fStop Fitzgerald

How does one correct a primary source?

By fStop Fitzgerald | 30 August 2023

It happens. Not often, but it does occur. A trusted primary source of information has a verifiable glaring error.

How does one go about correcting it?

In writing my most recent column for Naval History about the USS Iowa (Battleship No. 4), I naturally searched for photographs. One of my favorite sites for pre-World War I imagery is the Library of Congress. Among their many collections are the glass images from the Detroit Photographic Company.

If you are not familiar with Detroit Photographic images, a quick Google search will get you to a myriad of photographs all from the late 1800s and early 1900s. The quality, because most are from large glass plates, is generally phenomenal, and the detail is exquisite. The subjects span the gamut of American history. Check out your old home town to see what it looked like during that period. Or railroads. Architecture. Shipping. Commerce. Farming. Literally anything you can think of, the photographers of the Detroit Photographic Company have it.

I found an interesting image for my search, LC-D4-13000 det 4a08494. It is titled, “League Island Navy Yard, U.S.S. Iowa and monitors, Philadelphia ca. 1900.”

I am always a sucker for monitor photographs and the thumbnail looked interesting with the bright white and buff colors of the battleship contrasting with drab gray of the monitors.

how to buy disulfiram But . . .

While the photograph did not disappoint. It is beautifully detailed, well composed, everything a photographer could want. Except the subject is wrong.

The battleship is not Iowa, but Indiana (Battleship No. 1).

This is not me saying so on a whim, but from basic knowledge.

The Iowa was built as the first American sea-going battleship with blue-water operations taking the fore. Three battleships (not including the second-class Texas and Maine, a long Navy procurement story) had been built before Iowa—the Indiana class, which included Indiana (Battleship No. 1), Massachusetts (Battleship No. 2), and Oregon (Battleship No. 3).

The primary difference between No. 1/2/3 and No. 4 was the Iowa had a forecastle deck that stretched back to the aft secondary 8-inch gun turrets. This added deck made the Iowa much more blue-water friendly than the very wet Indianas.

Some other physical notes of differences include the location of the forward secondary turrets farther aft, behind the fore funnel on the Iowa and also a deck lower at the same level with the fore main turret. Compare the drawings with the photograph.

Cropping in tight on the bow of the battleship shows only one row of deadlights, not two as one should see with the Iowa. This lone row is a hallmark of the Indiana class.

For the record: only one other class of U.S. pre-dreadnought battleships was constructed without a forecastle deck. It was the the Kearsarge class, which included Kearsarge (Battleship No. 5) and Kentucky (Battleship No. 6). However, neither of these could ever be confused with any other class because of the unique arrangement of their fore and aft turrets.

This is the aft turret of Kearsarge. Note the stacked main and secondary armament in circular turrets atop each other. The two could not rotate independently. Also note there is no similarity with the Indiana class or Iowa, for that matter.

Given that we now know the class of the so-called Iowa in the questionable photograph is actually an Indiana, which of the three—Indiana, Massachusetts, or Oregon—is it?

In their as-built condition, each ship carried a unique bow decoration (not called a figurehead, but a “bow decoration”).

This is the decoration on the mystery ship. While hard to “read,” the center escutcheon appears to feature a left-looking portrait.

This is Battleship No. 1’s bow decoration. Note the escutcheon contains a left-facing portrait.

Battleship No. 2’s decoration is very similar to Indiana‘s but features an eagle.

There is no mistaking Battleship No. 3 Oregon‘s shield for any other.

And to totally rule out Iowa from the discussion, here is Battleship No. 4’s decoration. One additional note in comparing the four bow views is the distance between the ornamentation and the bow torpedo tube. In the Indianas, the tube is almost part of the decoration, while Iowa‘s is far removed.

Monzón Conclusion

Based on the bow ornament, the mystery ship can only reasonably be Indiana or Massachusetts as much of their ornamentation matches. Iowa and Oregon are impossibilities. While I could say that there is more relief shown in portrait of Indiana than the eagle of Massachusetts, and that the mystery photograph appears to show stark relief. That does not make it certain that the ship is Indiana.

I find certainty in the ship’s boats.

Note in both the mystery photograph and a verified photograph of Indiana, the ship’s boats are marked with a capital “I.” Perhaps this is what convinced the caption writer a century and a quarter ago.

To the point of all this…

I cannot be the first person to have made this identification in 125 years. Where are the others? Certainly someone let the Library of Congress know. Why is there not an annotation for this on the link to the images? I appreciate that archivists are bound to the information they are given and Detroit Photographic engraved this on the plate. But isn’t it also within an archivist’s purview as a historian to set the record straight? Especially when there is compelling evidence?

I will try to contact the Library of Congress and let them know about the issue. Don’t hold your breath, I’m not holding mine.

In the Weeds

By fStop Fitzgerald | 21 May 2021

This is why I still have film in the freezer from the 1980 Lake Placid Olympic Winter Games.

I am doing a full-ship cutaway drawing of the Civil War ironclad USS Cairo.

The first ironclad gunboat built in the United States was **Saint Louis**, ca. 1862. She was a sister ship of **Cairo**.

