BY TODD BLOMERTH

 

 

   I have had the privilege of knowing J. Frederic Bell since I

came to Caldwell County in 1981. He will turn 86 on March 4, but carries himself as a man much younger. His youth spent breaking horses, plowing fields, and ranching has served him well. He still insists that he can carry the load of a man half his age. If you watch him building ramps for the disabled with the Lockhart Kiwanis Club, his determination and toughness leave little doubt that he is right.

Fred came into this world in North Dakota in 1931. It was one of the toughest of times – the northern plains were in the midst of unremitting drought and the Depression. He was the fifth child, and third son of John L. Bell and Thelma German Bell. John Bell was a sodbuster. Thelma, of a ranching family, taught school in a one room school. John met Thelma, the schoolteacher, when she boarded at John’s brother’s home. They were eleven years apart. John and Thelma farmed and ranched in Stark County, seventeen miles from Belfield, the nearest settlement. They were far from electrical lines, paved roads, running water, and – until ranchers provided poles for lines in 1934 – telephones.

 Thelma’s first child was born in 1924 with cyanotic heart disease, referred to then as a ‘blue baby.’ He died shortly after birth. The country doctor told Thelma not to have any more children – they would all turn out the same. She proved him wrong. Between 1926 and 1945, she and John were the parents of fifteen more children, including four sets of twins. After a sister and twin brothers, Fred was delivered at home by his paternal grandmother.

Stark County’s population was Scotch-Irish, Russian German, and Norwegian. They were tough. They had to be, as ranch and farm life in the Dakotas was unforgiving. Winters were long, and often vicious. The Bell farmhouse was near a cottonwood tree. It was the only living thing higher than row crops and prairie grass as far as the eye could see. John Bell had homesteaded 160 acres in 1913. As Fred recalls, money was ‘’invisible,” cementing John’s belief in land as a valuable commodity. Farm prices plummeted in the 20s, and by hard work, savvy business acumen, and much good fortune, by 1943 had accumulated seven sections (4480 acres) of land.

 Cattle in western North Dakota were a mix of longhorns, Herefords, shorthorns, and Angus. By the time he was old enough for long pants, Fred’s job at the area roundups was tending the branding fire, and handing cowboys the iron, wrapped in a wet gunny sack, that corresponded to the right rancher as the calves were branded. By ten, he was breaking horses.

The one-room school in Stark County went to the eighth grade. Fred’s older sister took high school courses by correspondence. Fred and his twin older brothers heard the same courses being taught six or seven times in that tiny school, and essentially skipped a grade. By the age of twelve, Fred had earned the state’s eight grade certificate. John Bell wanted a better chance at education for his family. In 1943, the seven sections were sold, and the family moved to Dickey County, on the other side of the state. The family continued to farm and ranch, but John and Thelma also bought a home in town.

Ellendale, the county seat, was home to a tiny teachers’ college – North Dakota State Normal and Industrial School. The college also provided high school courses. The college enrollment was tiny, and at fourteen, he was recruited to fill out the college football squad. “But I’m fourteen,” the tenth grader told the coach. “No, you are sixteen,” the coach replied. In the middle of the war, football conferences and of-age players had disappeared. The small team traveled to nearby colleges in two station wagons.

At thirteen, Fred witnessed Dick, his beloved older brother, die when the John Deere tractor Dick was driving flipped over on him. “As I walked the half-mile to the house to tell my mother, I knew I had to assume a bigger leadership role.” And he did.

John Bell bought a lumber supply business in Ellendale in 1947, the year Fred graduated from high school. Fred received a Bachelor of Science degree in 1951 from the small college. He then enrolled at the University of Wyoming.  While working on a Master’s degree, Fred met an Air Force recruiter. The Air Force was expanding its electronic warfare program. It sounded interesting, so he signed up. He was commissioned as a 2^nd lieutenant in 1952. While stationed at Ellington Air Force Base, outside of Houston, he met his future wife, Florence “Flo” Helen Van Dyke at a jazz jam session. They will celebrate sixty-four years of marriage on September 19^th. They have four living children, seven grandchildren, and three great grandchildren.

