My lads followed. I could see my wingmen, Tom Wyatt from Monroe, LA, to port and Richard Mulberry from Sadieville, KY, to starboard, and Sal said the second section was in place. Sal kept other formations in sight but before I could maneuver toward them the skipper said “Plan Baker,” which was the alternate rendezvous area.

As I headed away from what had been a formation, I opted to climb through the overcast and came out at about 6,000 feet, only to find an about 75% overcast higher. Plan Baker was a point at 10,000 feet, bearing 75° and approximately 20 miles from the lighthouse on the southern tip of New Ireland. It sounded easy in the briefing room; it was a well-known and recognized landmark in good weather. That is where Marine Ace Bob Hansen (25 kills) had been shot down.

The sky was rapidly getting a pre-dawn look as we gained altitude and made a dead-reckoning approach. I spotted formations ahead and above that, our SBDs. I began to circle and joined up on the skipper. We were still under radio silence and I knew his gunner had informed him that we were there.

Return to base
There was a mean-looking wall of weather over New Ireland that looked impenetrable to me. No other planes joined us and I saw no escort fighters. About a half-hour later someone came on the air saying return to base. (We learned later that the skipper’s radio was out.) The skipper led us down through the lower overcast and on arrival discovered a large squall covered most of the island. We circled offshore at least 30 minutes before the squall moved enough to make out identifying landmarks.

The skipper signaled right echelon and my buddy Bob Marshall from Pawtucket, RI, slid his second division under us to our starboard. The skipper put his division in line astern and proceeded toward the still unseen runway along the southeast shore, disappearing into the squall.
I took a deep breath and followed suit. I was at about 200 feet, wheels and flaps down, with canopy open getting drenched when I spotted the runway, made a port turn, and touched down. Whew, what a relief. I taxied to the end, closing my landing flaps and fishtailed looking for planes ahead and hoping one wasn’t on my tail. An open jeep with two soaked Marines appeared, leading us back to the flight line. As I turned to follow them, Sal said all my boys were behind us — a tremendous feeling of accomplishment.

We stood under a wing to sign the yellow sheet, with no discrepancies. The squall moved on as we rode back to the debriefing tent where that first cup of coffee hit the spot. My flight suit was beginning to dry by time I got to my tent to towel off, put on dry skivvies and sack out till lunch.

All in a day’s work
What did we accomplish? We didn’t lose a plane. We brought back our bombs. We didn’t fire a round. We burned a lot of gas. We got two hours of night flying. We got our two ounces of brandy, which most saved for happy hour. We earned our flight pay, and had a good topic to critique at happy hour.

What did we learn? We did what we were trained to do. We gave it our all with no visible payoff. We gained confidence and a lot of mutual respect among ourselves. We remembered the old saying, “If you want to wear those wings, you gotta go; but you don’t gotta come back.” We went, came back, and stood a little taller.

Bob shook me awake when the chow tent opened for lunch. I got into some clothes and walked over wondering what the supply boys had provided that day. Given the way the day had started, it would probably be that damned Australian mutton again. Ugh!

Others surely have different memories, but what the hell. It still counted toward 20, and we were one day closer to another marvelous R&R in Sydney.

American and British Airborne soldiers were to attack and hold a series of bridges along a 60-mile road from Eindhoven to Arnhem to enable the following infantry and tanks to cross and pierce Germany in a lightning strike that would catch the Germans unprepared. The stately, white painted Museum Hartenstein tells the story of these battles.

The museum is located in the former Hartenstein Hotel, headquarters of the British Divisional commander, Major-General Urquhart during the fighting. The events in this battle unfold, starting with the air landings, the march to the bridge, the fighting at Arnhem and Oosterbeek, and the eventual retreat across the river to the allied lines.

Battle of Arnhem
Meeting with early success, the American paratroopers managed to hold their objectives. However, the 1st British Airborne troopers, dropped in to secure the Rhine Bridge at Arnhem, the furthermost point, became victims of “a bridge too far.” After their drop on 17 Sep 44, 600 British paratroopers held out for four days at the north entrance to the bridge at Arnhem. Meanwhile, at nearby Oosterbeek, other British paratroopers held out for another four days against overwhelming odds. They were never relieved and of 10,000 British and Polish Airborne troops, only 2,293 made it across the Rhine River in a daring night withdrawal on 25 Sep.

