1

Recollections of an August Night 1945

By Octavius N. DeMoll

Edited by Dave Martin

Friday, July 15, 2011

The passing of the years invariably colors the events we have lived and experienced

with a hue of exaggerated luminosity – the day we got that first two-wheeler, the

hysterical joy of the last day of school before the summer vacation, and of course, that

most masculine of human endeavors, participation in a war.

My war ended fifty years ago and in memory becomes with each passing year a

time of close comradeship, and the feeling of being part of a great and noble

undertaking. This is, of course, something less than true. In my more rational moments I

also remember the boredom, the fear and, indeed the limitless inconveniences that

accompany the wearing of any uniform.

There is, however, one experience that defies embellishment because it is one of

the outstanding memories of my life, for it is to me a moment in time of drama and high

adventure: it was the night the war ended.

During the month of August 1945 I was a member of the Marine Detachment

aboard the U.S.S. Lexington, the “Blue Ghost” sunk by Tokyo Rose at least twice. We

were part of Task Force 38 conducting air strikes against the home island of Japan. The

2

force had assembled in Ulithi, an exaggerated sand bar in the Pacific Ocean sometime

in late June and had not been in sight of land since.

The usual shipboard routine under combat conditions was, of course, the order of

the day, with general quarters daily at six-thirty in the morning and the launching of

planes at thirty-minute intervals. The attack groups were termed “strikes”, and the

intervals between them were scheduled because of the aircraft’s fuel capacities and to

limit the danger that air strikes on returning to the ship would not be hung up in a

lengthy circling pattern waiting to land. I remember more than one plane forced to ditch

within sight of the ship while waiting to come aboard because of an empty gas tank. The

nights, of course, were something else – magnificent sunsets, occasional thunderstorms

off on the horizon with flashes of lightning silhouetting the gray ships with Wagnerian

splendor, and the drone of the ship’s engines broken only by the shrill whistle of the

boson’s pipe over the intercom closing out the ledger of the day’s work.

I often went up to an area of the ship known as defense aft. It was to the stern of

the island or control structure of the ship, high above the main gun batteries and just

below the radar screen. The view commanded the entire task group with ships of all

shapes and sizes scattered about a 360-degree area. The whirling of the radar screen

and the flapping of the flag induced a sense of wellbeing and purpose; God was indeed

in His heaven and we were doing His work on earth. It was a time of unquestioning and

unashamed patriotism.

But there also was during that period of the war an unspoken uneasiness aboard

the ship. The pilots on debriefing reported very little ground activity and no air opposition

3

at all. This news, of course, reinforced our conviction that the Japanese were girding

their loins for the expected assault on their sacred soil by the western savages and, of

course, all of us were aware of the part we were scheduled to play in that drama. We

were resigned rather than anxious, but determined to end the issue victoriously, firmly

believing in the justice of our cause and acutely conscious of the humiliation of Perl

Harbor. As I said, it was time of strong moral conviction; our nation had not yet become

infected with the virus of self-doubt and irresolution.

Sometime during the first week in August the ship’s mini newspaper, aptly named

the Sunrise Press, flashed a banner headline, “Atomic Bomb Dropped on Japan”. Now

somewhere on the ship, indeed somewhere on any ship in the entire task force, I have

no doubt that there was at least one man who knew exactly what an atomic bomb was,

but I am here to say that I did not meet him. This momentous event in the history of

mankind made absolutely no impression on any of us and the atomic age was ushered

in aboard the Lexington with all the pomp and circumstance usually reserved for the

birth of a stray kitten.

On the evening of August 13th at about 10:30 p.m. I was seated in the large

uniform locker adjoining the marine compartment. The locker was employed as a

storage area for those items of uniforms too bulky for the small bulkhead lockers

assigned to each marine. It was also used as an unofficial social center by the local

insomniacs and on this particular evening was doubling as a water hole for eh few of us

enterprising enough to commandeer, secure and otherwise concoct those ingredients

so necessary for a well-disposed disposition; in short, we were enjoying a belt or two of

medicinal alcohol liberally spiked with grapefruit juice.

4

There was, if my memory has not completely congealed, Sam Baker from New

Hampshire, Robbie Robertson from Indiana, A.J. Ray from just about everywhere and

one or two others basking in the conviviality nurtured by strong drink and all lying

outrageously about our amorous exploits. I think Robbie was the oldest at twenty-eight

and I was all of nineteen going on forty. Although the conversation centered around the

ladies we had known and loved, at any rate in our rather vivid imaginations, there was

also some speculation, given no credence whatever, that we would “Make the Golden

Gate in Forty-Eight”, the meaning being obvious. But the end of the war looked a long

way off.

Feeling the need for some fresh air, I stepped out of the locker into the darkened

compartment illuminated only by the red battle lanterns used after lights out t prevent

skinned skins and broken arms and ostensibly to accustom our eyes to the darkness in

the event of general quarters. An excited whisper caught my ear as I made my way to

the hangar deck ladder leading topside. “The Japs want to give up if they can keep their

emperor”.

The voice imparting this rather startling piece of information belonged to a

somewhat agitated sailor hurriedly passing through the compartment.