Fred’s Air Force career led him and his growing family to several assignments. He spent five years with a reconnaissance squadron at Ellsworth AFB near Rapid City. Its B-36 “Peacemaker,” was the world’s largest mass produced piston aircraft. The plane was huge, and could carry ten times the bomb-load of a B-17. The Cold War was raging, and the aircraft was one of the Strategic Air Command’s (SAC) responses to fears of a war with the Soviet Union. Many carried nuclear weapons. Others, as in Fred’s squadron, flew reconnaissance missions. With a range of nearly 10,000 miles, and a service ceiling of 50,000 feet, the recon aircraft could and often did probe (and penetrate) Soviet borders. The B-36s, with their fifteen to twenty-three man crews were placed in the far northern states for Arctic overflights. The B-36 was too slow, too complicated, and too expensive to maintain, and was soon obsolete. SAC transitioned to the jet powered B-52, which is still flying today.

Fred’s next assignment was with a combat evaluation group at Barksdale AFB, near Bossier City, Louisiana. Then it was back north, to Grand Forks AFB, where Fred flew as an electronics warfare officer on the B-52H and logged over 2000 hours. There was a brief stint at Command and Staff College in Alabama. Stability for the Bell family seemed at hand, as he was recently promoted to a major and given a staff position at Seymour Johnson AFB in Goldsboro, NC. Fred and Flo bought a house, and settled the family into what was hoped to be a long assignment. The military had other plans.

By 1965 the American commitment in Southeast Asia had grown from anti-insurgency aid to South Vietnam, into a full born war. Fifteen months after arriving at Seymour Johnson AFB, Major Bell received his new orders – he was assigned as an electronic warfare officer on an F-105 “Wild Weasel”. With a short training stop at Nellis AFB, Nevada, he was soon bound for Korat Royal Thai Air Force Base in northeast Thailand and assigned to the 13^th Tactical Fighter Squadron “Panther Pack.” The eight months there would prove the most dangerous and deadly period in his life.

As the Vietnam Conflict grew into what many thought was a test of the United States’ theory of ‘containment’ of communism, the Soviet Union and communist China poured more and more resources into communist North Vietnam. The supplies flowed south, nourishing warfare in South Vietnam. There is no possible way in this biography, to discuss the efficacy of US strategy in Southeast Asia, nor try to address all nuances of the politics of the era. Suffice it to say, from a tactical point of view, US planners viewed choking off supplies to the North Vietnamese Army (NVA) and insurgent Viet Cong (VC), as an absolute necessity to maintaining South Vietnam as a separate country. There would later be a sense of the futility of the effort, given country borders that existed only on paper, jungles, and the full-scale commitment of North Vietnam and its allies to achieve conquest, as well as the many moral and political questions of the US’s role in the area.

            During his first years in the Air Force, Fred had taken civilian flying lessons and received his pilot’s license. The license did not endow him with the skill needed to fly a jet, but the rudiments of flying proved invaluable in the days to come.

            Fred’s arrival in Thailand coincided with increasing American commitment to stopping the North Vietnamese from conquering the south. Air operations became larger and more complex.

The overall air campaign above the Demilitarized Zone was dubbed Operation Rolling Thunder. It was conceived as a way to hammer North Vietnam into submission. Political considerations devolved, some would say, into a ‘gradualism’ approach toward air warfare. North Vietnam’s capital, Hanoi, was off limits during 1965-1968, as were certain port facilities. American air power was countered by Russian and Chinese anti-aircraft artillery, and increasingly sophisticated surface to air missiles (SAMs). In 1965, the “wild weasel” concept came into being, with USAF F-100 Super Sabres playing “flashlight tag” with NVA radar and SAM sites. The plan was for Wild Weasel aircraft to lead bombing missions, and bait the NVA into turning on attack radar, and, using radar-seeking missiles, take them out before harm could come to the follow-on bombers.