The riverine gunboat had a life of just two and a half months with the US Navy from 1 October to 12 December 1862. She had, however, been commissioned into the US Army on 25 January 1862 until her transfer to the Navy that fall. Cairo had the ignominy of being the first warship ever sunk by a remotely detonated mine (called a torpedo in Civil War parlance).

Her salvage from the bottom of the Yazoo River began in 1960 and her remains are on display at the USS Cairo Museum outside Vicksburg, Mississippi. [https://www.nps.gov/vick/u-s-s-cairo-gunboat.htm]

The illustration is being done for a book by Dwight S. Hughes on the Western Waters gunboats. Previously we worked together on a book about the Monitor and Virginia: Unlike Anything That Ever Floated: The Monitor and Virginia and the Battle of Hampton Roads, March 8–9, 1862. [https://www.amazon.com/Unlike-Anything-That-Ever-Floated/dp/1611215250]

Work has progressed well. Here are several iterations of the hull structure.

The other internals are coming along as well: the engines, boilers, wheel, and “doctor” engine. Guns and their carriages have been built.

In going over the drawings looking for missing details, I found the stove which has little depiction other than a box. Other drawings revealed nothing more. What did this thing look like?

I started poking around on the web looking for the “Cairo stove.” Quickly I hit on a site for South Bend Replicas in Indiana [https://southbendreplicas.com]. I pinged the owner, Jim Olson, who very quickly responded to my request for help. His company had built a replica of the stove working from the original and very badly disfigured remains.

Ideally, of course, it would have been nice to work from Jim’s drawings. Sadly, however, they had been lost in a 100-year flood a few years back. He did everything he could to help be especially by sharing a number of photographs from which to work. One set had the remains marked up in measurements, which was a God-send. While my finished stove may not be 100 percent accurate, it is more than just a ballpark guess.

The remains of the original stove with its measured markings.

An interesting point about the original stove is that it was named the “Southern Belle No. 5.” Kind of enigmatic for a Union ship.

Jim Olson with his completed reproduction.

The stove overall and another reproduction in full use.

An interesting design aspect is that the wood fuel and grate are on the right. You see the firebox door at the top (with the Southern Belle name plate) and at the bottom is the ash drawer. Notice the rivet pattern at the top of the oven. The oven’s top was curved a few inches below the top plate. The heat rises from the grate, arches over the top of the oven, goes down the left side (in these views), and across the bottom. It exits at the bottom back and goes up the chimney. Jim said that when it was in full operation, they could pull off one of the top deck plates (there are four, each with their own pot plates), and the draft was so strong that nothing escaped above the stove. Pretty amazing.

This is the firebox door above the stove’s medallion.

Two looks at my version of the original.

Jim is generous beyond words. He spent far too much time on my little project and provided a wealth of information and answered everyone of my inane questions as if they were intelligent. Beyond this, he sent me a six-pound copy of the stove’s medallion, which he had cast for his reproductions. This was made from the stove’s original, so I have a Kevin Bacon one degree of separation!

. . . and the illustration’s version.

Tale of a Sad Photograph

By fStop Fitzgerald | 30 August 2020

Nitrate photographic negatives were among the first on a light-weight “stable” flexible base. Before them were the heavy and fragile glass plates. Needless to say, the new base greatly enhanced the photographer’s abilities by significantly reducing weight and volume as well as shipping and carriage requirements.

If you grew up with film before digital you may recall seeing the edges of film marked as “Safety Film.” This is because those films were no longer on nitrate bases, but were first on cellulose acetate (“acetate” film) and later, polyester.

The first flexible film base, cellulose nitrate (hence “nitrate” negatives) was commercially produced in 1888 by George Eastman in his Kodak camera. This unleashed a whole new world of photography for amateurs and professionals alike. It brought the camera into the home.

While this was a great technological leap forward for photography, it had some dangerous baggage. Another name for cellulose nitrate (or nitrocellulose) is gun cotton for a very good reason—it was a very powerful explosive. It first saw use as gun powder for artillery where its power of gas generation was six times that of black powder. It was later used in explosive warheads of shells and torpedoes and for blasting in mining and construction.

It saw other uses as well, some not as successful. As the supplies of ivory began drying up in 1869, the billiards industry offered a prize to whomever came up with the best replacement for ivory billiard balls. John Wesley Hyatt won with a new material he invented called camphored nitrocellulose. It was briefly popular, but the balls were extremely flammable, and sometimes exploded upon impact, which added an interesting dimension to a game of pool.

Hyatt Celluloid Billiard Ball
Smithsonian Institution/Gift of Celanese Plastic Company

In use with film, however, it was extremely dangerous, especially when used in movies. The film base was, and is, highly flammable, and it releases hazardous gases as it deteriorates. In movie theaters, when subjected to the high heat of arc light, the film would often burst into flame, which accounts for the large number of early movie theater fires.

Any photographic collection that contains flexible, transparent film negatives from the 1890 to 1950 period very likely contains at least some nitrate film. These negatives need special attention and should immediately be separated from other film.

