The Big Spud: The USS Idaho In World War II: A War Diary By a Member of Its VO Squadron

By William Schumann

The decision made on September 2, 1941, was one Bill Schumann would never regret making. War broke out a short three months later as he was acquainting himself with this mighty battleship, the USS Idaho, having mustered onboard her in Iceland on December 6, 1941, only hours before the attack on Pearl Harbor by the Japanese. Bill was to remain onboard this warship, fondly referred to by its crew as "The Big Spud," throughout the entire conflict, and duly credit her and her skillful crew for bringing them safely through the most horrendous conflict the world has ever known, World War II. The ship is no more, having been stricken from the Naval vessel register and sold to Lipsett Inc. on November 24, 1947, to be cut up for scrap. A seemingly cruel act for such a great warship, yet today the memories live on in the hearts of those men who so many years ago did time onboard her, when she was a fighting ship in the most powerful Naval fleet the world has ever witnessed. During his tour of duty, Bill had often wondered what was so special about the Idaho, the fact that they had traveled so far, always at great risk, and yet had so few casualties. Bill wasn't one who believed in miracles, or for that matter a religious person, but a little known event that took place on the Idaho during the ship's commissioning twenty-two years before his tour of duty, may in some way have contributed to their safe journey. Only three cherished friends, all members of the ship's VO-3 (aviation) squadron, had given their lives during the long conflict; strangely all were away from the protection of the ship when they died. A mere coincidence, he thinks not—it has made a believer out of Bill. The text is in diary form, as Bill recorded daily events on scraps of paper he brought home on each leave. Bill also spent time at the National Archives examining the ship's logbooks and other records to provide details of the ship and its history during the war. 80 photos, 43 documents, 2 maps. A Merriam Press World War 2 Autobiography.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Nov 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781300445357

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The Big Spud: The U.S.S. Idaho in World War II: A War Diary by a Member of its VO Squadron

William Schumann

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Hoosick Falls, New York

2020

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Second eBook Edition (2020)

ISBN 978-1-300-44535-7

Based on Fifth Print Edition (2020)

Copyright © 1999 by William Schumann

First published in 1999 by the Merriam Press

Additional material copyright of named contributors.

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

The views expressed are solely those of the author.

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This work was designed, produced, and published in the United States of America by the Merriam Press, 489 South Street, Hoosick Falls NY 12090.

Acknowledgments

Putting together a story of this nature was not an easy task for me. Having no experience as a writer and possessing a few serious doubts if I wanted to re-live the event at all, I retrieved my many scraps of paper stored away in the attic, and started a seemingly endless job to decipher my scribbling of forty years earlier.

Past this stage I was fine, and with the encouragement from my understanding wife, Bernadine, and the support of my five children, Cheryl, Gregory, Stephen, Cynthia and Bryan, I was able to live through, for a second time, an unpleasant but necessary part of my life.

Many thanks to my friend, Debbie (Marquardt) Walko, for taking the time from her busy work schedule to type the first eleven chapters as they were completed.

Thanks to shipmate Edward E. Stephens, for assisting me in the Reuben James story.

For their short story contributions, special thanks to shipmates Robert C. Hazelwood, Robert J. Wynne, Al Adams, Vince Bonner, and to my special buddy, Maurice Hobby Hobson, who shared a great many liberties with me.

Also a special thank you to shipmate Dave Graham, chairman of our U.S.S. Idaho (BB-42) Association and organizer of our reunions since their beginning in the late Fifties. For his many letters encouraging me on, and his expressed wishes that I use The Big Spud for the book’s title.

A special tribute to my daughter-in-law, LouAnne (Rybak) Schumann who re-typed the final draft, and my son Steve who put it on the floppy disk for use by my publisher.

And finally not to forget my publisher, Ray Merriam, for his expertise in handling and placement of the photographs and other material to bring it all together.

Note

All photographs, illustrations and documents were supplied by the author. Some photographs have been reproduced from the ship’s history published shortly after the war.

m28_001

The author during the war.

m28_001a

The author pictured more recently as a senior volunteer at the Kent State University Airport. As a volunteer at the airport, he does a bit of everything, from washing planes to painting buildings. He had a purpose for his volunteer work at the airport—he talked them into some flight time with the student pilots and enjoys the return to flying once more in small aircraft.

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Glossary

Nautical terms found in this book.

