Frkovich Family History & Genealogy

ENEMY IN THE MIRROR - PART II
BY Jo Frkovich

BOMBS AND BULLETS RAIN FROM THE SKY
“After we were in the water the planes made run after run for one and one-half or two hours, bombing and strafing the survivors in the water,” testified Lt. Howitt. “One dive bomber circled three times, about twenty feet from Thompson, myself, and another man, at an altitude of fifteen feet, and I could almost recognize his features if I saw him again. Then I noticed that the bombing planes pulled away and disappeared, but the fighters then came down and continued the strafing of survivors for another hour.” Gunner Verle Wisdom reported being “hit in the right leg, twice, on the last run they made.” To the men, it seemed every inch of the water was a target.
The men of PT 346 spread out to make a poorer target; the planes repeatedly would cut a path almost up to the men, and over and over they slipped off their “Mae Wests” (slang for their life jackets named after the buxom star of the times) and submerged themselves until the planes and .50 caliber machine gun bullets passed by. Shells shot by them in the water and also ricocheted off the water back into the sky. The PT men reported the fighters made several low runs and reported they saw the pilots' faces; some said they could recognize the men again. The unspoken thought was, “Why couldn’t they identify us?”
This awful ordeal continued, in total, for one and a half hours, with the men’s only chance of survival being to duck under the water again and again as the planes approached, holding on to their life jackets for cover. This constant submersion is what gave John Frkovich, and many of the other men, an ongoing aversion to ever going in the water again. The men did this so many times they were exhausted. Hanging on to the life jackets while ducking under the water for extended periods was excruciating. The noise from the strafing and bombing was so loud and close it burst all of the men’s eardrums.
As the casualties mounted for the 346 from the strafing, helpless and distraught, the men watched in horror as their friends disappeared one by one under the waves, while they were unable to even retrieve their bodies. Lt. James Burk, Lt. Colonel James B. Pettit, Ensign Alfred Haywood, Bill Walters, Ray Reilly, Allen Walzhauer, Leslie Wicks, Stanley Wisniewski of PT 346, and John Dunner of PT 347, were all lost to the sea. Motor Machinist First Class Ollie J. Talley reported in his testimony that a final bomb hit on top of Bill Walters in the water. There were several reports of Lt. Colonel Pettit first being shot through the lung while in the water; then, clinging to the raft, his head was blown off by the strafing. Ensign Haywood was also killed in the water by strafing. All three men were seen sinking to the bottom of the Pacific.
The remaining men in the water gazed in the faces of the pilots as they closed in. No one knows for sure what caused the planes to finally leave. Gunner Wilbur Larsen, John Frkovich and others thought one of the pilots finally spotted their red-headed commander, (Lt. Red Dog Thompson).
O. J. Talley offers another explanation. He believes his prayers to the Lord were answered that day. Their situation seemed hopeless, and Talley, not a religious man at the time, felt only rain brought by the hand of God could force the planes to go away. In desperation he prayed, “Lord, if you could only make it rain.” It had been a clear day, with only high clouds, but rain DID come. Without radar, the planes could not safely continue the strafing runs; O. J. Talley believes the Lord answered his prayers and not a day has passed since that he doesn’t stop to thank Him.
When the bullets and bombs finally stopped, the surviving men from PT 347 gathered together, with Wilbur Larsen continuing to tow the wounded non-swimmer, Forrest May, first to a life raft, then over to the reef. The men were exhausted, soaked to the bone and nearly drowned.
The survivors of PT 346, many of who were badly injured, ended up in a separate location from PT 347. Finally, after the planes had left, they could also safely access their life rafts. “All survivors from the 346 that could be located swam or were assisted to the raft where Chief Pharmacist Mate Frkovich rendered first aid to the nine wounded,” testified Lt. Thompson.
The carnage that day had been monumental: the dead numbered 16: 14 PT men and two pilots. The wounded numbered 17: all PT men. The worst casualties were on PT 346, with nine killed and nine wounded. By the end of the day PT 346 had taken over 1/3 of the friendly fire casualties on all PT boats in World War II. Only two of the 20 men on PT 346 survived without serious injury: Chief Pharmacist Frkovich, and motor machinist Frank Burns. Even PT 346’s mascot, an Irish terrier dog named Chopper, suffered shrapnel wounds in the face.
It had been a day of incredible tragedy, but with many heroic moments, too. Lt. James Burk, skipper of PT 346, had given his life to save his crew by jumping in the line of fire with the American flag hoping the pilots would see they were Americans and then a few moments later saved the life of the crew’s medic, Frkovich, by ordering him to take his lifejacket; Wilbur Larsen had struggled to keep both himself and non-swimmer Forrest May afloat for almost two hours while dodging bombs and machine gun fire, Lt. Williams, skipper of 347, managed to save most of his crew’s lives by giving the order to abandon ship, and Ray Juneau, machine gunner of 347, refused to leave his guns and kept firing to give his crew cover while they abandoned ship.