Exhibits and photos
Exhibits include British and German arms, helmets, ammunition and equipment, some of which were dug up from the battlefield. Authentic films, slide shows, photographs, maps, unit armbands and models in uniform illustrate this dramatic battle. You won’t see any of the striking, unique photographs in books about the battle. Reader board captions in English and Dutch explain the scenes. Historic photos show allied paratroopers loading into their C-47s in England, and the battle from the German perspective, their troops looking as battle shocked from the hard fighting as the British.

Local inhabitants are shown marching in long lines to safety, often caught in the crossfire of these highly fluid battles. Scenes of house-to-house street fighting show German tanks hunting British soldiers. Some photographs show jubilant allied soldiers being liberated from POW camps at the end of the war.

Amongst the memorabilia is Polish paratroop commanding officer Stanislaw Sosabowski’s Army ID book. An excellent scale model of Arnhem and the Rhine River Bridge is displayed, along with radio equipment, pistols, unit banners and flags.

Dioramas
Lifelike dioramas depict scenes from the battle — one showing a street scene in Oosterbeek as British soldiers liberate it on 17 April 1945. The first aid post diorama was reconstructed with the help of medical officers who were at the Hartenstein Hotel — all items displayed are authentic. Another diorama shows the radio signals post in the cellar.

The Dutch resistance
A little known fact about this battle is that Dutch resistance fighters helped many British paratroopers escape across the river while Dutch civilians sheltered another 500 allied paratroopers around Arnhem and Oosterbeek, at the risk of being shot if they were caught. A gallery is dedicated to this aspect of the battle.

Outside the museum stands a Sherman tank and an artillery piece. In a small park across the road, a tall stone memorial to the fallen soldiers in this battle has been erected by the townspeople. Every year the Dutch hold a memorial march (Airborne Wandeltoch) in which tens of thousands of people march to commemorate this battle. A 10-minute walk from the museum is the Airborne Cemetery where a number of the paratroopers lie. You can get a map showing the cemetery’s location in the museum giftshop, along with books and souvenirs.
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AIRBORNE MUSEUM HARTENSTEIN (www.airbornemuseum.org) is open from April through October, Monday-Saturday from 10-5, Sunday and holidays, 12-5; from November through March, Monday-Saturday from 11-5, Sunday and holidays, 12-5. Closed on Christmas and New Year’s Day. Admission for adults, €8; OAPs, students, €7; youths, aged 13-18, €5, and children aged 6-12, €3.50.

Training

Hurlburt was an interesting place. While there I overheard two permanent party members discussing some magazine photos of a B-26 shot down in the Bay of Pigs invasion in Cuba. They both agreed that that B-26 had been at Hurlburt.

Toward the end of our training we had a formal dinner at which our squadron leader spoke. He explained our presence in Viet-Nam. When the French were defeated at Dien Bien Phu the Catholics fled to South Viet-Nam. The Catholic Refugee Organization went to Cardinal Spellman to request protection for the Catholic refugees. Cardinal Spellman contacted then-Senator Kennedy who sponsored the first legislation relating to Viet-Nam.

I was initially assigned to fly with Capt. Andy Mitchell. Capt. Jerry Campaign reported in and they assigned the captains to fly together. I was then assigned to fly with Mike Newmeyer, an excellent pilot and a good friend. The end of our training was marked by a speech and a parade. We stood in formation dressed in our 1505 (khakis, with short sleeved shirt). I could not hear much of the speech but there was a lot of talking in the ranks. A voice behind me said, “What are they going to do to us? Send us to Viet-Nam?” A few giggles and we marched past the reviewing stand. We then all dashed back to our home bases where we signed in and out the same day and reported back to Hurlburt to begin our 165-day TDY in Bien Hoa, about 25 miles north of Saigon.

To Viet-Nam

I was part of the April 1963 rotation to Bien Hoa, South Viet-Nam. Each rotation had four B-26 crews, consisting of a pilot and navigator. Our three months’ training to transition to the B-26 consisted of low level cruising (25 to 50 feet), bombing, strafing and aerial photography. My transition was from B-52 EWO (electronic warfare officer) to B-26 navigator. Our navigational instruments were a magnetic compass and an ADF (audio direction finder). There were no ADF stations in Viet-Nam at the time. We flew low to make us a more difficult target.

