J. P. Bledsoes's Electra Memoirs

Ensign John Perry Bledsoe's Account of the Torpedoing of the Electra
Ens. William Keogh roused me on the morning of November 15, 1942, with the prophetic words: "The bastards have sent us out here by ourselves and we're going to get hit right in the starboard side." They had, and we did.
After landing a portion of Gen. Patton's 2nd Armored Tank Division at Port Lyautey, now Kenitra, French Morocco, on November 8 and the days following, we had been ordered to proceed to Fedala to complete our unloading of aviation gas stored in 5-gallon cans along with sundry munitions.
So I went to General Quarters at my raised gun tub on the ship's starboard quarter. Our gun, like that on the port quarter, was a 4" 50 (forerunner to the 5" 38). On the fantail was an even older "bag" gun, a 5" 51. It was a calm Sunday. The sun was shining, the flat ocean was a bright blue.
Suddenly Chief Gunner's Mate Boteler, who was in charge of the 5" 51, shouted, "Torpedo off the starboard bow!" I looked for a split second, but saw nothing until we were hit. There was a big burst of flame and a tide of fear swept over me with the thought of all that gasoline we were carrying.
But immediately I and others were knocked down by a big shock wave of water that struck the ship. I don't understand the physics of this, but it happened and carried all the flames away. Branded on my memory is a picture of Daley, one of our sailors, rising to his feet on the main deck just below me with water streaming down his face and body.
Let me digress here and fast forward four years which finds me trudging down Mass Avenue with a green book satchel over my shoulder headed for a class at Harvard Law School. Suddenly the heavy traffic of cars and trucks stops. Out of a truck hops Daley who comes over and starts pumping my hand. We exchange bits of information while the honking on the road grows louder and louder. Finally Daley runs over, gets in his truck, drives about 10 feet and stops again. He sticks his head out the window and shouts, "I'm making $400 a month!" He then moved on; we haven't seen each other since.
But back to the ship. It continued under way, sort of staggering along, for three minutes….ten minutes? I don't know, but it wasn't long before we were dead in the water. The torpedo had struck the ship in No. 3 hold. The engine room was just abaft and its forward bulk head was also penetrated by the explosion. Water gradually flooded in and silenced the engines.
About this time, a flashing light appeared on the horizon. Some folks wanted to shoot at it, but wiser heads prevailed. Any shot would, of course, have fallen short of its intended target. The light turned out to be the USS Cole (predecessor of the Cole attacked by Osama bin Laden's cohorts in the Middle East) which had been sent out to rendezvous with us. It came alongside flying a huge flag. An Ensign on the Cole told me later that when they saw the explosion on the horizon, the Cole's Captain ordered that its biggest flag be broken out and hoisted. That flag scene is another picture branded in my memory.
A gangplank was rigged between the two vessels. Abandon ship was ordered for all Electra sailors except the ship's rescue party, comprised of about 65 men as I recall. Lt. J.G. Henry Angelsen, Lt. J.G. Francis Ford, and my special buddy, Ens. David Conwell were in that party, but I was not. My job was to secure and take charge of the small arms, which I did. Where I went to get them or in what kind of box they were, I do not remember. At any rate, they were in my possession in the gun tub from which I watched proceedings while awaiting my turn to leave the ship.
Officers were supposed to be the last off and I, having been an Ensign for 104 days, qualified for this delay. I watched one kid throwing over some quarter round from the carpenter's shop. We had been instructed to jettison floating materials. What wooden quarter round was doing in our carpenter shop beats me.
It occurred to me that I had plenty of time to visit my quarters and salvage personal effects, but I couldn't think of anything I cared a damn about. Then I thought that I should get and wear the new gold braided cap I had bought just before we left Norfolk. So I retrieved and donned my new hat, tossing away the old.
My turn came to disembark, and I proudly wore it onto the Cole. I was on the forecastle head looking for a place to stow the small arms when a gust of wind blew off my newly fitted cap, and I watched it dancing away on the waves.