AFTER THE ATTACK
The men continued to float in the waters of the Pacific for about another hour and a half, heading for the reef. The men from PT 346 and PT 347, ending up in different locations, did not know the fate of the other crew until much later. The weight of uncertainty continued for the exhausted men. Virtually all the PT men that survived that day were left with broken ear drums and some hearing loss from the constant barrage of bombs and bullets. They could still hear the voices of the Japanese, who had been watching this self-annihilation from the surrounding shores of the peninsula. The Japanese could still be heard as they laughed and drank sake on the shore. Would they come out to finish off the remaining men? Several sharks had been sighted earlier. Had they been driven off by the bombs and the strafing, or would they be drawn back by the blood?
PT 346 survivors paddled to the beacon on the reef and tied up. The time was close to 5:00 p.m. Not long after, fighter planes, along with a Catalina plane, returned looking for the downed Hellcat pilot, Lt. Knight. The men fired flares and took off their shirts, hoping that they could be identified as white. “The planes flew close and inspected us, and then the Catalina landed and picked up a survivor from PT 347 that we had not seen (Henry O’Connell), and then picked us up,” testified Lt. Thompson. “The plane had thirteen survivors aboard and took off. More survivors were seen in the water and the plane circled, and I definitely saw two men, but the plane could not land to pick them up as it was already overloaded.”
The plane also spotted the crew of PT 347, circled around and dropped off a 15-man life raft. They would not be rescued until much later that evening. The life raft did not open all the way, but on the way to retrieve the raft, Larsen and Ray Sequin saw the bow of the PT 347 was still afloat and smoldering. The men were able to salvage two lockers in the crew quarters and found a carton of Lucky Strike cigarettes and a can of Almond Roca, and enjoyed the pleasures of this simple find. “We had no dry matches, but paddled over to the burning wreckage of PT 347 and lit a cigarette from the burning timbers,” reported Joseph Cubera. The men chain-smoked and ate candy that afternoon and evening, still in shock from the two brutal attacks. In a moving tribute to his skipper, Wilbur Larsen also swam to the smoldering bow of PT 347, cut the bullet riddled American flag from its bow, and brought it back to Lt. Williams, a fitting honor to thank their captain who had made the right decisions to protect them that day.
It was 10:30 p.m. before two PT rescue boats, PT 351 and PT 355, arrived for the PT 347 survivors, to bring them back to base on the USS Hilo. These men had spent almost nine hours in the water. It would take most of the night to arrive back at the USS Hilo at 5:30 a.m. The booze came out of the bilges, according to Wilbur Larsen’s account, and the survivors tried to calm themselves and blunt the horrors of the day on the trip back to base. But, of course, this day could never truly be forgotten by any of the men.