We flew B-26 Douglas Invaders with VNAF (Vietnamese Air Force) markings. The A-26 Douglas Invader flew in WWII and Korea; the French used them against the Viet Minh and the Chinese Nationalists used them against the Communists. The A designation was changed to B during the Korean War. The gun turret, top and aft of the bomb bay was removed, but the gunner’s compartment remained and three wing pylon stations were added to each wing.

We carried 14 50-caliber guns, eight in the nose and three in each wing, along with 500 pounds of napalm or, occasionally, 500-pound bombs on the wing stations. Our internal load usually consisted of about 4,000 pounds of frag cluster bombs. Our runway was 5,300 feet of PSP (pierced steel planking) and we lifted off at about 128 knots using about 4,500 feet of runway.

Our missions were strikes, escorts (boats, trains and motor convoys), air cover for ground and airborne operations and weather reconnaissance and the Invader had about 5½ hours endurance.

All in a day’s work

Our day began with a short briefing in the briefing room — the only place on base with air conditioning. Then we went to base ops and waited for a “frag” order, a location to meet a FAC (forward air controller). We flew to the destination and contacted the FAC who marked a target and told us to bomb his smoke. We confirmed. Bombing runs were commenced at 3,500 feet. Once on target, Mike never took his eyes off the target. We set the arming switches, set the props to 2,400 rpm, throttle to 32 inches, manually charged the nose guns and went into about a 60-degree dive. At about 1,000 feet, I tapped Mike on the shoulder to remind him it was time to begin our pull-out, when we pulled about four or five Gs and dropped one bomb at a time.

Our strafing and napalm runs were made at 25 to 50 feet and again we dropped one at a time. When our weapons were expended, we were expected to do initial bomb damage assessment (IBDA). That required overflying the target at 1,200 feet at 180 knots and taking photos. This was not our favorite pasttime as the folks on the ground were in a very bad mood by that time.
Night missions were a little different. We overflew the hamlet to see the “fire arrow” which was pointed in the direction from which the attack had come. Someone in the hamlet told us by radio how far away the VC were in “klicks.”

We flew in the direction of the fire arrow to where we estimated the VC to be and began our bomb and strafing runs. Viet-Nam could be very dark at night and when in the dive you felt as though you were suspended; the only noticeable movement was the unwinding of the altimeter. You then pulled out and flew through your ricochets. Every few rounds was a tracer — a spectacular sight.

One night we had support from a gun boat in the Mekong River and the combined pyrotechnics rivaled any fireworks demonstration I have ever seen.

There was an SFC who used to salute and say something like, “Good morning Lt. Fuzz.” I would return the salute with a “Good morning, Sgt. Snorkel,” and we would both grin. One day he and another sergeant showed up at my tent with two cases of C-rations, a greatly appreciated gift.

The Vietnamese government allowed us a maximum of $100 per month and, as officers on TDY, we received about $3.50 per day for meals. That was enough to cover three meals a day, but the problem was that we paid $15 per month for maid fees, $10 for base operations clean up and $5 for the flower fund. That left $70 per month for laundry soap, toilet articles, entertainment and food. I preferred to eat my one meal a day at supper, so those C-rations were a godsend.

We could exchange our dollars for piastres (the local currency) on base at the rate of 72 ps to $1, but most of us used the black market. We took the bus to Saigon, and walked up Tudo Street to the Modern Tailor shop; it wasn’t hard to find. Once inside we asked to see a “Vietnamese shirt,” and were escorted into a room with a guy who had two cardboard boxes: one with piastres, the other dollars. The exchange rate varied from 86 to 92 to $1.

VNAF

We were not the only unit on base; we had a group of VNAF airmen who flew with us. On every mission we carried a VNAF who sat on a pull-down seat behind the navigator and the hydraulic fluid reservoir. We were ostensibly there to advise the VNAF, but our advice was simple: “Don’t touch anything.” We did not carry the aircraft forms with us and in the event of a crash, the VNAF was flying and we were along to give him advice.

One guy who flew with us filled five barf bags on one mission; he never complained, just keep puking.

There was a VNAF fighter squadron on base equipped with A1 Sky Raiders, a newer and better airplane than the B-26. Each morning at 0830 the VNAF dashed out to their airplanes, started their engines and revved them up; scarves flying in the prop wash. At 0900 they switched off their engines and went back to base ops and played ping-pong until 1530 when they again dashed to their airplanes. This time only half would start and the lucky pilots whose engines started flew off into the wild blue yonder and were not seen again until they landed at 1615.