When only the ship's rescue party remained aboard, Captain J.J. Hughes ordered the destroyer to stand off, saying, "Shove off Captain. It is a point of honor to save the ship if we can." A rather grandiloquent order, but consistent with Hughes' concept of the Navy and of himself.
This was not the first action for Captain Hughes. He was a Lt. Commander and skipper of the Panay a small river gunboat built to patrol the Yangtse River. It was attacked by Japanese warplanes and sunk on December 12, 1937 when evacuating Americans from the U.S. Embassy.
Hughes, along with many others, was wounded and permanently lamed by that attack which lasted for hours and included shore batteries as well as planes. Because of that limp and his hurrying ways, his crew irreverently referred to the Captain as "Old Hop, Skip and a Jump Hughes."
That he was on the China Station in 1937 testifies to his prospects of achieving high rank in the Navy as being rather dismal. But Hughes exercised his best efforts to do his duty. I liked the man. I was surprised in the early 1950s to read an inch long obituary of the Captain in Time Magazine reporting his death at 53. I found it hard to believe that "the Old Man" was in his 40s when he led us.
After the Panay incident was swallowed by the administration without action it beggars belief to argue that Roosevelt conspired to get us into war. I watched from the Cole while several ships clustered around and participated in towing the Electra into the harbor at Casablanca. The tug, U.S.S. Cherokee was the principal tower as I recall, assisted by the U.S.S. Raven. The Electra was moored alongside the dock just abaft of the Jean Bart, a newly constructed French Battleship whose engines had not yet been installed. It had huge guns (18 inches I believe) and made the mistake of firing on the Massachusetts for which it furnished a sitting duck target and was soon silenced. A guard patrolled back and forth on the Jean Bart's fantail carrying a 15th century halberd. When questioned, this practice was justified with the reply "We've always done this."
The morning after we docked I was summoned to the Captain's cabin where he informed me that I was to "Carry the message to Garcia" (a reference to some historical story). He said that somewhere in the City of Casablanca a naval headquarters would have been established and that I was to find it and report upon the ship's whereabouts and condition to Admiral Hewitt. I think he added that I was not to return until I had achieved my mission. So I strapped on my trusty 45 and set out afoot.
It wasn't easy. I knew no French and could only inquire of American personnel that I met from time to time. Ultimately I succeeded in carrying out my assignment and sought to return to the ship. As I had wandered all around in my search, I hadn't the foggiest as to how to get back to the docks. I tried hailing horse drawn voitures (taxis) to take me home without success.
Finally I took out my 45 and stepped into the road waving it in front of a cart drawn by one horse. I got aboard and tried to explain to the young driver where he was to take me. After a few frustrating failures, his face lit up and he said "Marine." I nodded and we were off. When we got to our destination I tried to pay him his fare. He smiled, shook his head and said "Kamerad." I had hijacked a private conveyance.
The next day Captain Hughes and I called on Admiral Hewitt. But I digress. The tug Cherokee, with its personnel skilled in salvaging, was secured alongside the Electra and the U.S.S. Hambleton, which had also been torpedoed, was on the dock just behind us. The experts from the Cherokee assisted by the Electra's crew commenced salvage operations.
A couple of years later my then ship was back in San Francisco from the South Pacific and I was sent to Damage Control School for a couple of weeks. There, I happily discovered that the salvaging of the Electra was our case study. It was selected because of the big part the ship's crew played in the repair of the ship and the imaginative use of materials in the salvage effort.
One lucky shipmate had an experience entirely different from the rest of us. He said the torpedo explosion blew him into the water but I am inclined to think he jumped. In any event, he was floating in the water in his life jacket while a convoy of merchant ships sailed past on either side without seeing him. A destroyer sweeping back and forth behind the convoy sited this sailor and took him aboard and back to the USA. We received a wireless message that the destroyer had him.