Acetate negatives also have issues, but not as dangerous to human health as it is to image health. The chemical composition also breaks down with the image first crackling and bubbling, and then shrinking the film support. When acetate film is stored in a poor environment of high heat and humidity—or exposed to acidic vapors from other degrading film—it undergoes chemical reactions within the plastic support to form acetic acid. This acid causes the support to become acidic, brittle, buckle, and shrink. In turn, the acid spreads into the gelatin emulsion or into the air creating a harsh, acidic odor.

Thus if stored with stable polyester-based film, degrading nitrate and acetate negatives can and will impact its longevity as well. The types need to be well separated.

I have been a professional photojournalist for most of 50 years. Sadly, during my work with the U.S. Navy at the Naval History and Heritage Command I encountered some instances of nitrate and acetate film within their historic collections.

This is one such instance.

The photograph below was taken of an Aeromarine 39B during tests of using the airplane’s carrier deck landing skids as skis on light snow. It may be a unique image; I have found no similar photograph of an Aeromarine 39B using skids on snow. There is no date, but this type first entered Navy service in 1918 and was removed from its rolls in 1926. This print is contemporary with the original negative, thus it dates to the 1920s.

Below are scans of the original negative and, beneath it, a direct print.

It is obvious that this negative will never be printed again. It is quite likely that the print at the top is the only original one left of the negative. As it shows a fairly unique view from a tiny chunk of naval aviation history, it must be preserved—but not in the same folder as its negative!

This is a detail of the negative to better show its bubbling and cracking. I have highlighted a light portion of the film’s edge which gets narrower at the right. This is the “shadow” (it is light because it is a negative) of the grip on the film holder that held this side of the negative in place in the holder. There is another shadow on the other side of the film.

It is distressing to note that there are other instances of nitrate and acetate films within the collection. The nitrate negatives especially represent a very clear and present danger to not only the collection but the buildings and personnel around them.

Our photographic heritage is precious. Every instant of history that was recorded on film is on a piece of acetate, nitrate, or polyester that was present for that history, in the hands of a photographer who was witness to that history. Those slivers of film are the closest physical pieces we have of that history.

Our photographic heritage must be preserved!

Good Read . . . But . . .

By fStop Fitzgerald | 19 July 2019 | Comments 0 Comment

Soaring to Glory

A Tuskegee Airman’s Firsthand Account of World War II

By Philip Handleman with Lt. Col. Harry T. Stewart Jr.

Regnery Publishing, 2019. 264 pages. $29.99.

The odyssey of Tuskegee airman Harry T. Stewart Jr. is one that should be known. His travails, starting in early childhood, and his perseverance to achieve goals put out of his reach by racism, make his story a near epic.

**Then Lt. Harry T. Stewart Jr. of the 332nd Fighter Group in Italy, 1945.**
*Harry Stewart Jr.*

While Philip Handleman does relate that story—often in a very heavy-handed preaching manner—it belies the book’s title. Barely 20 percent of the book concerns World War II, and even less is about Colonel Stewart’s participation. Perhaps as much as half the book is not focused on the colonel or the war at all.

Frankly, based on the title, I was expecting Barrett Tillman. It didn’t take long to realize that Handleman is no Barrett Tillman. Colonel Stewart was credited with shooting down three German aircraft on just one mission. That is indeed an interesting story, but where are the reports of missions before and after? There is little history here of Colonel Stewart during this significant period of the book title’s topic.

**Then Lt. Stewart, in the cockpit of his P-51D Mustang** **Little Coquette,** **posed along with his crew chief, Jim Shipley, the day after he shot down three Luftwaffe Fw 190Ds on 1 April 1945.**
*U.S. Air Force*

The author, obviously, knows aviation, but all too often there are digressions that are far afield from his subject matter. For instance, a side trip of two pages about Alexander de Seversky, Tsar Nicholas II, the P-35, and Alexander Kartveli, is a distraction from his theme. It is an education for the unknowing, but it is minutiae that adds little to the work. It is peripheral detail only required of someone learning about aviation for the first time. Based on the title of the book, that is not the target audience.

Overall, this book reads like a primer for a study of racism in aviation. At that, it is good. The author provides significant background information about important, although virtually unrecognized aviators of color, which is very informative. And it does provide a structure to Colonel Stewart’s story. But at times, it seems to be a reach too far to make links that most likely aren’t there.

The book is a quick, easy read. But it is not for someone expecting to read about the Tuskegee airmen in World War II. In that, it is a disappointment because it does not deliver on the promise of its title. That said, the book has significant merit in delineating the history—at least in part—of black aviators in the 20th century.

1989 Reflection on Neil Armstrong

By fStop Fitzgerald | 18 July 2019 | Comments 0 Comment

I wrote this for The Richmond News Leader on the 20th anniversary of the Apollo 11 moon landing.

THE RICHMOND NEWS LEADER

FIRST MAN ON MOON? PHOTO PROOF SLIM

Why is there no photograph taken on the moon of the first man to walk on the moon?