SAYING GOODBYE
The next evening, April 30, 1944, back at the army base where the USS Hilo and her PT boats were stationed, the few recovered bodies (those that died aboard PT 350 - Raymond Rouleau, Stanley Janusz, and Bill Hirsch) Ray Juneau from PT 347 and Robert Mills from PT 346, who died on the way back of internal injuries, would be buried by their comrades. Some thirty men went ashore for the burial services in New Britain. The men lived in very primitive conditions but had cut a fair camp in the New Guinea jungle. The mess hall was the one bright spot, with an old piano which Ensign Roger Bordman, a New York Concert pianist, had managed to smuggle across the seas. The music could bring a fleeting calm but was also a sad reminder that the beautiful voice of Bill “Doc” Hirsch, the PT men’s aspiring Broadway star, would never be heard again.
The diary of Seaman Dusty Rhodes recorded the events as the PT men came ashore to bury their friends: “The PT men just straggled off, looking all around the place as if they had entered another world and received instructions for the ceremony from the officer. The bodies of our men were loaded on to a truck to be driven to the base of a large, extremely muddy hill we all were to climb. This hill seemed immense. We weren’t used to climbing mountains, not PT men! The men carrying the stretchers had a tough time, but they finally made it to the place where the shallow graves were dug. The scenery overlooking the bay was beautiful, but marred by the misty, overhanging clouds of death.”
“Our boys, the crews of each of the dead men’s boats, lowered the bodies, one at a time, the corpses wrapped in US Navy blankets,” Rhodes diary continues. “There was only silence and grim, sorrowful faces as the bodies entered the graves followed by the echoing of a dull thud. The Chaplain recited his sermon in a low, hardly audible voice, his words ushered out of his mouth like a train pulling out of Grand Central Station. There was an all hands salute, and the bugler sounded taps, and our boys started shoveling, some fast and furious, others slow but furious, sweat on our foreheads, trickling over our eyes and into the graves, doing what they would have done for us.” His toast to the men being buried, “May the aroma of peace fill your unbreathing heart and may it know the great music that is still to be written in this world you so suddenly left behind.”
The sorrow in the diary of Seaman Rhodes is palpable as he buried two of his closest buddies: Bob Mills, “the man who was my second brother since we first met in Boston,” and Doc Hirsch, a talented and well-loved musician. Doc had a blond mustache, friendly smile and kept the men entertained, regaling them with stories of the two weeks he spent auditioning on Broadway, where he hoped to return some day. As Rhodes is burying Doc he tells him, “You were all I ever wished my unborn son to be.” Rhodes spots Doc’s head of wild brown hair peaking out from under his burial blanket, and laments the loss of Doc’s voice, his music and his laughter. “My eyes on Doc’s - can’t seem to get them off the brown moist earth, gradually covering the form that was the Saxophone King.” Recalling the days of liberty in Panama - the nights in the cooks’ shack celebrating Christmas and New Year’s Eve with six quarters of rum - the memories and loss flooded through him as he buried his friends.
Years later these PT men and their graves would find their final resting place at the Manila American World War II Military Cemetery and Memorial in the Philippines, the single largest military cemetery and memorial of its kind, containing the graves of 17,206 men who died in the Pacific and a memorial to the 36,285 men who were missing and lost to the Pacific war. The Memorial Court, faced with limestone from Italy, is circular and broken into sections by service, and the walls are engraved with the names of those missing. The dedication and the inscription reads:

IN PROUD REMEMBRANCE OF THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF
HER SONS AND IN HUMBLE TRIBUTE TO THEIR SACRIFICES
THIS MEMORIAL HAS BEEN ERECTED BY
THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

HERE ARE RECORDED THE NAMES OF AMERICANS
WHO GAVE THEIR LIVES IN THE SERVICE OF THEIR COUNTRY
AND WHO SLEEP IN UNKNOWN GRAVES 1941-1945


Although the Manila Cemetery and Memorial provides a wonderful tribute to the men, perhaps the more touching remembrance was written and saved to history in the diary of Dusty Rhodes, USNR seaman and ship’s cook aboard the USS Hilo, home base for the PTs. He wrote in his diary to the men who perished and were wounded and grieved for the lost futures and families of the men. His words were born from the anguish of that day, as he asks that the name of each man be remembered.

“The names of the men killed and wounded, or where they came from is of utmost importance to those that were the closest to him - the mother that bore him, the father who supported him and loved him until the end, and of course, the girl he was to marry-- the unborn sons who would have learned to love him in the future. These are the people who sorrow the most. At night when everyone else is asleep, I pray for these people. I pray silently within myself, that these good people of the world keep faith and love in their hearts, for it is the survivors of this universal catastrophe who must and will see the dawn on the horizon.”

COPING WITH THE LOSS
PT boaters lived in close quarters, and the loss of these men was like the loss of family. The men were ordered not to talk about the incident except aboard the USS Hilo, their PT boat tender, but of course, the two terrible friendly fire incidents, only one month apart, resulting in the death of twenty-four men and the wounding of twenty-nine more, were burned into the memory of all PT men from that time forward. “Whenever friendly planes appeared, we wondered whether they recognized us,” reported Edgar Hoagland, author, The Sea Hawks: With the PT Boats at War.
The loss of the men was difficult for the pilots, as well. They worked as a team with the PT men to destroy the Japanese strongholds--the pilots by day and the PT’s by night. PT men were also their rescuers when the pilots were downed at sea, and after these rescues the pilots and PT men often became close friends. The PT boat tender, the USS Hilo, was a converted yacht, and sometimes served as a hangout for the pilots because it had two bathtubs. The pilots would make frequent trips to Sydney for rest and recreation (R & R), and often returned to the USS Hilo with a bottle of scotch under their shirts for the PT men to trade for a bath, a soft bed, and all the cold water they could drink. These PT men and Marine pilots were not strangers; they were real friends. The shaken pilots who took part in the tragedy that day were regular visitors to the injured and hospitalized PT men.