AA: Anti-aircraft guns

Aft: Stern of a ship

Anti-sub patrol: A search by planes for enemy submarines

AWOL: Absent Without Leave—unauthorized leave from duty

Battery: The guns of a warship

Battlewagon: Battleship

Banzai attack: A mass suicide attack by Japanese soldiers

Bow: Forward part of a ship

Blister: Water-filled compartments attached to the full length of the hull and extending several feet above the waterline to the bottom of the keel

Breakwall: A high structure to protect the shore from erosion; a.k.a. seawall

Bridge: A platform over the deck of a ship

Brig: Place of confinement for offenders on a naval ship

Broadside: Part of a ship’s side above the waterline; all the guns on one side of the ship

Bulkhead: A partition separating the compartments on a ship

Captain’s inspection: The captain’s inspection of a ship every Friday

Catapult: A device used to launch aircraft from a ship

Crew: A ship’s company

Davy Jones: A sailor’s name for the devil

Deck: Floor-like platform of a ship

Depth charge: An explosive device shot from ships to destroy enemy submarines

Dress Blues: Dress uniform of a petty officer of the Navy

Fantail: An overhang at the stern of a ship

Fathom: A unit of length equal to six feet, for measuring the depth of the water

Field day: General clean-up of all crew compartments

Flight quarters: Calling together all personnel involved with launching and recovery of aircraft

Foc’sle: A variation of forecastle; the forward part of a ship

Forward: Being near or at, or belonging to, the front of a ship

Forward head: Main bathroom in the bow of a ship

Galley: The kitchen of a ship

Gedunk: Sailor slang for ice cream

General Quarters: Calling together all hands at dawn or to battle stations

Hash mark: A slanted mark worn on the left sleeve of a sailor’s jumper, representing four years service

Hatch: A door for access down into a compartment of a ship

Kamikaze: A suicide attack by a Japanese pilot

Keel: Plate running lengthwise along the bottom of the ship’s center

Knot: One nautical mile per hour, e.g. 17 knots per hour

Leave: Authorized absence from duty

Leeward: The side that is sheltered from the wind

Liberty: A short leave from naval duty

Liberty (Cinderella): A short leave, expiring the same day at midnight

Magazine: A place to store gun powder on a ship

Main battery: On a battleship the 14-inch guns

Maintop: A platform at the head of the mainmast

Mast: A long pole or spar rising from the deck of a ship

NAS: Naval Air Station

Nautical mile: A unit of distance equal to about 6076.115 feet

Pay day: Designated day for payment of wages

Port: Harbor; a city with a harbor

Port of call: A port where ships customarily stop for supplies, repairs, etc.

Port side: The left side of a ship looking forward

Pogy-bait: Sailor slang for candy

Quarterdeck: Stern area of a ship’s upper deck

Quay: Wharf

Rogue wave: A rascal, mischievous; not a normal type of wave

Salvo: Simultaneous discharge of guns, as in a three-gun salvo

Scuttlebutt: Unconfirmed word or news of an upcoming event

Sea sled: A board with an attached rope-like netting, used in recovery of seaplanes from the water

Shore Patrol: Men sent ashore to exercise guard and police patrol

Skipper: Captain of a ship

SNAFU: Situation normal, all fouled up

Squawk-box: Speaker system on board a ship

Starboard side: The right side of a ship looking forward

Stem: The bow of a ship

Stern: The rear end of a ship

Superstructure: Something built on a base as a vertical structure

Turn to: To work, to apply one self

Turret: A revolving structure on a ship in which one or more guns are mounted

Watch: An allotted period for being on nautical duty

Williwaw: A sudden violent gust of cold land air, common along mountainous coasts, as in the Aleutian Islands

Windward: Facing the direction from which the wind is blowing

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Introduction

The Great Depression was a difficult period for most average American families; ours was no exception. Dad had frequent layoffs from his job during the early and mid Thirties. Our move from Piqua to Kent, Ohio, in 1934 was a major adjustment for us during these hard times.

The start of hostilities with Great Britain and Germany on September 1, 1939, and the soon too be drafting of our young men into the services for one year enlistments as a build-up of our military might, only tended to make job seeking that more tougher. Companies didn’t want to hire on these young men, then have them drafted months later. Having acquired no special skills since leaving high school, and with the possibility of being drafted looming ever closer, I made the decision during the summer of 1941 to enlist in the U.S. Navy. Pick my branch of service rather than have them put me where they (the government) saw fit.