“Where the hell did you get that scuttlebutt?” I inquired.

“No Scuttlebutt, it’s on the level. It just came in from fleet headquarters and I’m

on my way to the old man’s cabin to give him the message.”

I stood for a moment watching him move off. I couldn’t make up my mind whether

or not I was being had. I knew our brief conversation had had an audience when

5

“Chicken” Cummings, an appellation descriptive of his years and not his intestinal

fortitude, sat up in his bunk and asked, “Did that guy say that the Japs want to give up?”

The information conveyed by the messenger, although possibly questionable,

might be worth another hour or two of pleasurable speculation-or so I thought. I stepped

back into the locker. “Hey guys, guess what I just heard,” and I proceeded to relay the

events of the last two minutes. Sam was the first one to speak, “Well, there’s only one

way to find out for sure; let Robbie take a walk up to the radio shack and ask “Sparks” if

it’s true.” I should say here that Robbie had contacts all over the ship-cooks, bakers,

corpsmen, any and every rate that might prove useful at some future date was

cultivated, conned and otherwise maneuvered by Robbie. I learned a lot form him.

The suggestion was received and agreed upon and Robbie reluctantly got to his

feet. “You damn well better not be giving us a snow job, Nick,” the voice sounded

ominous.

“I’m only telling you what I heard, Robbie.”

“Well, there better be some juice left when I come back.”

As Robbie moved off into the darkened compartment the rest of us sat quietly for

a few moments each with his own thoughts and afraid to verbalize them. The war over-

wouldn’t that be something. Home. Always thoughts of home. No one spoke, but we all

knew what the others were thinking. “Well, I don’t know what the rest of you jarheads

are going to do, but I’m going to hit the sack,” said A.J., breaking the pall of silence.

6

None of us were kidding ourselves. We hoped and silently prayed will all the

religious fervor we could muster that the Japanese had had enough. God knows we

certainly didn’t relish the idea of forcing the issue on their home soil. The Japanese

were a courageous, tenacious foe, fanatical in their loyalty to the Emperor and almost

paranoid in their devotion to their homeland. An assault on the Japanese home islands

would be met by a resistance that would make the D Day landings on Normandy seem

like a day at the seashore in comparison, and anyone who survived that brawl knows it

was anything but that.

Primed with the hope that the end of the war in the Pacific was imminent,

however remote, eliminated all thoughts of sleep and the mellowness induced by the

recently ingested liquids was rapidly being replaced by a feeling of cautious anticipation.

We had all stepped out into the compartment and were making our way to the

lighted passageway leading to the head just as Robbie came down the ladder.

I don’t know what’s going on up there, but you can be damn well sure it’s

something big. Hell, I couldn’t get near the radio shack and the bridge is loaded with

brass.”

This news generated further speculation and all attempts at whispering in

deference tour sleeping shipmates were forgotten. We all started to speak, if not loudly,

in somewhat excitedly normal voices.

“Hey you clowns, knock it off,” came a voice from the compartment. “We’re trying

to sleep.”

7

“Stuff it, Mac, the war’s over.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Get out of the sack and come in here and we’ll tell you.”

Within minutes there were at least ten men standing in their skivvies, mouths

open, eyes bulging, listening to the events of the last half hour.

No one slept that night. The news relayed to me earlier in the evening somehow

reached every division about ship. Every communication received in the radio shack

gave birth to a spate of rumor and speculation, all of it true beyond question and most of

it emanating from no less an authority than the Commander-In-Chief himself.

As the night of August 13th slipped into the day of August 14th, the tensions of the

past two months were beginning to become apparent. A casual bump in a darkened

passageway was reason enough for a string of choice Anglo-Saxonisms directed by the

bumpee to the bumper, casting doubts no only on his own legitimacy, but that of all his

antecedents clear back to Noah.

No official word had been forthcoming from CINPAC (Commander in Chief,

Pacific) and the unusual activity on the bridge during the early morning hours

notwithstanding, it seemed to the crew that it was business as usual. The pilots

scheduled for that morning’s air strikes were in the ready room being briefed on the

mission when I relieved the communications orderly at 6:00 a.m. The forced joviality,

normally during these pre-mission briefings, was conspicuously absent this morning.

This, of course, was easy to understand for it was these men, the pilots, who risked the

8

most if indeed a cessation of hostilities, was pending; no one wants to be the last

casualty in any war.

As I stepped out onto the flight deck, a brisk breeze and scattered clouds were

greeting the sun as it edged up over the horizon. The port and forward elevators were

bringing the planes up from the hangar deck and the “Airedales,” sailors whose job it

was to spot the aircraft on the flight deck, were jockeying them into takeoff position.

An aircraft carrier is a magnificent accomplishment in nautical engineering. Like

all ships, it remains little more than steel, rivets, pipes and boilers while gestating on

the construction ways, but becomes miraculously endowed with a soul at the instant of

launching, a pulsating vibrant entity with a character and disposition all its own. Those

of us who served aboard the Lexington during the months and years of the Second

World War, came to regard her with an affection usually reserved for those terrestrial

areas we normally call home-a city, town or farm. For she not only represented the

security associated with those more familiar surroundings, but also served as the

means by which we, her sons, could carry the battle to the enemy, minimizing the

possibility of that enemy endangering our homes and families.

