by James J. Dietrich
I was born on July 9th, 1925, in Columbus, Ohio, and grew up the oldest of three children during the Great Depression. From age 8 till about 13, I helped my father deliver milk. In the beginning, my dad delivered milk with a horse drawn-wagon. The horse knew the route perfectly and walked from block to block on his own while dad walked from house to house delivering the milk. My dad liked his horse so much that he named me after that horse; the horse’s name was Jim. The horse got old and retired, my dad got a milk truck, and then I started walking from house to house delivering the milk while my dad drove the truck.
When I was about 11 years–old, I had an adventure that may have foreshadowed my future enlistment in the Navy. My friend Jack and I found a wooden cement mixing container by a construction project at Ohio State University’s stadium, next to the Olentangy River. It had a wooden square bottom, board sides, and looked like a swell raft. So we hauled it to the water’s edge, climbed in, and set sail. By mid-river the raft was sinking. The water was deep, the weather was cold, and we did not have lifejackets. Fortunately for us there was a large rock sticking up out of the river and we made our way to it just as the raft went under. We started yelling for help. A good Samaritan heard us and contacted the police, who along with the fire department and an Associated Press (AP) newspaper reporter, came to our rescue – my friend and I made the front page of that evening’s Columbus Dispatch, the next morning’s Citizen Journal, and I was told our adventure was reported in New York newspapers. The police took us home. My father was not pleased. In 1942, when I turned 17, I wanted to drop out of high school and join the Navy but my father wouldn’t let me — perhaps he recalled my earlier rafting experience.
I graduated from High School in June of ‘43, still 17 but turning 18 in July, so Dad did not stop me when I again stated my plan to join the Navy. The United States had a singleness of purpose in those days — which was to defeat Nazi Germany and the Imperial Japanese military. My entire high school graduating class wanted to be a part of it and we all enlisted for service in the United States military.
I was willing to go anywhere and do anything the Navy wanted me to go. The Navy was my ticket to what I envisioned was going to be a grand adventure. The Navy’s entrance test said I would be a good signalman. So after basic training, I was sent to the University of Chicago to learn the skills needed to perform my Navy mission as a signalman, those skills being Morse code, signal lamps, and flags – dozens of flags which had to be selected and sequenced correctly indicating the ship’s status, who was onboard, and what the ship was doing. At signalman school, we were in class during the week, studied at night, and if we were doing well in class the weekends were our time. I met a fellow signalman there, Clayton Dugan, and we soon became best friends. There were plenty of girls at the university, and it was customary to ride the train into Chicago or Milwaukee for an evening of entertainment listening to the best of the big bands.
Clayton and I were assigned to sister ships; I was assigned to LST 920 and Clayton to LST 921. LST is an acronym for Landing Ship Tank. LSTs were the WWII version of today’s super tankers, they were designed and built by the United States specifically to carry large numbers of tanks, howitzers, trucks, troops, ammunition, supplies, and fuel to foreign shores for amphibious assaults. We did not need a port to unload our cargo, all we needed was a beach. We carried Franklin Roosevelt’s arsenal of democracy to foreign war zones and were an important link that enabled the United States and our Allies to win WWII.
LSTs had a flat bottom; as they approached the landing beach at high-tide they dropped their stern anchor and continued toward the beach till they hit bottom; two massive doors on the front of the ship opened and the cargo rolled out. When the ship was emptied, the stern anchor’s hoist pulled the ship back into deep water and we continued to our next destination. LSTs were manned by a crew of 104 enlisted and seven officers. Their armament consisted of two twin 40mm anti-aircraft guns; four single 40mm guns; and twelve 20mm guns. I’ll let you in on a secret that LST crew members knew: The floors of those gun turrets were the perfect place to store cases of beer — you might ask where we got the cases of beer. As I mentioned our ship’s business was hauling things; and one of the things we hauled on a particular mission was 1,000 cases of beer and a few of those cases turned up missing.
LST 920 was commissioned on June 17, 1944, and LST 921 was commissioned one week later. The two ships and their crews trained together from June 25th through July 6thth practicing gunnery, docking, fueling, beaching, pontoon operations, and battle drills. Our two ships were painted Pacific Theater Camouflage — so we assumed our war-time mission would take us to tropical islands in the south pacific.
We sailed into Portsmouth Naval shipyard for a few days of final checks before our war-time deployment. While there our ship was repainted, literally overnight, to Atlantic Gray. Although our ship’s sailing orders were secret, that new paint job was a clue that we were not heading to tropical islands.
On July 19, 1944, LST 920 and 921 received secret orders to take on a secret cargo, join Convoy HXM 301, and sail to Great Britton. That convoy had over 1000 ships and set the record as the largest transatlantic convey.
On August 9, we arrived in British waters where ships divided into numerous smaller convoys — each heading to separate British ports. LST 920 and 921 initially went into port at Liverpool, England.
On August 11, LST 920 and 921 set sail as part of convoy EBC 72 with the destination of Falmouth, England – directly across the English Channel from Normandy, France. We sailed in standard convoy formation with 500 yards separation between ships, LST 921 was directly behind LST 920. Unknown to us, German U Boat 667 was waiting for us in the waters off Lands End, England.
