Astride the Sea Cow: Two Years Aboard the Uss Manatee

By Robert W. Beard

The USS Manatees remarkable career began when she was commissioned in 1944, and ended when she was retired in 1975. She participated in most of the major Pacific campaigns during WWII, Korea, and Vietnam, and received numerous battle stars and other awards.

The author reported for duty on the Manatee in fall of 1951 and served until he was reassigned in 1953. So the story in these pages covers life aboard that ship during the final two years of the Korean war.

It was an adventure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 13, 2009
• ISBN: 9781462819133

Robert W. Beard

Robert Beard, a native of New Orleans, pursued an academic career—appointments at Princeton, Michigan, Iowa, Louisiana State, and Florida State universities. After retirement, he built a two-masted schooner, which, with his wife and two young men, he sailed through much of the Caribbean.

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Copyright © 2009 by Robert W. Beard.

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Contents

Acknowledgement

Preface

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Dedication:

To a noble ship and all who served aboard her.

Acknowledgement

My gratitude to Richard A. Downey, Electronics Technician, for his kind permission to include photos he took.

Preface

It was a long time ago. We were young. Life was an adventure. We did good stuff; we did foolish stuff. There was a war. We were strangers in strange lands.

I did not set out to write this book—an accident gave birth to it. I wrote a short story about an incident that occurred while the ship was visiting Hong Kong in 1952. After writing that story, I became curious about what month it took place, and the only source for such information is the internet. I was astonished to find not only extensive information about the Manatee, but also a photograph of myself at that time.

I recall with fondness the two years I served on her, and have often told others about things that happened. So I decided to jot them down, and this book emerged. It was never intended to see print, but at the urging of several people who read an early draft, here it is.

Memories of events far distant are not always accurate, and they are, without doubt, selective. Nevertheless, while I served aboard the Manatee, I related many of those incidents in letters to my wife, which, fortunately, she kept. So there is some measure of confirmation. In retrospect, I should have kept a personal journal.

Although the comings and goings I recount in these pages are true to the best of my failing recollection, the names are not, or at least not always, for reasons soon evident.

Chapter 1

The USS Newport News, CA-148, was one of the newer heavy cruisers, modern in every respect. I was a midshipman serving aboard her during that late summer of 1951.

I was finishing breakfast when a seaman came up to me: Are you Midshipman Beard?

I nodded.

The captain wants to see you in his cabin immediately.

I followed him to the captain’s quarters on the deck immediately below the bridge.

Midshipman Beard, sir. You sent for me?

Yes. Come in. When I did so, he said, Raise your right hand. He then proceeded to administer an oath, and when finished, he said, extending his hand, Congratulations, Mr. Beard. You are now a commissioned officer in the Navy. Your orders are waiting in the ship’s office. Best of success to you.

Thank you, sir. I then saluted and left. Becoming a commissioned officer happened so suddenly that I left with a feeling that something was missing. It was, of course, the culmination of four years of college courses and summer assignments on ships, preflight training, and amphibious exercises. But I was not given an opportunity to throw my hat in the air, or cry out in celebration. Nor could I hear the caterwauling of a Scotsman’s bagpipes in the background. Still, the commission was as binding as if those things had happened, so I shrugged and sought out the ship’s office.

I had no idea where that office was, but after several queries, I found it. My orders said I should report to the commanding officer of the USS Manatee, AO-58, and that I should proceed to the port where that ship may be.

Fortunately, I knew where the Operations Office was—they could surely answer any questions I had. When I stepped in, my first was What’s an AO?

Have you seen those oil tankers that come alongside and transfer fuel to us at sea? a young petty officer laughed. That’s an AO.

My disappointment must have shown. I had requested duty on a combatant ship, something with at least a modicum of prestige, but the Navy, in its infinite wisdom, had decided otherwise.

Well, I said, shrugging, "where do I find the Manatee?"

Come back in an hour, he said. We’ll give you her exact itinerary.

I returned to my locker, packed my sea bag, and within an hour returned to the Operations Office. When I entered, the petty officer I spoke to earlier said, "We don’t know where she is. So far as we can tell, the Manatee travels around the world in an easterly direction. But we don’t know where she is now, and we don’t know where she’s bound. But the Operations Office on the base will know. They keep track of every ship in the fleet."

The USS Newport News had the evening before berthed alongside a dock at the mammoth Norfolk Naval Base. Most of my fellow midshipmen debarked and were on their way home or off to college or wherever midshipmen go.

I was scheduled to receive my commission that afternoon, but since the captain’s plans changed, so had mine. I made my way to the quarterdeck, showed the Officer of the Deck my orders, received his permission to go ashore, and carried my cumbersome sea bag down the gangway.

At the nearby base Operations Office, I showed the chief my orders and was told that if I returned in an hour or so, he would have the exact schedule of the vessel. Meantime, I could go to the commissary and purchase uniforms. The only ones I had at the moment were those appropriate for midshipmen.

I returned to the Operations Office wearing a blue surge uniform with a single gold stripe on each sleeve and a white-topped cap. And I carried an additional large bag with an assortment of uniforms and clothing.

The chief was apologetic, almost embarrassed, when he explained they had no idea where the Manatee was. But they were certain it was not in the Atlantic. I suggest you try the Pacific, he said seriously.

I stared at him. Can you narrow that down a bit? If I remember my geography lessons, the Pacific is rather large.

He gestured toward a building across the street. There’s the travel office. Maybe they can help.

As I strolled over to the building, bags in hand, I wondered if it was common for the Navy to lose ships.

A third-class petty officer at the desk looked at my orders and asked, Where do you want to go? When I explained my plight, he seemed wholly uninterested. I can’t issue a ticket unless you tell me where you want to go.

That seemed reasonable given the situation. So I shrugged and asked, How about San Francisco? And route me through New Orleans and Houston. I thought that since I was destined to wander the planet for the next few months, I may as well visit my parents in New Orleans and my girlfriend near Houston.

Travel at that time was by rail, which was no hardship. Streamliners were fast, and their private staterooms almost luxurious. And, besides, there was something memorable about having meals in an elegant dining car. Some of the characters I met in the lounge would put to shame those in Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express.

New Orleans had not changed since I left a mere three months earlier—hardly surprising. But my departure this time was different. I didn’t know when or if I would return.

My childhood sweetheart, Sara Lee Stilley, had just begun teaching home economics in a high school in Marlin, Texas, a small town where everyone knew everyone else’s personal business. I took a bus from Houston, and arrived in time to attend a school football game, the focal point of the town’s activities. I dressed in my new white uniform with shoulder-boards, shiny brass buttons, white cap, and white shoes. But to my great embarrassment, I noticed during the game that I was wearing bright red socks—that wouldn’t do. So I excused myself, ran to the hotel and exchanged them for white ones.

Most students in Sara Lee’s classes preferred she date