The accompanying photograph is probably the best known from the historic landing which took place 20 years ago today. Although many assume it to be of Neil Armstrong, it in fact shows the second man on the moon, Edwin E. “Buzz” Aldrin Jr.

Portrait of Buzz Aldrin by photographer Neil Armstrong.

It also happens to be the best photograph the world has of the first man on the moon’s surface. The thin white image in the very center of Aldrin’s faceplate is the photographer, Neil Armstrong. We almost have better images of Columbus in the New World.

Photographer Neil Armstrong visible in Aldrin’s faceplate. One of the best images extant of the first man on the moon actually on the moon.

Of the Apollo 11 mission’s 1,340 still photographs, the only other images of Armstrong on the moon are similar reflections.

NASA and the astronauts became aware of this historic oversight only after their return to earth. It appears that since Armstrong was first out of Eagle, the lunar module, he took the camera with him.

The astronauts aboard Apollo 11 went to the moon with a well-stocked still photo inventory which consisted of three Hasselblad 500ELs. Two were virtually identical to earthbound ELs. The modifications for space included very little more than stripping the black bodies of their leather coverings and providing oversize controls for gloved hands.

The third EL was significantly modified to become the 500EL Data Camera. This is the so-called Moon Camera.

It differs from the others by the addition of a Reseau plate – a specially engraved and calibrated glass sheet — at the film plane. Photographs taken with this camera are readily identified by the very fine cross hairs on the image. These marks helped in making topographical calculations.

The engraved markings of the Reseau plate are seen as crosses in the highlights of the sun.

The silver-finished DC was fitted with a specially made distortion-free 60mm f/5.6 Zeiss Biogon lens. The lens carried an easily detached and operated polarizing filter.

Each of the other ELs had its own minimally modified 80mm f/2.8 Zeiss Planar normal lenses. A 250mm f/5.6 Zeiss Sonnar was the only other lens carried.

Each camera had a complement of three film magazines, one of which could accommodate either 160 color exposures or 200 black-and-white frames. The Kodak films were thin-base/thin emulsion 70mm-wide with double perforations.

One of the standard ELs, its 80mm lens, the 250mm lens and its three magazines stayed aboard the command module Columbia for use by its pilot, Michael Collins, as he continued to orbit the moon.

The only one of the three cameras returned to Earth was the one used in the command module by Mike Collins. It is in the National Air and Space Museum collection.

The rest of the still camera equipment was put aboard Eagle for the trip to the moon’s surface.

Very shortly after taking the “one giant leap for mankind” and several smaller ones for himself to see if he would sink into the surface, Armstrong had Aldrin lower the camera to him.

“I’ll step out and take some of my first pictures here,” Armstrong said after moving away from Eagle. The controller in Houston broke in to remind him to pick up the extremely important contingency sample of lunar rocks. If the moon men had to terminate their stay abruptly, they could still return home with a piece of the cheese.

Armstrong, however, despite the years of training and the line-by-line, step-by-step scenario of the voyage, put first things first and told Houston to wait. “Rog. I’m going to get to that just as soon as I finish these picture series.”

Which would you rather have from your once-in-a-lifetime trip, a handful of rocks or some pictures?

Studio photograph of 70mm Hasselblad camera used during Apollo 11 along with film magazines used during Neil Armstrong’s lunar walk.

Fifteen minutes later, Aldrin joined him on the surface. His exit from Eagle and first steps were documented by Armstrong, but they weren’t the first steps on the moon.

A major event was the planting of the American flag which proved more difficult than anyone had expected. After it was precariously erected, Armstrong shot a portrait of Aldrin saluting it.

Buzz Aldrin salutes the flag just before the president called…

Just as the two astronauts were about to change places and Armstrong give the camera over to Aldrin for his portrait, then-President Richard M. Nixon phoned from extremely long-distance. Aldrin claims he was forgotten during the ensuing conversation between Armstrong and the president. Apparently, so was the photograph.

After more than two hours on the moon’s surface, the astronauts reboarded Eagle to rest and clean house before launching themselves up to the waiting Columbia. When done with their cleaning, they put out the first of what became six piles of lunar trash left by moon-walking astronauts.

Included in that trash were the two Hasselblads. The magazines with their historic images were returned to earth.

I hope it is not too long before mankind regains what it had for an extraordinary period two decades ago. I’d like to see some of that “trash” in the Smithsonian.

But none of us will ever see the picture not taken.

Expand Your Knowledge

By fStop Fitzgerald | 18 July 2019 | Comments 0 Comment

U.S Cruise Missiles

From Kettering’s 1920s’ Bug & 1950’s Snark to Today’s Tomahawk

By Bill Yenne

Specialty Press, 2018. 203 pages. $34.95.

Unmanned aircraft are, in general, of little interest for me. It is the man—and now, woman—in the cockpit that brings an aircraft literally to life. The story of aviation is more about people than equipment, so I approached Bill Yenne’s work with a bit of a chip.

I was wrong.

This book is a very worthy addition to anyone’s aviation book collection. It is a very solid basis from which to understand unmanned aerial vehicles. And Yenne does put the humanity in these pilotless craft.