General Quarters was sounded at 6:30 a.m. and I rapidly made my way across

the flight deck to my assigned gun group which was directly opposite the ship’s island.

Within minutes, the guns were loaded and manned. Although it was difficult to conceal

our disappointment, we accepted the situation. After all, we were no worse off than we

were twenty-four hours ago, and who in all honesty expected the Japanese to capitulate

9

with a docility that was so alien to the ferocity demonstrated by their military and naval

forces up to this point in the war?

At 6:45 a.m. the ship’s intercom blared, “Now here this, now here this, pilots man

your planes, pilots man your planes.” The men of Air Group 94 briskly made their way to

the waiting Corsair fighters and Douglas bombers and climbed into the cockpits. Within

minutes the voice of the Air Officer was heard on the intercom, “Pilots start your

engines, pilots start your engines.” Seconds later our ears were assailed by the drum-

splitting roar of twenty-four superbly machined aircraft engines and as the pilots warmed

their motors the two fighters positioned on the forward catapults were launched into the

brightening sky.

Once the forward flight deck was cleared, the launching officer, flag held high,

motioned the lead plane to taxi to takeoff position. This point on the flight deck was on a

line with my assigned gun group. I never quite conquered the fear that a careless

mechanic would one day forget to tighten a key bolt on the propeller shaft and on some

bright morning while revving up the engine for takeoff, a loosely attached propeller

blade would come hurtling toward the gun mount like some spectral scythe, effectively

ending the naval careers of every man in the group.

As each plane in its turn was launched to join the circling strike force, the events

of the previous evening faded into the realm of never was. Indeed, the idea of a sudden

end to the war seemed rather foolish in the bright reality of the day and to dwell on the

possibility of such an occurrence would only make the days ahead even more difficult.

10

When the last plane had soared into the air, our gun group secured from general

quarters and proceeded below for breakfast. I find, in retrospect, that I was something of

an oddball relative to naval cuisine, for in three and one-half years of service, except for

those times when K rations was all that was available, I genuinely enjoyed the meals

served and invariable did them full justice. I am certain, however, that my appetite was

something less than ravenous on the morning of August 14, 1945.

After breakfast of three or four cups of coffee, I reported to the marine

compartment and proceeded to carry out my assigned housekeeping duties.

Conversation was almost exclusively on the events of the previous evening and

speculation ran the gamut of “It was all a Japanese trick to get us off guard,” to “Some

screwball fouled up a message from fleet headquarters.”

But how could such a rumor get started if there was no substance to it? Just what

was all the activity on the bridge and in the radio shack? Did the Japanese indeed offer

to surrender only to have their offer rejected for whatever reason? These and a hundred

other questions were asked with no one really expecting an answer.

At 8:00 a.m. the second scheduled strike was launched and this was further

evidence that the war was going on as scheduled. I completed the housekeeping duties

assigned to me and returned topside to the gun group to load magazines just as the last

Corsair was winging toward the end of the flight deck; the second strike was airborne.

I stepped into the ammunition locker where I found Sam and A.J. already loading

magazines. “Well, Nick, I guess that’s that!” Sam was speaking. “This damn was will

never end and we might as well get used to the idea.”

11

“Bull____.” A.J. answered. “All wars end sooner or later. This one’s just a later.”

I didn’t feel much like talking because in a way I felt responsible for what had

happened, as though my being the first to relay the story had somehow broken a spell

and had jinxed the course of events.

At about 9:30 we had completed loading the magazines and had gone out onto

the gun deck. The planes scheduled for the third strike were being moved into position

and prepared for takeoff.

It came so suddenly, like the breaking of a fever, that most of us could not grasp

the monumental significance of the order. After a moment or two of stunned and

puzzled silence, a crescendo of sound broke through the crisp morning air engulfing

every man on board, for the order “Secure all strikes, secure all strikes,” had blared

through the intercom as triumphant as a blast from Gabriel’s horn.

The tensions of the past twelve hours were completely forgotten as the joyous

realization that the most destructive war in history was over. It penetrated the

consciousness of each of us. Rank and discipline were completely forgotten as officers

and enlisted men slapped each other on the back, shook hands and generally behaved

completely un-militarily. The war was over and we had kept the faith with all our fallen

shipmates, from Pearl Harbor and Corregidor to Bataan and Iwo Jima, whose sacrifices

had made this day possible.

At some time after 11:00 a.m. Fleet Admiral William F. Halsey, “Bull Halsey” to

the American people, addressed the officers and men of Task Force 38 via fleet

intercom. I can’t remember all that was said, but I do remember his closing words, “Well

12

done!” Those words are my most cherished decoration of the war because then, as

now, I believed with all my heart that the forces of right and justice prevailed.

The world is much changed since that balmy day in August. Empires have fallen,

nations been born, monumental social and economic upheavals have taken places

rivaling those that followed the Industrial Revolution, whether for good or evil only time

will tell, but as that

August day recedes into the mists of time, I cannot help but feel a sense of awe and

pride that I was present when the good guys won.