We could not figure out what they were doing for 45 minutes. Some of the guys removed their gunnery film and developed it and found out they were dropping bombs into the South China Sea, the Mekong River or on a Montagnard village.

Cost-cutting measures

En route to Bien Hoa I met a C-123 navigator who described the B-26’s as “snake-bit.” He was right. The “snake” was that paragon of cost-cutting Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara. Money was saved by not repacking the parachutes, not installing transponders in the airplanes and by returning to base with any unexpended ordnance. Landing with 3,000 pounds under the wings resulted in a large negative G force that severely weakened the wings. Mitchell and Campaign had been “in country” less than two weeks when they lost a wing over the target.

Capt. Bob Binderim was flying their wing and saw the accident. He said, “The wing came off, they did a snap roll and went into the ground.” Remedial action consisted of installing positive and negative G meters. We were instructed to pull no more than 1G. When you fired the nose guns the G meters were pegged in both directions.

Col. Finan and I went to Tainan, Taiwan, to bring back a B-26 that been rebuilt by China Air Transport (CAT). It looked new and was just beautiful. We flew back via Clark AB and landed at Bien Hoa in the late afternoon. I was on night alert with George Phillips; I found George and told him abut the “new” B-26 but George had already pre-flighted another B-26 which we flew that night. The next day John McClean and “Skip” Bedal flew the “new” B-26. They lost a wing over the target and we lost two more good guys.

Conditions

Flying low level in Viet-Nam was hot. The B-26 had no air conditioning and no air circulation; you could lose 15 pounds over a five-hour mission. I wore a survival vest over my fatigue jacket and in the outside pocket I kept a bottle of water purification tablets, but I sweated the label off of that bottle.

Once I made the mistake of giving our maid an unopened box of laundry detergent that she probably sold, since it was a full box, and instead washed our clothes in the local soap made with fish oil. Not only were we sweating in the aircraft, but we itched and smelled like two dead fish. From then on the maid got just enough soap to wash for that week.

We used to joke that we endured hours of monotony interspersed with moments of stark terror. We made a pass in the delta and just as we pulled up it got dark. The windshield was covered with mud! Mike looked at me and said, “I thought those were trees.”
I replied, “Nope, rice plants.”

We stopped on the runway and used the water in our canteens to wash off enough mud so we could see to taxi in. There were several times that I saw B-26’s parked with tree limbs hanging out of the bomb bay, but no one else brought home mud on the windshield. Other notable moments came when we found that one B-26 would not pull out of a dive with the bomb bay doors open. On some you had to waggle the wings to get the ordnance to fall off. Then there was the time that a wingman called us on the radio to tell us the arming propeller on our starboard 500-pound bomb was turning! We hit the “salvo” button and said, “Thanks!”

Near misses

One time we had just touched down with a full load when, in the blink of an eye, we were on the left side of the runway with dirt flying everywhere. A few hundred feet in front of us was a large hole, dug to reinforce the point where the runway joined a taxiway. I asked Mike if he could get back on the runway. He said, “No, but I can straddle that hole.” Straddle it we did, carrying six cans of naplam under the wings. Mike went back with the ground crew to inspect the area. The nose wheel missed the hole by 2½ inches. The right main tire came so close that dirt spilled into the hole. Mike could put a B-26 anywhere he wanted!

A good mission was called a “Zap” mission. Most of the time we never saw the target and never paid much attention to the results. We got a call late one afternoon from an Army Republic of Viet-Nam (ARVN) battalion commander asking for an immediate air strike because the VC had pinned down his battalion near Ca Mau. He feared that once it got dark the VC would annihilate his battalion. We got to his position just about dusk and made radio contact and the ground troops marked the target for us. Unfortunately, we began having engine trouble: fluctuating fuel pressure (prelude to a fire) in both engines.

Number one was running rough and number two was backfiring. Our problems were obvious to those on the ground but we made one or two passes and dropped everything we had, including six cans of napalm. We struggled to 1,200 feet and called Paris Control Air control at Saigon and gave them our position, altitude and heading. We were only about 60 miles from Saigon but they could not find us (a transponder would have been helpful). We knew we were on our own.