The decision made on September 2, 1941, was one I would never regret making. War broke out a short three months later as I was acquainting myself with this mighty battleship, the U.S.S. Idaho, having mustered onboard her in Iceland on December 6, 1941, only hours before the attack on Pearl Harbor by the Japanese carrier planes.

I was to remain onboard this warship, fondly referred to by its crew as The Big Spud, throughout the entire conflict, and duly credit her and her skillful crew for bringing us safely through the most horrendous conflict the world has ever known, World War II.

The ship is no more, having been stricken from the Naval vessel register and sold to Lipsett Inc. on November 24, 1947, to be cut up for scrap. A seemingly cruel act for such a great warship, yet today the memories live on in the hearts of those men who so many years ago did time onboard her, when she was a fighting ship in the most powerful Naval fleet the world has ever witnessed.

During my tour of duty, I had often wondered what was so special about the Idaho, the fact that we had traveled so far, always at great risk, and yet had so few casualties.

I wasn’t one who believed in miracles, or for that matter a religious person, but a little known event that took place on the Idaho twenty-two years before my tour of duty, may in some way have contributed to our safe journey.

The following true story took place on the Idaho the morning of March 24, 1919, in Camden, New Jersey. This was the day of her commissioning, the first of her life in the Navy. Assigned to duty as her first Chaplain, Father William A. Maguire was for some unknown reason not included in the ceremony taking place at the bow of the ship. Believing that religion should have some part in the ceremony, and feeling rather hurt that it wasn’t, Father Maguire quietly returned to his quarters, got his ritual, stole and a small bottle of holy water, and climbed to the maintop alone. Standing there, he blessed the ship, and solemnly prayed the Blessed Virgin Mary to protect the Idaho’s officers and men from harm.

Only three cherished friends, all members of our VO-3 squadron, had given their lives during the long conflict; strangely all were away from the protection of the ship when they died. A mere coincidence, I think not—it has made a believer out of me.

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Chapter 1: Boot Camp and the North Atlantic

It was September 2, 1941, the day I and two other Akron area men, John Kerr of Akron, and Henry Beitenman of Barberton, enlisted in the U.S. Navy at the old Post Office Building on Market Street in Akron, Ohio.

We traveled to Cleveland that same afternoon to take our physicals, and I couldn’t help wonder if the Navy would accept me. A story crossed my mind, one told by my Dad, regarding my Uncle Ed’s experience when he attempted to enlist in the Navy back in 1921.

His first attempt failed because they said he was underweight (116 pounds), so not to be outdone, Uncle Ed went back home for a few days and fattened up on bananas and drank lots of water. Returning for a second examination, he passed with flying colors. I only weighed-in at 117 pounds soaking wet, but ended up worrying needlessly for I passed the physical okay, and was on my way to the Navy Training Station at Newport, Rhode Island the next day.

Attached to Platoon #43, I started the nine weeks of restricted confinement to the station and subjected to the normal treatment, the bowling ball haircut, shots, drills, classes on seamanship, firing range, then more of the same until I finally finished Boot training.

A few days before graduation we were marched out to the drill field to await the arrival of the Secretary of the Navy, Frank K. Knox, who was scheduled to make an inspection of the naval base. We stood at parade rest for nearly two hours awaiting his arrival. Many sailors meanwhile had dropped to the ground, fainting from pure exhaustion. Before anyone knew what was going on, Knox had been there and was gone. No one at the drill field saw him. Such is life in the military.

Our nine weeks of training over, we are given our first pass to go to town. Now that we are sailors, several of the guys I was with decided we had to have tattoos, so off we go to find the nearest tattoo artist in Newport. Not being too keen on the idea in the first place and after standing in a line for nearly an hour with no apparent forward progress, I said nuts to this madness, and I walked away with a negative thought toward ever getting a tattoo in the future.

Granted a nine-day leave, I headed for home to visit the folks. Brother Jack was already gone, having enlisted in the Air Corps on October 14th. The days went fast and I was soon on my way back to Newport for further assignment. It came rather quickly—in a matter of a few days I was given my orders, along with nineteen other green recruits. We had been assigned to duty onboard the battleship U.S.S. Idaho.