After it was hit, the Electra took on water and sunk to a point where she had about five feet of freeboard, at which stage the sinking was arrested. This was due to our large cargo of gasoline in five gallon cans stowed primarily in our deep tanks. Oil being lighter than water, these acted as a big cork keeping us afloat. Also it was suggested that this cargo acted as a cushion to a shock that would otherwise have broken the back of the ship.
One can see why getting the Electra back in service was a low priority to the top brass. So we had to do it ourselves, directed and assisted by the salvage crew based on the Cherokee. The main hole on our starboard side was approximately 15 feet by 45 feet but there were 10 or so holes on the port side thought to have been caused by exploding ammunition which we carried as cargo. These offered little problem as they were above the waterline and the largest was a jagged hole seven or eight feet in diameter.
There were many jobs, such as cleaning out the rotting meat from the no longer refrigerated locker, but the chief problems were patching the hole in the ship; renewing its electrical system (Warrant Officer Freeman did a magnificent job in rewiring the ship) and refurbishing the engines.
At this point we were faced with two primary tasks: 1) Repairing the ship and 2) unloading its cargo consisting primarily of thousands of gallons of gas contained in five gallon cans (like those stowed in a rack on the back of a jeep) and a modest amount of bombs and ammunition. The latter was my assignment.
Every day I would go to the head of the docks where Arab workmen (one couldn't justify the name "stevedores") were assigned to me. I would put in an order as to the number I could use the day before. They operated in groups of 10, each group having a foreman or headman. Our cargo, gas cans or bombs, would be loaded into to 50 foot tank lighters by our ship's crew at the ship and transported to my station where the lighters were unloaded by my merry men and carried 40 or 50 yards to a dump site. There gas cans and ammunition could be picked up by Army trucks and go happily on their logistical way. Our ship was listing about five degrees to port and loading the lighters, which was done by our crew, was hard manual work. The same was true of the work performed by my Arabs. We got along fairly well despite my language deficiency.
I tried my best to get them to carry a gas can in either hand so that one trip to >the dump would yield two cans. I would achieve success for a trip or two then they would revert to reaching back over their shoulder to steady a can carried on their back. I finally gave up. Yet instead of two people carrying a 100 pound bomb, it would be hoisted onto the back of the scrawniest of the scrawny who almost trotted with it to the dump.
We had no equipment except for a crane of which we had the use at least once. The hook was swinging dangerously loose and my unintelligible shouts of "Look Out!" to an Arab audience seemed fruitless. Finally I got the attention of my one-eyed Arab foreman and we laughed away our tension after the danger was over.
Our cargo job was over in a few weeks. In recognition of my incompetence I was then assigned to shore patrol duty reporting each day to an egotistical superior in the city. He had a permanent staff, I believe, in addition to us temps. I would be assigned to a beat accompanied sometimes by a sailor if available. I had many interesting experiences especially in the Old Medina (off limits to sailors) but these are unrelated to the ship repair which continued for months. Finally the repairs were completed (or at any rate said to be completed).
The patch that was rigged up was far from a thing of beauty. Its outer skin was composed of metal pontoons welded together. Some ships have boards covering their hatches which are removed for loading or unloading cargo from the hold. In lieu of these the Electra had hollow metal pontoons, say 6" x 4' x 8' (I can't give any figures with confidence). This procedure left open hatches and one of my men, Sherman, fell into No. 3 Hold and was badly broken up although he survived. We should have taken more safety precautions.
After many trials and failures, a patch was fitted on the outside of the ship. A cofferdam inside the ship was filled with concrete. This wall was shored up by timbers. Two cables were wrapped around the ship to reinforce holding the patch in place.
Even when repairs were complete, a visit to No. 3 Hold allowed one to view water leaking (I should have said "squirting") in. Two 6" pumps were installed in the hold, one of which was going at all times.
From November of 1942 to late April of 1943 tedious and often discouraging work had proceeded on the Electra. Finally we were pronounced ready to go home. To say that we were apprehensive is to put it mildly. Dr. Burke, a devout Catholic, told me that he had gone to confession before we left Norfolk and thought he was in pretty good shape. Actually I don't think he had had much opportunity to sin after clearing the decks in Norfolk. As a Protestant I was forced to stagger along with salvation on my own shoulders.