INQUIRY INTO THE INCIDENT
Rumor among the PT men was that General MacArthur raised hell about the incident and leaked it to the press. Nimitz responded by declaring that “no Marine will be indicted, prosecuted or penalized due to this tragic accident,” which in fact was to be the case. These two men were locked in a political battle, which MacArthur would ultimately win, for overall commander of the Pacific to lead the invasion of Japan.
The four day formal inquiry into the incident found that James K. Dill, the major who initiated and led the attack, made the following errors in judgment: unauthorized crossing of the line of demarcation, leading an aircraft attack against friendly surface forces without attempting in any manner to identify them, and extremely careless navigation. However, no action was taken against him. Dill picked himself up after the disaster, devoted his life to his country and made the Marines his career, continuing to serve in the Pacific in World War II and also in later wars, retiring from the United States Marines as a full Colonel.
Many of the pilots testified they had not heard of the line of demarcation or did not know where it was. First Lt. R. P. Lewis, USMCR, “I had never been briefed on the location of the line of demarcation.” First Lt. Dickson, USMCR, “I did not know where the line was.” First Lt. Badgley A. Elmes, USMCR, “I was not briefed on the fact that there was a dividing line between SoPac and SoWestPac.” First Lt. William J. Barr, USMCR, “I had heard about the line, but never knew where it was.”
Often, despite the best of intentions, we fall short of perfection. On April 29, 1944, this had disastrous consequences. It was clear from pilot testimony that the command center had relied too heavily on the inaccurate reports of Major Dill, and that the pilots had relied too heavily on the orders of their command center rather than making their own identification. Major Ernest Hemingway, in charge of the bombers involved in the strike, had inquired if these boats could be Peter Tares (PTs) and was told to keep a lookout for any identification but was assured that ComAirSols had taken all necessary precautions before sending the order to strike immediately. He also stated, “Any fears I might have had about faulty identification were dispelled by the continued low altitude strafing runs by the fighters.”
The top secret reports of May 11, 1944 to the Secretary of the Navy from the Commander of the Seventh Fleet found the boats took appropriate actions to be identified as friendly, that “no attempt was made, or time given by the planes, for identification of the boats” and that the boats “had no choice but to defend themselves.” The report concluded, “The personnel of PT 346, 347, and 350 are to be commended for their conduct under fire aboard the boats and while being strafed in the water.”

RECOMMENDATIONS OF FORMAL INQUIRY
Major recommendations and changes were made to the rules of engagement as a result of this tragedy, greatly contributing to the future safety of the PT men. As a result of these changes and the scarring impact of these incidents on both PT men and pilots, no more PT men would be lost to friendly fire from American planes.
Three of the most significant recommendations of the inquiry are noted below.
1) That all PT boats and aircraft in the Pacific be equipped with VHF radio so that positive voice communication could be established at all times between the PTs, gunboats, and friendly aircraft.
2) That all air commands thoroughly familiarize their pilots with the following: location of lines of demarcation, aerial photos of allied PTs and gunboats as viewed from various altitudes, aids for identification employed by allied PTs and gunboats, operating areas currently in use by allied PT boats and gunboats.
3) That during daylight pilots refrain from attacking or assuming hostile position from altitude until a positive identification of the boats can be made. The panel ruled that the delay involved in doing this is negligible and would result in little loss of opportunity for making a successful attack due to the relatively slow speed of the surface target.
The “mission accomplished” in this case was to help prevent future incidents and deaths by better communication and identification procedures. Although the men involved were ordered not to speak of the incidents, there is no doubt that they were known of and had a profound impact on both the pilots and the PT men.
The next major friendly fire loss at the end of the war came not from pilot error but from our own ships on February 1, 1945. The last PT boats destroyed in World War II, PT 77 and PT 79, would not be taken by the enemy but rather by friendly fire when American destroyers tragically mistook them for the Japanese.