I hadn’t expected sea duty so quick, but then I guess this is the main reason I joined the Navy in the first place, recalling the slogan on the poster in front of the Post Office: Join the Navy and see the World. Looks as if I will get my chance real soon.

They say the ship is somewhere at sea right now, so the twenty of us are bussed off to Boston, Massachusetts, and to south Boston Annex for further orders. This must be a distribution center for assigned personnel to ships at sea. I notice we have a crew of Limey sailors at the other end of our barracks. Maybe they are here for rest and rehabilitation from the two years of war against the Germans.

After one week we are on our way again. Transferred onboard the U.S.S. Kilauea, an ammunition ship which is to take us on the first leg of our journey to catch the Idaho. They still haven’t told us where the ship is. Two more days here, we leave Boston at 0800, November 14, 1941, and head for Portland, Maine, arriving that evening just before dusk.

Saturday, November 15, 1941

Given liberty this afternoon I head for Portland, stop at a Recreation Center for a few hours and then to the night club Morocco, for a quick night cap before returning to the ship around 0130 hours Sunday morning.

Sunday, November 16, 1941

They send me back over to Portland this morning with a working party to pick up a shipment of mail to take with us to our next port of entry. Tomorrow we are to sail north to Newfoundland, the cargo of mail to be delivered to U.S. warships operating in that area. Maybe the Idaho is one of them?

Monday November, 17, 1941

Ship gets underway at 0830 as we head for Newfoundland. Once out in open waters away from land, the ship starts to roll and pitch with the rough sea. Having never been on the ocean before leaving Boston, or on water this rough, I soon become nauseous, suffering my first case of seasickness. The feeling stuck with me for a few hours and by evening I was nearly back to normal. Enough to sit through a movie being shown below deck.

Up to this point in life my only experiences on water were confined to family fishing trips to inland lakes in Ohio, Michigan, and Canada. The biggest body of water being Rice Lake, in Ontario, Canada.

Tuesday, November 18, 1941

They roll me out of my bunk this morning to stand a four-hour watch on the 3-inch aft portside gun. A mite breezy on topside. Weather about the same as yesterday, and so far I haven’t felt any return of my sea sickness.

At 1630 hours the ship commences sailing under conditional watch two. We are entering dangerous waters, an area that they say is frequented by German U-boats that prey on the supply routes from the East Coast to Great Britain.

An uneasy thought occurred to me as we pass through this area alone, without an escort. The reason we are traveling without an escort is our cargo (ammunition). One hit by a torpedo fired from a German U-boat would spell curtains to us and any escorting vessel.

One can understand the Navy’s reasoning here, but it is no consolation to me. I personally feel I’m sitting on a time bomb waiting for someone to light the fuse.

Wednesday, November 19, 1941

I have a midnight to 0400 hours watch on the aft starboard 3-inch gun. The ship is in total darkness—the smoking lamp is out. You can hardly see your hand in front of you. I have an eerie feeling about this whole thing. I know we are supposedly not at war with Germany, but many things are going on out here that present a different picture from the one I had just a few days ago.

Rough seas were with us all night, and after securing from my watch, I try to get some shut-eye sleeping on a mess hall table, but keep rolling off of it, ending up on the hard deck. With less than four hours sleep, I had to stand another watch from 8 to 12 noon.

Mid-afternoon we were met by a PBY amphibious plane (Catalina) and escorted on into Newfoundland, arriving just before evening chow.

Thursday, November 20, 1941 (Thanksgiving Day)

All of the passengers were told to get ready to leave the U.S.S. Kilauea. Ten of us, out of the twenty destined for the Idaho, left at dinner time for the destroyer U.S.S. Roe (DD-418). Word is finally out that the Idaho is in Iceland waters, and that the Roe will be one of the escort vessels assigned to guard a large convoy of supply ships across the North Atlantic to England.

This will be my next temporary home on the last leg of my journey to reach the Idaho. Seems like a long way around, but then I don’t have a better solution to offer the Navy on how to get us there quicker.

We are finally served our Thanksgiving dinner after being assigned to our cramped living quarters here on the U.S.S. Roe. At last I have a bunk and won’t have to string my hammock at nights.

The meal was good, much better than I expected, but not to be compared to Mom’s turkey dinner at home. My first one away from home, which I miss very much. It has to be a lonely day for the folks, since both my brother Jack and I are gone.