Willie Render, one of the mess men and a really nice kid of 18 or so, put it best. Shortly before departure he said to me, "You know Mr. Bledsoe, if after all this, the ship sunk and I was drowned I'd really be pissed off."
They sent us back in a liberty ship convoy which cruised at eight knots. When I relieved the watch and took the conn on a sunny day my post on the bridge gave me a clear view of vibrating cables holding our patch and of a stream of water going over the side from one of our six inch pumps. We were proceeding at a snail's pace but otherwise all was fine for a few days.
Then a storm hit. This was perhaps not as bad as the one I went through at Okinawa in 1945, but there we were in the harbor steaming at anchor to keep from dragging it. And another storm in the North Atlantic rates honorable mention. However, all in all, the Electra storm was the undisputed champ. 13 ships in the convoy hoisted break down lights.
I had the 8 to 12 evening watch and matters continued to get worse and worse. At 12 p.m. I was relieved by our Navigator, Constantine Demitrius Allen. And I should say at this point that merchant sailors Allen and Angelsen had more seamanship and navigational skills in their heads than the balance of the ship's company put together.
I retired below and lay down on my bunk fully clothed (and shoed too I might add) but sleep would not come. I kept hearing imaginary water rushing down the passageway outside my quarters. In fine, I was scared. I finally gave up and went back to the bridge. Allen had taken over the helm and was actually steering the ship. He looked at me and shouted, "What are you so excited about? There's nothing to be excited about!" Perhaps not, but the ship shortly thereafter took two straight 34° rolls. I don't remember what I clung to, but I remember well clinging and watching that dial on the inclinometer move slowly to 34° and then hang there for an eternity before the ship shuddered and started to right itself. From my standpoint it looked as though the main deck side rail was dipping in the water. I thought each time we were going over. Had Mephistopheles then appeared and said to me, "Sign here and you have ten years before I get your soul" I would have signed so fast it would make your head swim. Happily he missed his opportunity and has now waited, perhaps impatiently, for 63 years.
Surely Captain Hughes was on the bridge but the only officers I remember being there were Allen and me.
Finally in late April or early May we arrived at Charleston, South Carolina and went into drydock at the Navy yard. Our voyage was over.
In June I received orders transferring me to another ship. It hit me in the pit of my stomach. The Electra was home. It is said that a man should always leave a ship or a woman while he still loves her. It was thus with the Electra and me. I boarded her once in the Pacific at Ulithi?, Kwajalein?, Okinawa? I can't remember where but little of my Electra remained. Keogh (he whom Angelsen used to drive mad by greeting him amiably with "Vell Keeoogg! how are you?") was there and I enjoyed seeing him but really I wish I hadn't tried to go back.
I could tell many stories of the Electra but there are three that I must relate.
Story 1
Gunners Mate Anderson told me, and he was a very reliable young man, that at the time of our torpedoing one of our officers was running up and down crying "Oh dear! Oh God! Oh dear! What's going to happen to me now?" For want of a better pseudonym, I'll call this shipmate "George Jones."
George was not your average fellow. Once in the wardroom, after staring into space for awhile, he said to me, "John, what do you think torpedoed us?" I said, "Why, it was a submarine, George. What else could it have been?" He replied, "How about one of those U-Boats?"
George had a great cross to bear. He was worried about the fidelity of his wife and insisted on talking to all and sundry about these fears, asking what we thought were the chances of his wife succumbing to the blandishments of others. When I would refuse to handicap this matter, he would continue to press me saying, "Just what are the chances? There are a lot of men where she works." He was more than a nuisance, a real pest. He would come to your quarters and insist upon talking.