EPILOGUE--THE MEN
John Frkovich (1918-1973)
Chief Petty Officer, Corpsman in the Pacific
Seeing war clouds on the horizon, John Frkovich, enlisted in the Navy on January 9, 1941, months before the bombing of Pearl Harbor, and spent three years in the Pacific during World War II, serving in the battle of Guadalcanal and other Solomon Islands and New Guinea campaigns. Based on the USS Hilo, he often went out on PT boats to care for the wounded and ill at sea and on shore.
Surviving as a corpsman in the Pacific could be especially difficult; you were targeted by the Japanese and at times both the mental and physical toll could be overwhelming. John Frkovich had trained as a Navy corpsman and learned to care for Marines in battle at Camp Pendleton. The Marine Corps extreme conditioning program no doubt helped him survive as did the weapons training.
Corpsmen in the Pacific carried weapons as well as their medic kit, as they were especially attractive targets to the Japanese. While in the European theatre, corpsman could wear a Red Cross helmet and expect to be spared, in the Pacific any such insignia would be a “bull’s eye” target for the enemy. They knew to kill the corpsman would demoralize the troops, plus result in more deaths when the wounded went untreated. A favorite trick of the Japanese was to call out for a corpsman, then shoot or blow up the corpsman with a grenade when he came to their aid.
For the men injured in the Pacific, 96.5% survived if they made it back to a field hospital, and amazingly roughly two thirds of these men would return to action. Malaria, dengue fever, dysentery and battle fatigue also took their toll often killing more men than the actual battle. Having malaria in the Pacific four or five times was common, and all the sick and wounded men could not be sent back home, as there would be no one left to fight. The threshold for illness evacuation was having malaria ten times.
John Frkovich survived the war and moved on with his life and any stories told of World War II were centered on the non-combat times. In addition to stories about leave in Australia, he told of sometimes traveling with Lt. John F. Kennedy on PT 109. Both men were fluent in Spanish, and Kennedy would often request Frkovich as his medic so he could practice his Spanish. After Kennedy became President, Frkovich told his family that JFK would have recognized him if they had met again because of the many hours they spent conversing in Spanish at sea. Frkovich also told his boys that rumor among the PT men was that PT 109 was hit by the Japanese destroyer because all the men were below deck playing cards that night. Of course, the brave actions that JFK took to save his men after the incident were not disputed.
Frkovich also spoke about being the corpsman aboard PT 26 who treated Eddie Rickenbacker, the American World War I ace known as “America’s Red Baron”. Rickenbacker was rescued after spending 23 days at sea in a life raft in October, 1942. Eddie Rickenbacker had been working on a secret project for the Navy when his plane was shot down. He was in his 50’s at the time, but managed to survive with two others, by attracting fish to the boat with a light, collecting rain water in his fedora hat, and even by catching a sea gull when it landed on his head.
His raft was first spotted by a pilot in a small kingfisher plane. Because one of the men was critically injured, the pilot knew he had to act quickly. The injured man was placed in the back of the plane, and the other two men, one of which was Rickenbacker, were strapped to each wing on the plane for a 40 mile trip to the base at Funafuti. Luckily, PT 26 came upon the scene and was able to take over the rescue. Rickenbacker had lost over 54 lbs. during his time at sea; however, John Frkovich reported Rickenbacker was courageous and down to earth, and that his first request when coming on board was to tour the PT boat as he had never seen one.
Normally, discharges were based on time seen in combat. However, medics were in such great need that this criterion did not apply to them; they were sent over and over into combat. Even though he had seen active duty throughout the Pacific since the beginning of World War II, John Frkovich had received his orders and was preparing for the invasion of Japan in 1945.
. In July of 1945, President Truman announced that an estimated seven million men would be sent to fight in the Japanese homeland. John Frkovich was to be deployed with the second Marine Division in the first wave of the invasion force of 770,000 men, over four times the size of the force that invaded Normandy. After three days, there were no battle plans for the second Marine Division as heavy casualties were presumed to end the units’ combat effectiveness. President Truman’s decision to drop the atomic bomb on Japan saved John Frkovich and many others--Americans and Japanese alike--from facing almost certain death from the invasion of Japan. Interestingly, Japanese war accounts report that many of the Japanese also were relieved the atom bomb was dropped, as it resulted in much less loss of Japanese life than an invasion.
Even after the war had ended, while others were discharged and returning to the quiet of civilian life, the medics, including John, continued to serve for months afterwards, treating the wounded and ill back in stateside hospitals, once again face to face with the destruction and human toll of war.
World War II memories and stories abound, but stories by medics are hard to find. Albert Gentile, Company B, 333rd Infantry provides this glimpse.
Few people are aware of the personal sacrifices the aid men went through. We were not strangers to the platoon we served with, everyone was a comrade. And unlike the other members of the platoon who can't stop to aid a wounded buddy, they have no idea how it tears the aid man apart to witness one of his buddies wounded and helpless. We eat, sleep, laugh, and yes even cry with these comrades; we become a family, and like any family, death affects us all. But more so because it is the aid man who remains with the wounded until he can stabilize the wounds and have him delivered to the battle aid station. I can never describe the feeling you get when you see your closest friend dead from his wounds, knowing that you were unable to save his life. But it has one advantage; you learn not to become to close to anyone, because the pain is too deep when it was a friend who had died.