F-100s weren’t up to the task, taking large casualties in a very short time. Fred says about that period, “We learned by getting shot down.” The task was then assigned to a two-seater variant of the F-105 Thunderchief, or “Thud.” Typically, four Wild Weasels would fly ahead of a bombing mission of other F-105s, with F4 Phantoms flying top cover. Hopefully, SAM and radar sites would illuminate, and the Wild Weasel aircraft could take them out with missiles before harm came to the bombing formation. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t. As the electronic warfare officer, Fred was the ‘backseater” on the F-105, watching a radar screen, detecting radar and SAM launch F-105 with full combat load over North Vietnam tones, listening to radio communications, and giving instructions to his pilot and three other Wild Weasels in his flight. He was fortunate to be teamed up with Major Howard “HK” White. The two became a fearsome duo. White was an excellent pilot. Fred knew his electronic counter-measures. He also knew enough about aircraft systems that he could assist as a pilot backup           when needed. In Wild Weasel missions, attacks on military installations meant coming in very fast, and often very low. Two sets of eyes were crucial to survival. This was especially true as the NVA became familiar with the bombing routes. “Route Pack Six” was the main flight route from Thailand into the Hanoi/Haiphong area. “We were as predictable as the sun rising in the east,” said Fred.

The Americans’ predictability allowed the enemy to plant his 37mm, 57mm and 85 mm anti-aircraft batteries along known air routes. SAM missiles became more sophisticated. The North Vietnamese fighters, often flown by Chinese, also exacted a toll. Using heat seeking missiles, they would follow a fighter-bomber down, and at the vulnerable point of weapon release, shoot a heat-seeker, and then leave. The only way to avoid these missiles was by violent evasive tactics.

It was a high stakes cat and mouse game. Success for the Americans was a combat mission with no lost planes or pilots. Success for the North was disrupted bomb runs and destroyed aircraft. Both sides grew smarter the longer they dueled. USAF attacks required refueling, both inbound, and outbound. The Wild Weasel’s motto was “First In – Last Out.” Providing protection for bombing missions meant lingering over planned targets. It also meant very low fuel reserves on the return to friendly territory. KC-135 tanker aircraft weren’t supposed to enter North Vietnamese airspace. But, when necessary, they did.

Route Pack Six was considered the most dangerous airspace in the world. It covered both Hanoi and Haiphong, and therefore covered the vast majority of strategic targets in the country. As noted by one commentator:

 When the air war started, the entire North Vietnamese air defense system contained twenty-two early warning radars, four fire-control radars, and 700 anti-aircraft guns. By 1967, North Vietnam was firing 25,000 tons of anti-aircraft ammunition a month. When President Johnson halted Rolling Thunder on 1 November 1968, this had grown to 400 radar sites, 8,050 anti-aircraft guns, 150 fighters (including reserves based in China), and 40 SA-2 Guideline missile sites.

 

            You got to got home after 100 missions, or one year – whichever came first. Fred arrived in Thailand on December 1, 1966. His first mission was on December 7, 1966. He flew his one hundredth mission on July 4, 1967.  At the beginning of his tour, when there was a shortage of electronic warfare officers and Wild Weasel pilots, he flew sixty combat missions in forty-seven days.

            Route Pack Six fighters entered North Vietnam over the Red River. To cover their approach, Wild Weasels would often use the radar-blocking range of mountains dubbed “Thud Ridge.” Popping up, they would then begin suppression missions. If a missile took out a radar or SAM site, the Wild Weasels would follow up with low level cluster bombs. Fred received a Silver Star for his actions in one Wild Weasel action. That day, three radar sites painted the four aircraft formation. There was a launch of two SAMs from one launch site. Then a launch from another site of two more. Then a launch from a third site of two more. “You couldn’t outrun a SAM,” he said. “But it would go 2000 miles an hour. We flew at around 600 miles an hour. We had a smaller turning radius. If you knew what you were doing, you could outsmart one.” As the EW officer, Major Bell gave instructions to the four Wild Weasel F-105s which allowed them to evade the deadly missiles. As Fred says, “It was a good day.”

            There were other “good days.” Once, he spotted a new airfield being constructed enroute to another target. When the powers that be finally allowed it, the Thuds came in at low level, destroying the field with its aircraft and supporting structures. Another time, there was a confirmed destruction of a SAM battery.

            Often, upon exiting North Vietnam, Fred would see smaller caliber anti-aircraft bursts just below the F105’s flight levels. “The flak bursts were as dense as any picture I’ve seen of World War II missions over Germany,” he says.