Finally, Dr. Burke told me he had the solution to the George problem. He noticed that George had stopped talking to Trainovich on this subject and had learned that Trainovich was assuring George that his fears were well founded, a certainty, "they all do it" and on and on. On the other hand, Burke and I had given George kindly assurance of his spouse's virtue. Burke dropped out as a consultant by quoting odds on George's worst fears being realized. This left only me. At 21 years of age I was, and still remain, far from expert in these matters. But I continued to shore up George's self esteem. I should say at this point that having met Mrs. Jones I was confident that George's fears were unjustified. Even if the citadel of her virtue could be taken by a determined siege, I felt it highly unlikely that this fortress would be assailed.
Well we're home safe in Charleston and George and I are in the barracks and he is preparing to go home on leave. He tells me this and says he will be seeing his wife and baby. I congratulate him and he says, "What if it has red hair?" I didn't get it and said, "Why that would be fine George!" And he said, "But my wife and I are both dark."
Fast forward two weeks. I am officer of the deck on a ship sitting on blocks in the drydock. I look down the dock and see George returning from his leave smoking a big cigar. He walks up the gang plank, salutes me and instead of uttering the traditional formula "Permission to come board sir?" takes a big puff on his cigar and exclaims, "Luxuriant black hair!"
Story 2
Any account of the Electra's torpedoing is deficient if the tale of Dr. Burke's milk can is omitted.
Eschewing any ostrich head-in-the-sand tactics, Burke made a careful study of ship sinking catastrophes and how to cope with them. He was hugely impressed by, and adopted, the recommendation of one guru that an empty milk can be equipped with survival necessities and used as a flotation device should one be cast in the water. The milk can was one of those used for transportation of milk before tank trucks took over. They were metal cylinders about a foot in diameter and 2 1/2 or 3 feet tall. At the top was a neck, closed with a plug, and with a hand hold on either side. I would guess a can would hold five or ten gallons. The milk distribution procedure was for the farmer to place these modern day amphorae on the railroad station platform where they would be picked up by the train crew and transported into the city. On the return trip empties would be left on the platform to be picked up by the farmer.
As directed by his mentor Burke acquired a milk can and placed in it, among other things, a khaki shirt and pants, underwear, shoes, socks, a food ration and a billfold containing $100. The idea was that if and when disaster struck and the ship sank out from under him, Burke, clad in a life jacket, would hold on to his milk can and paddle ashore. There he would don his dry clothes, pocket his billfold and go merrily on his way.
The loaded can was kept readily at hand in Burke's cabin. All was in order but "the best-laid schemes o' mice an men gang aft agley."
In the abandon ship drill Burke's station was at the life boat on the starboard side of the ship where he would be attending the wounded assigned to the boat. Shortly after the torpedo struck Burke set his can on the boat deck near the life boat and pursued his duties elsewhere.
Our Supply Officer, Douglas Cook, came along, saw the milk can and heeding standing instructions to toss all floating materials overboard in this situation, gave the heave-ho to Burke's can. It was last seen floating away on the tide. What became of it we'll never know.
I like to think that Neptune tossed it high upon the shore where it was discovered by some Moroccan Aladdin who opened it, donned Burke's khakis, laced up Burke's shoes, thrust Burke's wallet in his hip pocket and then proceeded to "have a nice day."
Story 3
One story I am compelled to include in this report, although strictly speaking it had nothing to do with our torpedoing. That is Cap'n Jack's commemoration of Independence Day on July 4, 1943.
Cap'n Jack Ballard was the ship's tailor and I am surprised, now that I think about it, that I never knew how he acquired his nickname. A certain mystery surrounded him. He was said to be the son of an immensely rich father, a race car driver, a sourdough in Alaska, etc. Francis Ford thought that Jack had a supply of alcohol cached somewhere but opined that search as we might we would never find anything.
My first meeting with Jack was a day or so after I joined the ship. I was Officer of the Deck stationed at the head of a gang plank to the Norfolk dock, my principal job being that of tending to the mooring lines. Upon hearing a hubbub at the foot of the gang plank, I looked down to see a Marine with a drawn pistol pointed at Cap'n Jack who was advancing on him. I ran down the gang plank, calmed things down and hustled Cap'n Jack on to the ship.