“You have to remove every emotion in your body, or end up a raving madman. No one can ever understand that unless they themselves lived it. In every war history book you read, there is never a description of what the aid man truly feels, and you never will see one. That is why I have chosen to give a detail account of the pain and sorrow that the aid man lives with every single moment of the day. It isn't the acts of the aid man that becomes important but rather the inner pain that he carries within himself; a pain he dare not show publicly, for to do so you risk the probability that others may see that pain, or (fear) which would demoralize the men who puts their trust in your hands.”

John Frkovich was a gentle and soft-spoken man; someone who did not know him well might not realize the steel that lay beneath the surface. The words of what he went through remained largely unspoken. He coped with his war experiences by carrying on with his life, and not thinking about the war. He came from hearty stock that did what was necessary to survive and provide for his family. His father, Slavo Frkovich, was a first generation immigrant. Hearing the Cossacks were just a village away, he traveled over 300 miles on foot with nothing but the clothes on his back across his homeland, Croatia, to reach a ship to America. He was just ahead of the soldiers from the Ottoman Empire who were conscripting all young men for their war. Arriving in America, he worked in the coal mines of Gallup, New Mexico, until he was in his 60’s. Once during the depression he was trapped in a coal mine collapse and survived, with a severely dislocated shoulder. Well aware of the hundreds waiting to take his place in the mine, he immediately returned to work, having his wife tape his shoulder each day for over a year. He continued to work despite the debilitating pain to provide for his family.
Perhaps, due to his father’s example, John Frkovich also continued to work when diagnosed with rheumatic fever and ordered to bed rest or risk heart damage. Work was scarce after the Depression and bed rest would have meant the loss of his pharmacist job. This may have contributed to his early death of a heart attack at age 55. He gave his heart to his family and to the men he served, and saved many lives in the South Pacific. Proudly, his legacy lives on through his grandchildren and their dedication to serve others--Jimmy, a recent Phi Beta Kappa and ROTC graduate and newly commissioned Marine 2nd lieutenant, Jenna, pursuing a career in public health, and Andrea, majoring in Arabic and Middle Eastern Studies at Duke University on a Navy ROTC scholarship.
Most importantly, the legacy of the men of PT boats 346, 347, and 350 to whom this story is dedicated will continue to serve as an inspiration to others and their sacrifice will not be forgotten.

Ollie J. Talley (1921 to Present)
Chief Engineer, PT 346
Ollie J. Talley, was one of the few survivors of PT 346 in 1944, and is the last know survivor of PT 346 today. Talley lives in Talent, Oregon with his wife, Dottie. Thoughout the ordeal, Talley showed his concern for others. Although injured that day, his priority when picked up at sea was that all of his crew receive medical care first. Because of this, Talley did not initially report his injuries when picked up by the Catalina flyer that rescued the men. Even though he was treated at the base hospital, his injuries were not to be found in the preliminary record. Some 40 years later when the torn ligament in his knee, which resulted from having been blown from the boat, became a disability, Talley straightened out his service records.
After PT 346 was blown apart and while under attack, Talley shared a life belt with Chopper, the Irish terrier, who was the mascot for PT 346. Both man and dog stayed afloat for many hours in bullet ridden and shark infested waters. Chopper had shrapnel wounds to the face, and Talley had shrapnel wounds behind the ear. These two shared a special bond, and after the war Talley was selected by the men to take Chopper home with him to Santa Rosa, California. He later moved to Hemet, California and owned a chicken processing and egg ranch with his brother. Talley finally settle in Oregon working in construction. Today he enjoys his family, his church, and crossword puzzles.