            Fred makes light of the dangers he and his compatriots faced. Ed Rasimus, who flew the F-105D, wrote a memoir called When Thunder Rolled.  He writes:

            Over six months that it took to fly my 100 missions my roommate kept a diary that listed each time we lost someone. During the tour we lost 110% of the aircraft assigned and 60% of the pilots who started the 100 mission tour didn’t finish.

Fred’s one-hundredth mission was a rare night one. “We arrived back at two a.m. Our fellow pilots and crews kept the officer’s club open for us,” he tells me. After the ritual dunking in the officers club pool, he and White rang the 100 mission bell. They were going home.

Fred’s next assignments were interesting and far safer. While at Strike Command, he traveled to Liberia, Congo, and Ethiopia, inspecting American supported missions there. He commanded an electronic warfare training squadron. He finished his military career as an Air Force liaison officer to the Nationalist Chinese on Taiwan.

            Retirement eventually brought the Bell family to Caldwell County. Fred was executive manager for the Plum Creek Conservation District for thirty years.

            Never afraid of hard work, Fred has donated thousands of hours to his church and community. He has served in many capacities with the Kiwanis Club, both locally and regionally. He directed and acted in Lockhart Community Theater plays for over twenty-six years.

            If you are lucky enough to catch him, thank him for his service to our country.

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JOHNNY SIEMERING

“WE BUILD – WE FIGHT” – A SEABEE ON SAIPAN

By Todd Blomerth

Johnny Siemering is 93 years young. Until his knees started giving him fits, you would not find him at home on Friday or Saturday nights – he would be dancing at a Hermann Sons function, or at a Community Center somewhere in the area. As it is, he is sharper than folks half his age. His love of life is infectious – spend a few minutes with him and you find yourself smiling with one of the most delightful persons in Caldwell County – of any age.

,Johnny was born in Maxwell, Texas in 1921. His parents, John August Siemering and Henrietta (Wink) Siemering were of German heritage. John August farmed with mules on 112 acres, and Henrietta taught school. Johnny was the oldest of five children. His sisters were Doris (Colgin) and Helen (Schmidt). His brothers were James or Jimmy, and Robert. Helen and Jimmy live in Creedmoor and Uhland, respectively. Doris and Robert have passed away.

Johnny attended school in Maxwell, and graduated from high school in the 11^th grade, which is as far as secondary school went in the late 1930s. The Siemering family rarely made it into town. There was too much work to be done, and there was very little money. He, Ellis Clark and other friends would on Sunday head to the Blanco River to swim, and then roast ears of corn. It was a simpler time.

         After graduation, Johnny attended a six week farming program at Southwest Texas Teachers College, and then went to work at the Luling Foundation Farm. He has fond memories of his three years working there. Walter Cardwell Sr. was the Farm’s general manager. There were four departments – poultry, beef, farm and dairy – and he worked in all of them during his tenure. He lived in one of the bunkhouses. “We weren’t paid much, I think it started at $21 a month along with room and board, but the food was great.” Edgar B. Davis even roomed in one of the bunkhouses during one of his periods of financial difficulty. The learning experience under supervisors Mr. Prove, Mr. Tilley, and the veterinarian Dr. Redmond proved invaluable. He has fond memories of working with the Jersey cows, and the special treat of drinking the Foundation Farm’s delicious chocolate milk!!!!

Johnny was working for the Luling Foundation Farm when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. He first tried to enlist in the Army Air Corps to become an aviator, but slight color blindness prevented that. So he volunteered for the newly created Naval Construction Battalions (“Seabees”). Initially, the average age of a Seabee was 37 years, because of the emphasis on men experienced in construction trades. Although much younger than the average, Johnny had substantial training and experience that made him a perfect fit for his new role as a Seabee. The U.S. Navy’s succinct description of the Seabees’ contribution to the defeat of the Axis powers doesn’t begin to reflect the admiration of the Marines who served with them in the Pacific:

More than 325,000 men served with the Seabees in World War II, fighting and building on six continents and more than 300 islands. In the Pacific, where most of the construction work was needed, the Seabees landed soon after the Marines and built major airstrips, bridges, roads, warehouses, hospitals, gasoline storage tanks and housing.