Movies on board this evening; I watch the feature Sergeant York before turning in.

Friday, November 21, 1941

All morning and afternoon we are kept busy on working parties about the ship, and this evening they show another movie. This one was Man About Town starring Jack Benny. There is no chance of getting ashore here, so the movies become our only source of entertainment.

Saturday, November 22, 1941

At 1330 hours the U.S.S. Roe leaves the tender we were tied up to, then pulls out of the harbor at 1800 hours this evening, presumably on our way to Iceland.

Sunday, November 23, 1941

We join up with the convoy early this afternoon somewhere off the coast of Nova Scotia. A total of forty-two merchant ships, tankers, etc., all loaded down with vital supplies for England’s war effort. An additional nine U.S. destroyers, besides the Roe, to act as escort vessels for this large convoy on its way across the North Atlantic to Great Britain.

I haven’t come by my sea legs as yet, nor have I accustomed myself to the rock and roll motion of the ship, much worse than the Kilauea, therefore I was one seasick individual the entire day. A sympathetic crew member told me that I will get used to it, eventually.

Monday, November 24, 1941

I stand a midnight to 0400 hour watch in No. 2 gun room (the 5-inch main battery, located just forward of the bridge).

Word had come in that one of our destroyers, the U.S.S. Dupont, had collided with a tanker sometime during the night. Both ships had to return to port.

I understand that this situation can and does happen when you have this big of a convoy, especially while sailing under complete blackout and in such heavy seas. Inadequate radar or none at all on many of the merchant ships. The entire convoy has to travel at the speed of the slowest vessel here, and if course and speed isn’t maintained by every ship, collisions are bound to happen in these dark and turbulent waters of the North Atlantic, claimed to be one of the most treacherous bodies of water in the world.

Tuesday, November 25, 1941

Our fourth day out and not a whole lot to take note of. I’m still on gun watches, four hours on and eight hours off. Other than standing watches there is little else to do.

Wednesday turns out to be much like yesterday, except for a change in standing my watches. I now have the eight to midnight duty.

Thursday, November 27, 1941

The sea has become very rough, so bad in fact, that it is unsafe to walk topside, even to return to my sleeping quarters at the end of my watch. The risk of being washed overboard is too great, and we are advised to stay put where we are and to sleep in the gun room, No. 2 turret, the rest of the night.

Sometime around 2300 hours, general quarters is called. A lookout saw three flashes on the horizon in front of us. What causes the flashes was not determined, but all hands were advised to remain alert.

Friday, November 28, 1941

My watch over at midnight, I try to get some shuteye curled up on the hard, cold steel deck of the gun room—quite impossible. So I lay awake most of the night listening to the murderous waves pound over the bow and hear the wall of water rush by the gun room door outside. I can visualize these gigantic waves, tearing up everything on deck.

The rest of the day went without incident. I was able to return to my quarters by early afternoon. Inward life lines have been stretched from the forward superstructure to the aft compartments to safe guard passage between these two points.

Saturday, November 29, 1941

Most of today was a very dreary one. I would like to think that I am slowly getting used to the pitching, rocking motion of the ship, but my stomach tells me different. I’m constantly on the edge of becoming seasick. One positive conclusion I have made at this point: I don’t believe destroyer duty is my bag. I’ll be glad to get aboard the battleship, since it has to be a much smoother ride because of its weight and size.

A little excitement was generated today when the destroyer U.S.S. Woollsey dropped a few ash cans (depth charges) at what she thought was a submarine.

Seeing it first hand, I can only surmise that our warships are not just practicing, but are definitely on a war-like basis out here. An undeclared war against German U-boats by reason of the forty-one cargo ships under our protection. It’s a scary feeling—believe me!

Sunday, November 30, 1941

With the weather changing from bad to worse, the seas are whipped into 30 to 45 foot swells by the 50-plus mile-an-hour northerly winds. This same storm continues through Monday and into Tuesday, December 2nd. I would say last night was the roughest night we have had yet. It was unsafe to walk anywhere on top-side, and to sleep in your bunk, I had to tie myself in, in order to keep from being tossed out onto the deck.

The ship’s list (side motion) reached over 40 degrees. Some say it went as high as 46 degrees—with 48 degrees being at a point where the ship could actually capsize.

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