Robert J. Williams (1919- 1991)
Skipper of PT 347
Robert J. Williams joined the Navy in 1937 at the age of 17 and was later sponsored for and accepted to the Naval Academy. Born in Keyport, New Jersey, April 23, 1919, he later moved to Little Rock, Arkansas, and was inspired to go to Annapolis by his English teacher, Mrs. Huckaby, who would later inspire an entire generation with her famous desegregation efforts at Central High in the late 1950’s.
Williams graduated from the Naval Academy in 1942. Before graduating he signed up for PT boats and worked as an instructor at the Motor Torpedo Boat Squadron Training Center at Melville. While there, he was skipper of PT-62 and assigned to RON Four. Naval Reserve Officer Training graduates he instructed in the operation and handling of the Elco 80 PT boats included a skinny charismic guy with a big grin, called John F. Kennedy.
Williams retired from the Navy at the age of 26, about a year after the friendly fire incident, disabled by post-traumatic stress syndrome. Throughout his life the memories of the tragic day came to rule his nights, but Williams successfully fought back against the demons and transitioned into civilian life, becoming an aerospace engineer first, and then later a teacher. He had ten children, including Daniel T. Williams, the youngest, who provided much of the research material for this book and developed and dedicated a web site, Tragedy at Sea, to his father.

James R. Burk (1916-1944)
Skipper of PT 346

James Reber Burk was the youngest of three “stair stepped” brothers born to a Episcopalian family (Paul H. and Marguerite Burk). Jim was raised on an apple farm in New Jersey often rowing with his brother on the Rancocas Creek. He was affectionately called “the kid”. His oldest brother, Paul, was highly intelligent with a warm humor and a modest approach to every challenge. Joe, the middle brother, a world renowned athlete, was often referred to as the “world’s best oarsman” (winning the 1939 Sullivan Award for best American Amateur Athlete having shocked the British with his win of the Henley Regattain 1938 and again in 1939). Joe, quiet and unassuming, was also a decorated World War II veteran and longtime rowing coach at the University of Pennsylvania.
James Burk was known as “Mr. Personality”; his bright sense of humor cheered any room. He was a capable and energetic man known for his warmness, the size of his smiles and his ease with athletics. Jim also excelled in rowing and won the Annual Royal Henley rowing doubles held in Ontario in 1940. Jim first enlisted in the Army Air Forces in April 1941, but was subject to bouts of air sickness, so later transferred to the Navy, beginning as a machinist’s mate, second class, and later achieving the rank of lieutenant and command of his own PT boat, the 346. Jim married Stella Elizabeth Klein (Betty) before he left for the Pacific and named his PT boat, “Betty Bee” for her.
Circumstances would take both Jim and his brother Joe to the Pacific as PT boat captains. Jim wrote home on April 15, exactly two weeks before his death, telling his parents he had taken part in several sorties against the enemies and had recently seen his brother, Joe. Jim made the ultimate sacrifice for his country and his men. Over 60 years later, James Burk, is still remembered, but not by history books or television documentaries. He is remembered in the hearts of his family and in the hearts of the Frkovich family who owe their existence to him. Jim has come to define the word “leader.” For not once in all of his actions did he consider himself above others, even when it meant sacrificing his own life. He has left a legacy for the next generation and a challenge to us to place our country and others above ourselves.
Jim’s brother, Joe, would achieve much for his country as a PT boat commander in the Pacific. He was decorated with the Navy Cross, Silver Star and two Bronze Stars, completing 63 missions in the Pacific and credited with a record setting 13 barges destroyed on one of those missions. Time Magazine referred to Joe as “Barge Buster Burk” and the history books called him “Tiger Joe Burk”, but as a man who himself devoted his life to others, at 92 he seemed to be most content to simply be the brother of Jim Burk, a man who had made the ultimate sacrifice.
Jim’s great nephew, Kevin McCaffrey, who strongly resembles Jim, also graduated from University of Pennsylvania (like Jim and grandfather, Joe). He carries on the proud Burk tradition of service in Army Special Forces and was recently awarded the Bronze Star for a mission in Iraq.


ALL THE MEN REMEMBERED
Below are the names that Seaman Rhodes asks us to remember. The following lists the servicemen on board PTs 346, 347, and 350 on April 29, 1944. Of the 50 PT men on the three boats that day, 16 were killed including two Marine pilots, 17 were injured, and 19 survived the ordeal without physical harm; however, no one was untouched by what happened that day.