The first chapter, “From Bug to Buzz Bomb,” covers the subject from the earliest days of aviation through the end of World War II. This chapter is packed with information, but had me wanting more, especially about the earliest years. Subsequent chapters, however, flesh out the many early projects from the Matador and Mace, through the two versions of the Regulus, Navaho, Snark, Rascal, and Hound Dog. Most of these garner little comment and many details of inception, production, and deployment are generally unknown to the general reader. Yenne changes all that.

One leaves this book with the sense that they have a firm foundation in the history and evolution of pilotless aviation.

For one, I had always been impressed by the XSM-64 Navaho. As a 12-year-old in the ’50s, I simply thought it was neat and never could figure out why it never went anywhere. Yenne dedicates eight full pages to the subject, including a dozen photographs—most in color—and three sets of illustrations and drawings.

The SM-62 Snark was another favorite. How could anyone not love a bright red missile with white markings? Especially if you could get one for 98 cents at your local hobby shop. Yenne gives it 11 pages, eight photographs—but none showing the red versions in color—and six drawing sets and a map.

Both sections significantly added to the knowledge base and clearly explained each missile’s significance.

Just a few missiles, the modern ones—primarily the Air Force’s air- and ground-launched cruise missiles (ALCM and GLCM) and the Navy’s Tomahawk—consume half the book. Their tales are as much a study of military weapons procurement as they are about the design, engineering, production, and use of the missiles. Yenne successfully navigates the minefield of political and military intrigue that appears to surround every weapon purchase. Everything is put in perspective.

Yenne’s prose and presentation of the subject matter is very easy on the reader. Comprehension of even the most complex issues is easy. And, of course, in what appears to a standard for the Specialty Press, the book is printed on thick, high-gloss stock, which reproduces photographs almost perfectly. Few spreads are lacking for imagery. Photographs and informative illustrations and charts are placed where needed to buttress points made in the text.

All in all, this book is worthy of being read and adding to your collection.

What an Addition to the Aviation Bibliography

By fStop Fitzgerald | 18 July 2019 | Comments 0 Comment

Boeing B-47 Stratojet: Strategic Air Command’s Transitional Bomber

By C. Mike Habermehl and Robert S. Hopkins III

Specialty Press, 2018. 320 pages. $44.95.

The Stratojet was every 1950s kid’s ideal of U.S. aviation might. It was big. Six jets hanging out there on the wings for all to see. It was fast. It even looked like it was going 600 mph when it was just sitting on the ramp. When discussing “clean” aircraft, the B-47 is among the first mentioned.

It was among the first designs released by Revell in 1954 once that company began producing plastic models from their own molds in 1953. It was re-released in 2006. Yes, the big jet caught the public’s attention. And the Soviets’ as well.

There are nearly a dozen significant books about the B-47, most published since the type went out of service. Thus, they should be very informative about even some of the most classified aspects of the bomber’s operations. Habermehl and Hopkins have very obviously capitalized on this and produced the most recent and perhaps the best on the topic.

This is an impressive work. It easily replaces—replaces—at least five books on my shelves. Few books can make that claim. One gets that sense that the narrative is an airframe-by-airframe, minute-by-minute account of the B-47’s history. It is, however, only a sense. The prose never has the staccato recitation of aircraft and dates. The hardcore airplane junkie readily finds that information in the expansive 66 pages of appendices.

It is the authors’ attention to detail—significant detail—and their logical presentation that yields the sense, but not the reality of information overload. Despite six decades of following aviation, I found many revelations in their work, a number of them surprising. For instance, the Air Force’s FICON (Fighter Conveyor) wingtip-tow project is well known. But the authors, in a section called “Drawing Board Disasters,” discuss not only a B-47/dual F-86 combination, but also a B-36/dual B-47 concept. Surprising as it is, they note that aerodynamic studies supported the feasibility of both projects. But these never got off the drawing board.

The physical presentation of the material is in a word “fantastic.” All books should be printed with this quality. The paper is thick, glossy stock, which reproduces the well-exposed and processed photographs as close to their original state as possible. Of course some images could or should be larger, but in the interest of more being better (more images, more information), they are reproduced large enough for the detail to be seen. Excellent informative graphics and charts are strategically placed throughout the book, further enhancing the narrative.

In this day of paying $50 for specialty books being the norm, this is an unequivocal no-brainer. If you want to know everything about the B-47, if you are interested in the early days of jet-propelled bombers or the Strategic Air Command or simply the evolution of an aircraft, this book not only belongs on your shelf, it must be read and re-read.

D-Day: Remembering Scotty

By fStop Fitzgerald | 6 June 2019 | Comments 0 Comment

Bob Frascotti never made it to the beaches of Normandy, yet he was a veteran of that invasion. He was one of the first to die that day.

Just four months past his 21st birthday, Bob—known as Scotty—was to fly one of the first missions of the day. His fellow pilots recall his “superb” singing voice, reminiscent of Vaughan Monroe, and his rendition of “Racing With the Moon.” A fellow pilot from that fateful morning recalled with some grim irony that clouds scudding across the face of the moon that morning may have robbed Scotty of a few vital seconds of visibility that literally meant life or death.