On August 12 at 4:54 p.m., as we were coming around the southern end of England, LST 921 was struck and sank by a torpedo fired from German U Boat 667. We were 70 miles off the coast of England and at that moment the war became real to me.
Every member of my ship knew their counterpart on LST 921. We went to school together, we trained together, we went on shore liberty together.
The Captain of my ship radioed twice for permission to break out of convoy to pick up survivors and was twice told “DO NOT BREAK CONVOY.” Our Captain’s response was, “TO HELL WITH HIM,” and ordered our ship to turn back and pick up survivors.
As our ship neared the rescue site, British ship HMS LCI 99, which had been behind LST 921, had made the decision to remain in convoy and picked up speed to close the gap created by 921 and 920. As that British ship came across our bow she was sailing directly into the path of a second torpedo fired from U Boat 667. Sailors in the bridge of my ship saw the torpedo bearing down on us and knew we were the next to get hit; the order was given “RIGHT FULL RUDDER, STARBORD BACK FULL;” and just at that moment, the British ship sailed into the path of that torpedo. It literally lifted the British ship up out of the water and tore her apart.
After picking up survivors, many of whom were severely wounded, our ship resumed course for Falmoth, England. Our Captain ordered both of his big diesel engines to run at flank speed – a ship’s top speed. The Engineering Office said the engines wouldn’t stand that speed for long; our Captain said to let him worry about that. Royal Air Force submarine hunters entered the area and began dropping depth charges. A British ship intercepted us and transferred a surgeon on-board to care for our wounded. We sailed all night at flank speed till 4:30 a.m., then tapered back slightly to full speed and at 10:30 a.m., arrived safety at our destination.
Our Captain was ordered ashore to be courts-martialed for disobeying a direct order. But after arguing his actions, he was found not in violation of Navy regulations and returned to duty as our ship’s captain.
As a side note, on August 25 as U Boat 667 as was in route to her home base of La Pallice, France, she struck a mine laid by the Royal Air Force and went to the bottom with her crew.
On September 8, LST 920 set sail from Plymouth, England loaded with artillery, trucks, trailers, troops, ammunition, food, and supplies to support the Allied liberation of France. Our destination was Utah Beach. On September 9, as we landed on Utah Beach, we struck an underwater obstacle that ripped our hull open from bow to stern. Our main engine room flooded immediately. If we had not been sliding up onto the beach that damage would have quickly sank our ship. In spite of the damage, we unloaded our cargo as scheduled – mission accomplished. But we were stranded. All guns on deck were manned to protect the ship from possible attack by German aircraft. We spent the night on Utah Beach while expedient repairs were made to our hull. The next day at high tide, pumping out 1,500 gallons of water per minute, we were towed back to England.
LST 920 went into dry dock at South Hampton, England. After repairs were completed, she made a few more trips to France, then returned to Norfolk, Va., to be readied for her upcoming Pacific mission. We sailed her through the Panama Canal, up the Coast of California, took on troops, equipment, and ammunition, and headed across the Pacific. We were in the middle of the Pacific on May 8, 1945, V-E Day, when Germany unconditionally surrendered. But there was still a war to be won, and we sailed into the battle of Okinawa. During that battle, there were 100s of Kamikaze attacks on Navy ships and many of them were directed at LSTs. One Kamikaze was heading straight at LST 920, but heavy anti-aircraft fire seemingly caused the pilot to veer away from our ship and into an adjacent LST. The resulting explosion and fire scorched the port side of LST 920 and she carried those burn marks for the remainder of her Navy service.
With the Battle of Okinawa won, everyone knew what lay in our immediate future – the invasion of Japan with perhaps a million American casualties. Many crew members began to think they would not survive the war and they may have been right. But that all changed on August 6, 1945, with a brilliant flash of light over the city of Hiroshima followed three days later when a second atomic bomb fell on Nagasaki. Then on August 14, 1945, Japan unconditionally surrendered. The war was finally over.
But LST 920 still had work to do. We repatriated thousands of Japanese men, women, and children from China, Korea, and pacific islands. We hauled 1000 of them at a time guarded by our crew augmented with six marines. The Japanese on board seemed happy that the war was over and they were living it up eating good Navy chow.
Our war-time and occupation mission accomplished we sailed into San Francisco on April 15, 1946. On June 5, I was the last original crew member to leave LST 920. She was decommissioned on July 8, and I returned to civilian life as a young man.
Back in those days, our country knew when to fight a war and how to win a war. We never gloated over that, but subtly we were aware of it. And that knowledge was a source of great pride and confidence.
I was quite happy in civilian life; the economy was booming, opportunities seemed endless, and I was married to a beautiful woman. But then on June 25, 1950, the Korean War started. I volunteered for WWII; I did not volunteer for Korea but I got sent to it anyway. This time I was assigned to USS Epperson, Destroyer Escort 719. Again, I honorably did my duty. Then returned to civilian life, worked hard, paid my taxes, went to church, and raised my family. I’ve been blessed with a long life.