I don't know what education Cap'n Jack had had but he always spoke very precisely using the King's English as though to the manor born. When he saw me the next morning, he told me that in retrospect he was happy that I happened along when I did. Otherwise "I firmly intended to wrest that pistol from the Marine and shove it _ _ _ _."
I had Cap'n Jack on a working party once. He worked unloading a boat's cargo like a mad man, somewhat frenetic in his actions. I would not say he was handsome, but his piercing dark eyes drew attention. He was slender but sturdy, maybe six feet or six one, always looking somewhat haggard.
When we hit the beach in North Africa, Cap'n Jack was AWOL for two or three days. What he was doing on the beach in the first place I don't know. Upon return to the ship, he said he had joined some soldiers to help in the fighting. Commander Beightler told me that he bet Cap'n Jack was probably in a Fort Lyautey whorehouse. At any rate no punitive action was taken. We had other things to keep us busy.
On my first liberty ashore in Charleston after return from North Africa, I heard a yell and Cap'n Jack came running up waving a check for $2,500 which he wished to cash. It seems the bank would not cash the check without an officer's signature.
I went with him to a bank and left him in funds having endorsed a check several times my net worth in size. I had heard that Cap'n Jack had won huge sums at craps and that at one point had pulled a gun or had a gun pulled on him. Incidentally, I heard that several 45s were "lost" in the torpedoing. I always hung on to mine.
When it comes to Cap'n Jack's finest hour, I must rely on hearsay. In June of 1943 I was transferred to Baltimore to put the U.S.S. General John Pope in commission and no longer observed Electra life first hand.
Some place, I don't remember where, I ran into Soderholm, a yeoman on the Electra and he gave me the following account of Cap'n Jack. A little background is required.
The HMS Penelope, a British Cruiser, was undergoing repairs in the Charleston Navy Yard at the same time as the Electra. These Penelope sailors were a rum lot. Insults and fisticuffs were freely exchanged by the Penelope and Electra crews in every bar in Charleston. The British sailors even had the effrontery to court Charleston girls.
Penelope repairs would be completed, and she would then take a test run and find other things that needed to be done. They just didn't want to leave port. It was not to be borne. Most of us griped but did nothing. Glorious action was left to Cap'n Jack.
On the morning of July 4th sailors sleeping below were disturbed early in the morning by a loud voice proclaiming, "I am going to go up and blow the bow off of that f____ limey bastard." The auditors had just rolled over and again embraced Morpheus when a loud explosion was heard and the ship shuddered (it was in drydock on blocks).
The Watch quickly discovered that the 4" 50 gun on the port quarter had been trained, pointed and fired at the Penelope, probably the first and only shot fired at the British since the War of 1812. Smoke was still coming out its muzzle. The shell had gone across the bow of the Penelope and landed in the bay. Happily no harm was done.
The British went to General Quarters, messages and apologies flew back and forth and an international incident was avoided by cool heads. It was noted that the escape hatch leading up from the shaft alley with a door on the fantail was open. So a sailor was dispatched down that ladder to the shaft alley. Another party was dispatched to the engine room where it found Cap'n Jack in his dress blues crawling on his hands and knees from the shaft alley.
When asked what he was doing there, Cap'n Jack answered with his customary sang-froid and savoir-faire that he had always been interested in engines but since entering the Navy had been engaged with other tasks. Upon returning from liberty it occurred to him that now would be a good time to satisfy his curiosity as to ship propulsion and this of course, explained his inspection of the shaft alley.
It appears that a cynical command did not find this explanation acceptable and it is said that Cap'n Jack, a patriot to the core, received a Bad Conduct Discharge. Sic Transit Gloria Mundi.
My friend and shipmate Dave Conwell said we should think of each other from time to time and say skoal.
SKOAL
John Perry Bledsoe Written Dec. 30, 2005