We limped back to Bien Hoa and landed. The battalion commander was on the phone and thanked us for saving his battalion. They counted over 200 VC KIAs. We got an Air Medal for “overflying a known enemy position.” After all, we were only advisors.

There were probably more stories that were hard to understand but one happened to Larry Granquist. Larry and his pilot, Howard Purcell, were flying out of Da Nang on some sort of easy mission; Sgt. Raphael Cruz was riding along in the gunner’s compartment. The engines were running when the base Intelligence Officer, Neil McKinney approached the plane and asked to go along for the ride. Howard turned to Larry and commented to the effect that McKinney was bored and that he, Larry, had plenty of flight time. Howard asked Larry to let McKinney go in his place. Larry agreed, got out and McKinney took his place. They took off and the plane was never seen again. No one had any idea what happened. Some speculated that they flew into a “box” canyon and could not get out.

The first B-26 was lost in December 1962, about a month after eight B-26s were stationed at Bien Hoa. The airplane was shot down by ground fire and the pilot rode the plane down. The navigator bailed out and was rescued after a few days of wandering around in the jungle.
Howard Cody, pilot and “Atie” Lielmanis, navigator, were lost in November 1963. They bailed out of their shot-up B-26; neither parachute opened. They had not been inspected or repacked for about a year. Atie had his first ride in a B-26 with Mike and me.

It was a memorable nine months with some great guys — courageous men who would defend America anytime, anywhere under any conditions.

History lesson

What was I doing there in 2009, risking life and limb in a search for history? It all started on 26 October 1944, long before I was born, when an attractive ferrying pilot named Gertrude Tompkins took off from what is now Los Angeles International Airport. She was a member of the elite Women Airforce Service Pilots (WASP). She flew into an offshore fogbank and was never seen again.

During WWII, thousands of new airplanes were coming off assembly lines and needed to be delivered to ports on the East and West coasts, for shipment overseas. But most of America’s male pilots were overseas fighting the war. To deal with the problem, the government launched an experimental program, the WASPs, to train women pilots to fly military aircraft.

It was a unique time in history. Most women still remained at home and to tended to their families. Few people imag-ined that women could fly powerful warplanes. But the wartime emergency took precedence over traditional male-female roles. Over 25,000 women volunteered for the WASPs, but only about 1,000 were chosen for this unique opportunity to serve. The WASPs ferried 78 types of planes over 60 million miles, a huge contribution to the war effort.

Gertrude had fallen in love with an American aviator who was killed flying for the Royal Air Force during the early days of the war. This tragedy apparently sparked a keen interest in flying, and she took private lessons. She volun-teered for the WASPs, was selected, and reported to Avenger Field in Sweetwater, Texas, for training. She was so good that she was selected for fighter pursuit school, and became one of a handful of top woman pilots trained to fly the P-51 Mustang, the most powerful American fighter. She went on to ferry Mustangs and numerous other warbirds, until that fateful day in October 1944, when she took off last in a group of 30, headed from Los Angeles for Palm Springs and eventually for Newark, New Jersey. After her disappearance, a massive water and ground search turned up no trace of Gertrude or the plane. She is the last missing WASP.

The search
I was approached by Mike Pizzio, a member of the Explorers Club, who was putting together an elite technical dive team to search for Gertrude. Mike asked me to serve as the expedition’s chief medical officer and as a deep technical diver. I eagerly accepted the challenge.

Research and planning for the expedition had been underway for months, led by the Missing Aircraft Search Team (MAST) and MAST co-founder Chris Killian, an expert in aircraft archaeology. The technical dive team was tasked with clearing 55 dive sites that lay in Santa Monica Bay, off the end of the Los Angeles International Airport runway. The targets had been picked off of an underwater digital map compiled by the U.S. Geological Survey, then side-scan-sonared by underwater search experts Gene and Sandy Ralston. We had six days to clear the targets, using an all-volunteer team of 50 people, 10 technical divers and five boats. The team was supported by Gertrude’s remaining family, who described the effort as “the largest and most technically advanced effort undertaken in the search for Gertrude.”

On the next-to-last day of diving, I found the plastic cockpit piece. I brought it to the surface, where our experts, team members, and the press studied it avidly. Research now suggests that it came from a Cessna that crashed in 1973. Incredibly, both occupants survived and were picked up in 15 minutes by a rescue boat.