The Seabee Construction Battalion, usually comprising around 1100 men, was made up of four companies, along with a headquarters section with support personnel such as storekeepers, cooks, and medical staff. Reporting for training in December, 1942, Johnny was assigned to the 39^th Construction Battalion. He did his basic training at Norfolk, Virginia. The Virginia winter weather was bitter, and he recalled the mostly southern trainees huddling under insufficient blankets as they tried futilely to get warm in the camp’s tents at night! The 39^th moved to the new Seabee base at Port Hueneme, California, and then was shipped to Hawaii. The unit arrived at Maui on September 23, 1943 and for the next 10 months constructed airfields at Kahului. The rocky terrain proved a test of the Seabees’ abilities. Johnny remembers 100 train car-loads of dynamite needed to blast out the airfields. Johnny wanted to be a part of the construction but was assigned as a guard, which he hated. Happily, he was re-assigned as a truck driver hauling grease and lubrication to construction equipment at construction sites.

As 1944 wore on, the Battalion’s men knew inevitably that it would be re-assigned to a combat area. However rumors flew that, no, they were going to be sent back to the mainland. Then reality reared its head. In July the Battalion got word it was going to be shipped out to some Pacific island. The Battalion moved to Pearl Harbor on Oahu in late August, and underwent some grueling but thankfully shortened Marine training. Originally scheduled for Guam, the 39th was re-assigned to Saipan. The Battalion’s men spent miserable shipboard time sailing to Saipan. Too hot to sleep below decks, Johnny and others would drag mattresses onto ship decks to try to get some rest. He vividly remembers seeing the devastation of several of the Marshall Islands resulting from the U.S. invasions of those Japanese-held islands.

 The U.S. Marines landed on Saipan beginning on June 15, 1944. Met with fierce resistance, the island was not declared “secured” until July 9, 1944. Declaring an island secure did not ensure that there were no longer enemy on the island – rather, that ‘organized resistance’ had ended. The 39^th Construction Battalion began embarking on September 7, 1944 at Pearl Harbor, and it arrived at Saipan on September 30, 1944.

Several other Battalions were already there, some having gone ashore with the Marines on June 15^th. In the words of CMD David Moore (Ret), a Seabee who was in that early group, “The Seabees gained the respect of the Marines with their ‘can do’ attitude. They built whatever the Marines needed – roads, water supplies, barracks, fuel storage, piers, airfields and many more. “

      While missing the horrors of the landing, the 39^th’s men still were witness to the physical and human devastation visited upon the island and its people. The 39^th Construction Battalion would remain on Saipan for the remainder of the War.

Given the dicey situation with hidden Japanese defenders still holding out, the Seabees were required to carry M-1 carbines. Saipan (along with Tinian and Guam) provided the US Army Air Forces with the bases within the range for the massive airstrikes  against the Japanese home islands needed to subjugate the Japanese Empire with the new B-29 Superfortress. With its huge bomb load and fuel load, it needed long runways to reach the speeds necessary to lift off for the nearly 3000 mile round trip bomb run to Japan. Five large runways were constructed on the three islands.  The Americans also constructed a large radar station on Saipan’s highest point. Johnny’s time on Saipan stirs both good and bad memories. His best memories were of helping his fellow Seabees and the marines and soldiers on the island. The construction battalions were instrumental in creating fresh water showers. Until that time, troops had to endure the misery of tropical heat and bathing in sea water. Johnny, by now a Machinist Mate 3^rd Class, was instrumental in building an ice machine. He drove a truck providing supplies to construction crews on the island. He became legendary for his hauling ice to the heat prostrated work crews, particularly at the radar station.

Johnny’ service as a Seabee contributed to a proud tradition. Again, quoting from the Navy’s history:

Although Seabees were only supposed to fight to defend what they built, such acts of heroism were numerous. In all, Seabees earned 33 Silver Stars and 5 Navy Crosses during World War II. But they also paid a price: 272 enlisted men and 18 officers killed in action. In addition to deaths sustained as a result of enemy action, more than 500 Seabees died in accidents, for construction is essentially a hazardous business.