The night before, ground crews of the Eighth Air Force’s 352nd Fighter Group hastily painted their pristine ships with white and black invasion stripes. “Breakfast” was at 2200 on the 5th, with the briefing set for midnight. The “Blue-nosed Bastards of Bodney” were then informed that D-Day had truly begun. Their mission was to fly aerial cover for the landing forces to protect them from air attacks. The 486th Fighter Squadron, Bob’s unit, would be the first to launch at 0230 and he was assigned to the second section of four.

It was Scotty’s 89th mission. Night operations were unfamiliar to the group, which was used to protecting bombers on daylight raids over the continent. Their field, at RAF Bodney, England, USAAF Station 141, was grass. It’s lack of a well-defined illuminated runway compounded a pilot’s issues as the turf blended into the night sky like “black velvet.” A string of temporary lights had been laid, but one of the taxiing Mustangs had snagged and broken the power cable. The pilots had no recourse but to position and orient themselves as best they could in the drizzle and darkness.

RAF Bodney, USAAF Station 141 [© English Heritage, NMR.]

An armorer, Sergeant Jim Bleidner, watched as the red and green position lights on the wings bumped in the night as the planes moved from the dispersal area to their take-off position near the tower on the western edge of the field. A new, second tower was under construction at the east end of the field, directly in the path of their take-off.

Frascotti’s plane, with a pale, weather-worn blue nose, was P-51B-5-NA, 43-6685, named Umbriago. This could be a corruption of the Italian word umbriaco, which means ‘drunk.’ More likely, however, it was taken from the 1944 song Umbriago by Jimmy Durante about a dear friend by that name. The lyrics end: “So when you feel low, better send for my friend, Umbriago.”

The flight lead, Lieutenant Martin Corcoran, turned his fighter into the wind and taxied forward a few feet. Without knowing, he was slightly to the right of the intended take-off line. Using the flame from his exhausts—described by Bleidner as “tiger’s teeth”—as a guide the other three slotted into position. At Corcoran’s command, all four fully laden Mustangs waddled forward in the dark, slowly gaining speed. To fly, the fighters needed an indicated airspeed of 150 mph.

Lieutenant Bud Fuhrman, to Bob’s right, held his craft down as it gained speed. Lieutenant Charles Griffiths, trailing slightly, thought his plane was “glued to the ground.” From his position, he could see the lights of Corcoran’s plane that indicated he was airborne, Then those of Furman, also up. Frascotti, however, off to his left, were slightly lower. Then, at near flying speed, Umbriago slammed into the unlighted unfinished control tower.

The new, unfinished Bodney control tower in the aftermath of Bob Frascotti’s collision.
[© 352nd FG, USAAF]

The unit’s history described the aftermath: “An enormous smear of fire, spewing like dragon’s bile, burned over the tower balcony and flared malevolently onwards as the aircraft disintegrated.” Bob Frascotti was no more.

Griffiths pushed on, his plane still on the ground, but eventually making into the air somehow after striking a net post on sister 328th FS’s volleyball court. In the 328th’s briefing room nearby, a blinding flash lit the area followed by a concussion and flying .50-caliber bullets as Bob’s ammunition cooked off in the flames.

The rest of the group took flight guided by the flickering flames of Umbriago.

D-Day

By fStop Fitzgerald | 5 June 2019 | Comments 1 comment

**LST-60** carried six LCVPs during the Normandy invasion.

Two harbors and a ship

Seventy-five years ago young Americans and their Allies took a big gamble with the largest invasion force ever assembled. On 6 June 1944, they stormed ashore to gain first a toe-hold, then a foot-hold, and then more on the European continent and bring the ground war to Nazi Germany.

While their actions and sacrifices cannot and should not be minimized, their tenuous clutches at the beach and later their forays through the boccage of northern France could not have be accomplished without support in additional men and material. Much logistical planning—some have said even more so than that of the invasion—occurred in the months leading up to the landings.

One of the primary concerns of the planners was that there were few quickly obtainable ports in the north of France. Cherbourg was captured early, by the end of July, but its port facilities had been comprehensively destroyed and booby-trapped. Antwerp, Belgium, was captured on 4 September, but its wasn’t opened until the end of November after the Germans were pushed from its approaches. Boulogne and Calais were not opened until October and November, respectively. So without the prospect of decent port facilities, planners decided to bring their own.

Two synthetic harbors—named Mulberries—were planned for the Normandy beaches. Mulberry A was to be set up off the American’s Omaha Beach and Mulberry B was created for the British off Gold Beach. These had to accommodate the large tidal fluctuation on the beaches while providing a minimum of 18 feet of water for supply ships and transports and direct offloading to the shore. The solution was a set of floating piers connected to shore by a series of floating steel bridge segments.

The Mulberries consisted of a number of literally moving parts—including curiously named Corncobs, Gooseberries, Bombardons, Lobnitzs, Phoenixes, Whales, and Beetles—all of which required time for planning, design, construction, movement into position for the invasion. Construction consisted of 23 Lobnitz pierheads, 10 miles of road bridge comprising 660 80-foot spans (Whales), 670 floats (Beetles) to support the bridges, 8 shore ramps, 50 Bombardon floating breakwaters, 61 blockships (Corncobs), and 213 concrete Phoenix caissons. In all, 210,000 tons of steel and one million tons of concrete were used in the construction.