Two of our other search sites yielded possible aircraft wreckage, and are still being researched. A fourth site turned out to be a missing T-33A jet trainer that crashed in 1955 with two USAF lieutenants on board. They were killed, but the plane was raised, and the families were located and notified.

Hopefully someday soon we will be able to bring some similar closure to the family of Gertrude Tompkins. The search continues.

Editor’s note: Sharky Alexander has served for the last 20 years as a senior NCO in the USAFR, specializing in aircraft weapons technology. He also holds a USCG 50-ton captain’s license, and is a full-time paramedic in St. Charles, MO. His company, Sharky’s Underwater Expeditions, LLC, specializes in underwater search operations.

The different-looking structure houses the National Museum of the Marine Corps, opened to the public in November 2006, and boasting more than 1.5 million visitors as of October 2009.

The museum is on a 135-acre site off of US Highway 1 South, adjacent to Marine Corps Base Quantico. The structure, which will cover 200,000 square feet when completed, was paid for mainly by private donations and some help from public funds.

Legislation to authorize its construction was passed in September 2001. In September 2003 ground was broken, and construction started in April 2004. It was officially dedicated on November 10, 2006, the 231st birthday of the Marine Corps, and was open to the public on Nov. 13th.

The U.S. Marine Corps funded the design, exhibitions and start-up, and now provides overall management, operations and staffing. The Marine Corps Heritage Foundation funded the construction, and now manages revenue-generating activities and is an active partner and supporter of the museum.

The museum, a lasting tribute to all Marines, contributes to the recruitment, training, education and retention of Marines through its exhibitions and other public programs; preserves and exhibits the Marine Corps’ material history; and honors the commitment, accomplishments, and sacrifices of Marines past, present, and future. It also provides an understanding of what it takes to “make a Marine.”

When visitors walk into the museum, they are greeted by Marines at the front desk and a spacious central gallery which includes WWII and Korean War exhibits and several vintage aircraft hanging from the ceiling. From there, they can go to other period galleries or to the second floor where a cafeteria and Tun Tavern Restaurant are located.

The best way to start a visit is by going to the theater where a 14-minute film on what it means to be a Marine is shown every 24 minutes; this pretty much sets the stage for what you’re going to see throughout the museum.

The galleries include “Making of a Marine,” featuring boot camp; “Uncommon Valor,” the WWII gallery; “Send In the Marines,” which covers from 1946 to 1953 including the Korean War; and “In the Air, on Land and Sea,” an exhibit depicting from 1954 to 1975 and the Vietnam War.

“An interesting display is the Iwo Jima ‘immersion’,” said Jim Kyser, a retired Marine master gunnery sergeant and docent at the museum. In this exhibit, visitors listen to a briefing that was given to Marines the night before the landing, followed by actual film footage shot the day of the landing. “If you were getting wet by sea spray,” Jim continues, “you would think you were actually making the landing.” The movie is shown on a surround screen above a mock-up of a Higgins boat, the landing craft used during the invasion.

Throughout the museum there are aircraft, uniforms, weapons and land equipment displayed dating back to the beginning of the Corps. There is also the “Legacy Wall,” which displays artifacts, information and lists events that occurred in the world and in the Marine Corps from 1775 to 2006.

The next construction phase is now underway and will include galleries highlighting the 20th and 21st centuries; an art gallery, studios, storage and a large format theater; and “From the Halls of Montezuma” (1775-1865); “First to Fight” (1866-1914); “Every Marine a Rifleman” (1915-18), and “The Marines Have Landed” (1919-40).

Supporting exhibits in the planning stage include the contributions and sacrifices of the Navy-Marine Corps team in the late 20th and early 21st centuries; significant post-Viet-Nam events including Beirut (1982-84), Grenada (1983), Panama (1989), Desert Shield/Storm (early 1990s), and Operations Enduring Freedom (Afghanistan) and Iraqi Freedom. Completion of these galleries is scheduled for summer 2010.

“We try to accommodate everyone,” said Patrick Mooney, Manager of Docent and Visitor Services, and a Marine veteran. “We have plenty of free parking, wheelchairs, audio tours and a museum store where visitors can get patches, pins, stickers and other mementos.”
The museum is open daily, except Christmas, from 9 to 5; admission is free. For more info, visit www.usmcmuseum.com.