 

The 39th Construction Battalion was inactivated on September 28, 1945, and Johnny came home that November. In 1946, Johnny married the love of his life, Olice Dale Bible, whose brother George, a Marine, had died on Guam. Olice had first met Johnny when she was 13 and he had come to her family’s house in Martindale on a double date. Spotting him in the living room, she immediately fell in love with him, but would have to wait until after the war to begin dating her husband-to-be. They had 61 wonderful years together. Olice died in 2007. The couple was blessed with three daughters, Ginger (Hughes), Cathy (Gideon), and Peggy (Germer). Cathy passed away in 2000. They were also blessed with many grandchildren. And friends? There are too many to count.

Initially working for the Harry Schawe gin, he then went to work for Lockhart’s Goodyear dealership after the war. He narrowly missed being killed in 1965 when a truck tire rim blew off, crushing his left leg. Dr. Tom Connolly rigged up a traction apparatus at the Lockhart Hospital and for six weeks Johnny lay in traction as weights were adjusted over his tractioned leg. Miraculously, his leg was saved. Even more miraculously, he walks without a limp even today.

Johnny went into full time farming after recovering from the explosion. He farmed milo, cotton and corn, and raised cattle until retiring. Retirement did not in any way mean that he retired from life. Johnny’s life is filled with family and friends. He was raised in Ebenezer Lutheran Church in Maxwell, and continues as an active member.

 Tell him thanks for his service, next time you see him. That is, if you can catch up with him.

Clark Elwell’s School Project Proudly Telling of His Hero’s War Service

(Thanks to John Moore, son of CMD David Moore  (deceased)  for his kind permission to use quotes from his father’s story of the Seabees on Saipan)

 

LIEUTENANT (j.g.) PHILIP WALES, USNR CIRCA 1943

I want to tell you a story about someone many of us have the privilege of knowing. Fresh out of medical school, in 1944 he was sent as a young military officer to the Pacific Theater. His wartime service as a Navy physician exposed him to some of the most interesting experiences of his life – and some of the most tragic. He carries those memories with him today, at the age of 95. A venerable patriarch, well loved and deeply admired, he served our country in World War II. Not as warrior, but as a healer.

            I had the privilege of visiting with the Dr. Philip Wales in his home last month. He was kind enough to share with me some stories of life in the military. His memory is flawless. Hopefully, my historical research adequately complements it.

Philip Wales was born in Florence, Williamson County, Texas on June 19, 1919 to Prosper and Ruth Wales. His sister Lois would come along a few years later. His father was the president of Florence’s Union State Bank. Times were tough in rural Texas. Being financially ‘well off’ in rural Texas in the 1920s and 1930s was a relative term. He is very proud of his father’s legacy as a man who understood the struggles to survive during the Depression and who was willing to lend money to farmers for crops and seed. In 1933, President Franklin D. Roosevelt ordered all banks closed for several days to prevent a run on their cash assets in what was called the Bank Holiday. It staved off what would have been a national disaster. He still remembers those times and how, because of Prosper’s stewardship, the Union State Bank survived

After graduating from high school at the age of sixteen, Dr. Wales enrolled in Abilene Christian College, intent on becoming a doctor. Upon graduation, he applied to the University of Texas School of Medicine in Galveston (UTMB). Despite excellent grades, acceptance to medical school was not guaranteed. There were only two medical schools in Texas in those days – UTMB and Baylor – and each took classes of only 100 students. With America’s entry into World War II almost assured, there were many eager to attend medical school, and undergraduates had to compete with graduate students and others with advanced training for the few spaces available. UTMB received over 1500 applications. Dr. Wales’ was one of the 100 chosen

Wanting to serve in the United States Naval Reserve, Dr. Wales enlisted while at Abilene Christian and applied for an appointment as an officer. During medical school, he carried the rank of an ensign. Upon graduation from medical school in 1943 (in an accelerated three year program) he was promoted to Lieutenant (JG) in a ceremony at Corpus Christ Naval Air Station. He excelled in school, and was a member of two fraternities, Phi Chi and Theta Kappa Psi. He also received additional training in anesthesiology.