The major parts of a Mulberry harbor are shown.

The plan for Mulberry A was never completed because of the three-day gale starting on 19 June and the loss of many of its components at sea during the storm while in transit to the beach.

Three different types of breakwaters were provided to shelter the piers, bridges, and ships.

Bombardons were farthest from the beach and were connected to each other by hemp ropes and anchored to form a mile-long deep-water breakwater for ships to anchor as they waited their turn to unload or the tide to be right. These curious 200-foot-long by 25-foot wide and tall 1,500-ton objects were used in water too deep for the other breakwaters to function. They were hollow watertight steel constructions in the form of an equal-armed cross. In the water they floated with the horizontal arms just beneath the English Channels surface. Omaha used 24, while Gold had 26.

The bombardons float with about six feet of their surface exposed.

Six bombardons under construction in a British drydock.

Bombardons off Gold Beach are highlighted.

The second tier of breakwaters was constructed from concrete caissons—called Phoenixes—of six different sizes, sunk in water of 5.5 fathoms or less, displacing between 6,044 and 1,672 tons. These were designed and built to provide the Mulberry’s primary protection. The Phoenixes—the largest 204-feet long and 56-feet wide—were sunk in position end to end. Mulberry A was to have 47. They got their name from the fact that after construction they were sunk and then later refloated for the invasion.

Two Phoenixes are shown, both equipped with antiaircraft artillery. The one at right is sunken to its operating depth.

Phoenixes off the coast of Omaha Beach await their placement.

Five lines of Phoenixes are highlighted in this image of Mulberry B on 27 August 1944.

The third tier, called a Gooseberry, was placed in relatively shallow water—2.5 fathoms or less—to provide shelter for smaller craft. Each consisted of a number of Corncobs, blockships prepared in Scotland by cutting holes in bulkheads of surplus ships and placing scuttling charges below their waterlines. Gooseberries, numbered 1 through 5, were assembled off each of the five invasion beaches. The number of ships in each varied by the needs of the beach. In number order from Utah (10 ships) were: Omaha (15), Gold (16), Juno (11), and Sword (9).

Sunken corncobs in form a gooseberry in one of the Mulberries.

The line of corncobs in the center foreground shape a gooseberry of Gold Beach.

The harbor facilities consisted of floating pierheads connected to the shore by a system of floating bridges and roadways. The Lobnitz spud pierheads were 1,760-ton barges 200-feet long by 60-feet wide, which were positioned and anchored to the seabed by four 89-foot long legs—called spuds—at each corner. When positioned, the spuds were lowered to the sand and forced down until they could move no further. This firmly anchored the pierhead and allowed it to ride up and down the spuds with the movement of the 24-foot tide. Ships unloaded their cargoes directly to the pierhead.

The free floating barge of the pierhead slides up and down its spuds with the rise and fall of the tide.

***LST-543*** approaches a pierhead off Omaha Beach guided by a U.S. Army tug.

The pierheads had to be positioned far enough from shore so that they could be used by ships at low tide. Thus, they needed similar floating roadways. The answer was found in the Whales and Beetles.

This diagram shows both low and high tides and their effect on both the pierheads and the whales and beetles. Note the relationship between the pierhead and its spuds.

Whales were 80-foot-long steel girder bridge sections supported at both ends by floats called Beetles. The beetles accommodated the tidal fluctuations and provided a firm base for the bridges when the tide was out. Expansion whales were inserted in the chain at intervals and connected the chain to a pier. These adjusted for the change in length as the tide rose or fell.

Lines of four sets of whales are highlighted at Mulberry B on 27 August 1944.

75 years on, a bridge over the Moselle River near Cattenom, France, still uses five spans of whales used during the Normandy invasion. [Source: Foxandpotatoes]

At Omaha, the task of assembling the Lobnitz, whales, and beetles was assigned to the 108th Naval Construction Battalion of the 25th Naval Construction Regiment. They began their work on 9 June and received its first ship—LST-342—at 1400 on the 16th.

Over the next 3 days, 15 LCTs and 22 LSTs delivered 1,168 vehicles to the beach until a nor’easter from 18–22 June—the worst June gale in more than 40 years—destroyed the pierhead and bridging units. They were not placed back into service after the storm.

The gale wreaked havoc with the American Mulberry while the British port fared much better. Some reports indicate that the U.S. facilities were not as well anchored as the British, but what was more significant is that Gold Beach had a natural protection in the Calvados reef. Because a number of Mulberry A’s sections were lost in the Channel during the storm, the American Mulberry was abandoned.

Some of the damage at the American port.

Portions of A were salvaged and used by the British for what they now called “Port Winston.” It remained in use for a full six months until the opening of the port of Antwerp.

How effective were the Mulberries?