Dr. Wales was sent to San Diego for a modified basic training for medical officers. Bachelor officers’ quarters were scarce so the government requisitioned the famous Hotel Del Coronado. One half of it provided housing for naval officers in training or awaiting transfer to other assignments. The other half was reserved as temporary quarters for families of naval personnel already shipped out. From San Diego, Dr. Wales was ordered to Point Hueneme, near Oxnard, California. Soon he was enroute to Hawaii on a convoy of troopships escorted by a cruiser and half a dozen destroyers. He remembers that the scars of the sneak attack on Pearl Harbor were still very apparent as they sailed into port. Salvage operations were still ongoing. The USS Arizona entombed the bodies of 1100 sailors. It was a solemn introduction to the realities of war.

Although eventually to be based at the Navy’s huge anchorage at Ulithi, Dr. Wales and other medical personnel were temporarily assigned to medical facilities on the island of Guam. An American possession until taken by the Japanese in 1941, it had been retaken by the Marines in July and August of 1944. Although technically ‘secured,’ fighting was still going on in the hills when he arrived. Doctor Wales gives much credit to the Seabees – construction units – that were unafraid to go anywhere to build runways and facilities. They and Army engineers proved their worth in Guam. After the retaking of Guam, hospital construction began in September of 1944. There were occasional light moments. Dr. Wales tells of starving Japanese who would sneak down from the hills in stolen American uniforms and attempt to line up for chow. They would be quickly nabbed and put in the stockade – and then fed.

By February of 1945, about 9000 beds were in service at three Navy hospital and two Army hospitals. They would be needed. Dr. Wales (who was, as one might expect, nicknamed “Tex”) became part of the huge contingency of medical personnel preparing to treat those wounded in the expected attack on the Japanese island of Iwo Jima. After the bloody horrors of Saipan, Tinian, Guam, Tarawa and most recently, Peleliu, planners knew very well what to expect. Medical support was better than at any time in the past.

The island of Iwo Jima was honeycombed with miles of tunnels and thousands of hidden gun emplacements and covered with interlocking fields of fire. Japan had demonstrated repeatedly its contempt for the conventional understanding of warfare – in China, Manchuria, Indo-China, Philippines, and on Pacific Islands. Japan’s warriors had no intention of surrendering. There was absolutely no way to root out concealed killers moving back and forth from hidden bunker to hidden bunker. Ultimately, there were more total casualties to Marines and Navy at Iwo than to the Japanese. Almost to a man, the subjugation of the island required to extermination of the garrison of over 20,000 men. Over 800 corpsmen, stretcher bearers and doctors were killed and wounded by the defenders. There was no understanding of, or agreement with, the accords for ‘humane warfare’ (as if such a thing exists). According to a subsequent analysis by military historian Dr. Norman Cooper, “Nearly seven hundred Americans gave their lives for every square mile. For every plot of ground the size of a football field, an average of more than one American and five Japanese were killed and five Americans wounded.”  Napalm, white phosphorus and flamethrowers were often the only weapons that were effective.

            Huge hospital ships stood offshore at Iwo Jima, filling their wards with the wounded and dying. Physicians stabilized the badly wounded, and the ships, with names like Bountiful, Samaritan, and Solace, made round trips to Guam to offload the damaged men. Hospital ships had surgical suites. Amputations were common. The medical staffs worked overtime to deal with wounds and injuries from mines, bullets and artillery. Americans too were burned – by the enemy’s use of similar weapons, by friendly fire, bombs falling to close, and accidents. The horrors of burn victims were agonizing for everyone witnessing them.

With a specialty in anesthesiology, Dr. Wales’ expertise was an absolute necessity. The wounded that still dwell in Dr. Wales’ mind were the young Marines suffering from burns. They were treated in the ward manned by Dr. Wales and others. He saw many young Marines who were going to die. It was just a matter of when.  Heroic measures were taken to save them. Skin grafts were made when possible.  But it was often not enough. Dr. Wales reports that if there were deep third degree burns covering 30% or more of a man’s body, he would die. If his lungs had been seared, he would die. In those instances, the only care was palliative. All the medical staff could do was hydrate, provide comfort, and give morphine to ease the pain. Less that 50% of the Marines treated in his burn ward survived. “There was nothing we could do,” he said, “except try to ease the suffering.”