The Americans were not very impressed. While their loss of its facilities to the gale may color this thinking somewhat, numbers don’t lie. The Yankees—by design at Utah and by chance at Omaha—were forced to land their reinforcements and supplies primarily by LSTs.

At the American beaches, 6,614 tons of cargo was landed in the first three days. A month later, they handled 9,200 tons. A month after that, they were off-loading 16,000 tons per day. The Mulberry harbors, however, provided less than half the total even on good weather days from the start.

The crowded beachhead had some aerial protection in the form of barrage ballons.

Average Daily Tonnage of Supplies Landed
Beach/Port	D+30	D+60
Omaha	1,200	10,000
Utah	8,000	6,000
Total U.S. beaches	9,200	16,000
Mulberry B	6,750	6,750

Planners had obviously underrated the capacities of open beaches and the utility of the LST. The tremendous tonnage capacities developed at the American beaches must have been one of the most surprising and welcomed features of the entire invasion.

Landing Ship, Tank (LST)

Arguably the most important ship type involved in Operation Neptune, these ships were among the most robust and versatile types put into service during the war. Their enormous capacity—each could transport an equivalent of 18 M4 Sherman tanks, 160 troops, and an LCT (landing craft, tank)—combined with the ability to put equipment and troops directly on a beach made them invaluable. Further, despite being called by irreverent crewmembers as “Large Slow (or Stationary) Targets,” they suffered few losses throughout the whole war—26 to enemy action and 13 to accidents and weather—compared to their number and wide-spread heavy combat operations.

Displacement	1,625 tons
Length	328 feet (overall)
Beam	50 feet
Draft	8 feet fore; 14.3 feet aft (full load);
	2.3 feet fore (unloading)
Speed	11.6 knots
Armament	8 40mm (some had 1 5-inch)
Complement	110

Brodie System

By fStop Fitzgerald | 28 May 2019 | Comments 0 Comment

Mini Aircraft and Carriers to Match

Norman Polmar’s March-April 2014 for Historic Aircraft in the U.S. Naval Institute’s (USNI) Naval History magazine concerned the smallest of aircraft carriers and perhaps its (and the Marine Corps and Army’s) smallest aircraft.

The tiny aircraft—OY-1/2 in the Navy and Marines and L-4 in the Army—are often mistaken for the ubiquitous and similar Piper Cub. Their “carrier” was an LST.

An artist’s depiction of a U.S. Marine Corps OY-2 BuNo 03929.

In the July 1943 invasion of Sicily, LST-386 was fitted with a flight deck to launch the so-called “grasshoppers.” The runway was 12-by-216 feet and constructed timber with a metal mesh covering in just 36 hours. While also carrying her normal full load of troops and cargo, she also launched four grasshoppers.

The flight deck as installed on LST-906. Crewmembers watch as one grasshopper takes off and another waits its turn, foreground. Note the aircraft stowage and their side codes.

At Salerno in September 1943, LST-356 was fitted with a similar deck and launched five grasshoppers before a sixth hit a guardrail and crashed. The crew was rescued, but the other two planes the LST carried were not launched.

During the invasion of southern France in August 1944, three LSTs, among them LST-906, were configured as grasshopper carriers and launched more than 30 aircraft. A similar LST also operated in the Pacific with Army and Marine aircraft.

*LST-906* with a grasshopper preparing to launch from its deck.

An L-4B takes off from LST-906 during the invasion of southern France, St. Tropez, circa August–September 1944. Note the aircraft stowage. [Society of the Third Infantry Division]

An Army lieutenant, James H. Brodie, developed a system for launching and landing light aircraft from ships. While the system could be easily adapted to virtually any ship large enough to carry the airplanes, the LST was the ship of choice. For the operations, a tripod assembly was attached to the planes nose and wing with a locking hook at the apex. This was somewhat akin to that used by the Curtiss F9Cs to attach themselves to the airships Akron (ZRS-4) and Macon (ZRS-5).

The Curtiss F9C Sparrowhawk had a lockable hook attached above its wing to latch onto a trapeze in the bottom of the airships Akron and Macon.

Two booms were angled off the side of the ship with a reinforced cable connecting them about 40 feet clear of the water. For launching, a plane was hoisted up and connected to a trolley on the cable. The plane would run the length of the cable gaining enough speed to remain airborne and trip a release at the end freeing the plane for flight.

To “land” the plane, the pilot would fly parallel to the ship and hook onto a trapeze attached to the trolley, which had a braking system to stop the aircraft.

During training on LST-776, three Marine aircraft were lost, with no casualties, and five pilots qualified.

At Iwo Jima in February 1945, the Brodie system was activated aboard LST-776, making four launches of Marine OY-1s. No recoveries were noted. At Okinawa in April, LST-776 successfully completed 25 Army grasshopper launches and recoveries.

Mr. Polmar’s column goes into greater detail. In the end, only one graphic was used (below) but it only shows the landing aspect of the process because it was more complex. Four photographs were published, three showing a take-off from a deck and one showing LST-776.

Two photographs of LST-776. Note that the overhead oblique shows a catapult with grasshopper amidships. This was mounted only during the early training off San Diego and was removed before the LST entered combat.