Dr. Wales won’t spend too much time on the sadness of seeing young men die and suffer, other than to say that it haunted him. It also gave him experience and training that he could never have duplicated in civilian life. I have no doubt that it made him a much better doctor, and a more empathetic one. How did he handle the tragedy of so many young men dying or forever horribly mutilated? “I didn’t,” he said. He was deeply saddened and depressed, and would return to the wards at night. Like every other American, he was afraid – afraid of what would happen to hundreds of thousands of young American boys when the invasion of the Japanese homelands occurred. Indoctrination of all personnel was given on what to expect – a well armed and fanatic populace where every man, woman and child could be expected to give his or her life for the emperor, and where no quarter was to be given nor expected. In short, a bloodbath of epic proportions. Its looming reality was a very real presence to every other American in uniform in the Pacific (and most of those in Europe who were to be rotated to the Pacific for the invasion).

 

Most of Dr. Wales’ active duty time was spent at the huge naval facility on Ulithi. The westernmost of the Caroline Islands, the Ulithi Atoll would become one of America’s best kept secret weapons. Its huge and deep waters, surrounded by forty small islands at one time provided anchorage to over 700 ships of all kinds. Deserted by the Japanese in early 1944, it was taken over by the Americans that August. Almost overnight this distant and nearly empty place was transformed – floating dry docks big enough to dry lift battleships, tenders, mess halls, supply depots, and ice cream barges.

 There was much medicine to be practiced, as Ulithi had large medical facilities as well. Nevertheless, there was also time for occasional frivolity and laughter. Being low man on the totem pole so to speak, Dr. Wales was Ulithi’s sanitation and recreation officer along with his medical duties. He still chuckles at the reaction given him when he shut down the Marines’ galley at their airbase. The commanding general got mad, but there was nothing he could do about it, so the Marines cleaned the place up and it got reopened.

            Different islands were fortified. Mogmog became an R&R place where men could drink a few (warm) beers.

            The nearby Yap archipelago had been surrounded and the Japanese force of nearly 6000 isolated. The Americans did run continuous bombing and strafing runs on Yap – and often with dire consequences to the attackers. Many were shot down.

            The islanders living on the scattered islets of Ulithi were moved to Fedraey, one of the atoll’s small islands. The islanders took it stride, and the Americans provided food and tent housing. Dr. Wales and other medical personnel would periodically take a small boat to the island to provide medical care. “They were a handsome and friendly people,” he said. The chief was paralyzed from polio, but had cadged a Japanese motorized ammunition cart which he drove around. Dr. Wales got along with him famously, in part because he brought the chief cartons of American cigarettes. He would sew up gashed heads and fix broken arms. The children enjoyed the strangers, and Dr. Wales often recruited some of the children to help him distribute the vitamins.

            Dr. Wales came back to mainland United States in December of 1945 on an aircraft carrier along with 4000 soldiers, sailors and marines housed in the hangar deck. The ship docked in Seattle. Shivering in the winter cold, he walked into town and bought two pairs of long handled underwear. He eventually took a train to Long Beach, California, and then onto Houston. Back in Texas, Dr. Wales continued as a physician in the United States Navy Reserve, retiring as a captain (naval equivalent of a colonel) after thirty years of service.

Returning from the war, he took a surgical residency in San Antonio, and later in Austin. He met Dr. Riley Ross in Austin. Riley introduced Dr. Wales to his brother, Dr. Abner Ross. As partners, Drs. Dubois, Ross and Dr. Wales opened the Lockhart Medical Center. Struck down by appendicitis in the early 1950s, he was cared for by a beautiful young nurse named Elizabeth Schneider. Wisely, he sought her hand in marriage. They married at First Baptist Church on May 1, 1952. Hundreds of Caldwell County citizens were delivered by Dr. Wales. Hundreds owe their lives to his skills as a physician and obstetrician.

The next time you see Dr. Wales, don’t forget to thank him for the healing and comfort he provided to so many American men grievously wounded in battle.