Crew Members of PT 346
(9 killed, 9 wounded, 2 unharmed)

Killed:

Lt. James R. Burk USNR, Skipper, (KILLED)
Lt. Colonel James B. Pettit, United States Army, aboard as observer, (KILLED)
Ensign Alfred W. Haywood USNR, (KILLED)
William Neal Walters USNR, seaman first class, (KILLED)
Robert West Mills USNR, ship’s cook second class, (KILLED)
Raymond Russell Reilly USNR, torpedo man’s mate second class (MISSING)
Allen Frederick Walzhauer USNR, gunner’s mate third class (MISSING)
Leslie Wilson Wicks USNR, seaman first class (MISSING)
Stanley Wisniewski USNR, quartermaster third class (MISSING)

Wounded:

Lt. James R. Thompson USNR, Commander Motor Torpedo Boat Squadron 25
Lt. Eric M. Howitt Royal Australian Naval Volunteer Reserve, pilot officer
Norman Alfred Nadeau USNR, gunner’s mate second class
James Phillip Alkire USNR, motor machinist mate second class
James Harold Cheek USNR, pharmacist mate second class from USS Hilo (shot in the hand)
Verle James Wisdom USNR, yeoman second class (hit twice in the right leg)
Paul Eugene Whitmore USNR, radioman second class (shot in the left leg)



Ensign Gustav Walter Wilde USNR, third officer aboard PT 346
Ollie J. Talley USNR, motor machinist first class (torn cartilage in knee, shrapnel behind ear)

Unharmed:

John Frkovich USNR, chief pharmacist mate of the USS Hilo, aboard 346
Frank Joseph Burns USNR, motor machinist second class

Crew Members of PT 347
(2 killed, 3 wounded, 10 unharmed)
Killed:

Raymond Theodore Juneau USNR, seaman first class (KILLED, refused to abandon ship)
John Harry Dunner USNR, coxswain (DROWNED)

Wounded:
Lt. (jg) Robert J. Williams USN, skipper
Henry Paul O’Connell USNR, gunner’s mate second class
Forrest May USNR, carpenter’s mate second class

Unharmed:
Lt. (jg) Eugene G. Clayton USNR, second officer
Ensign Franklin L. Couch USNR, third officer
James D. Sizemore USNR, quartermaster third class
Dean K. Whitmore USNR, radioman second class
Robert Carpenter USNR, torpedo man
Joseph A. Cubera USNR, motor machinist’s mate third class
Bernard J. McGee USNR, seaman first class
Raymond A. Sequin USNR, torpedo man’s mate second class
Robert J. Valentine USNR, seaman second class
William B. Larson USNR, motor machinist’s mate third class


Crew Members of PT 350
(3 killed, 5 wounded, 7 unharmed)

Killed:
Raymond Arthur Rouleau, USNR, motor machinist mate second class
Stanley John Janusz USNR, gunner’s mate third class
William Edward Hirsch USNR, seaman first class

Wounded:
Harold William Connor USNR, ship’s cook second class
William Frederick Reilly USNR, gunner’s mate third class
Robert Ambrose Gaynor USNR (member of 347) machinist mate second class
William L. Brick USNR, radioman second class
Henry G. Westervelt, USNR, gunner’s mate second class

Unharmed:
Lt. (jg) Stanley L. Manning USNR, boat captain of PT 350
Lt. (jg) Baber N. Howell USNR
Harry J. Nicholas USNR, motor machinist’s mate second class
Raymond F. Walk USNR
Clyde W. Wilder USNR, torpedo man’s mate second class
Howard H. Hemphill USNR, motor machinist’s mate first class
Kenneth J. Joyce USNR, motor machinist’s mate second class




Bibliography/Research/Works Cited:

Associated Press. “Two PT Boats, Two Planes Lost in South Pacific Error.” San Francisco Chronicle. May 4, 1944, page 1.

Breuer, William. Devil Boats. New York, NY, Presidio Press, 1987.

Bradley, James. Flags of our Fathers. New York, NY, Bantam Books, 2000.

Bradley, James. Flyboys. New York, NY, Back Bay Books, 2003.

Bulkley, Robert J. Jr. USNR (Retired) At Close Quarters: PT Boats in the United States Navy. Washington, D.C., U.S. Government Printing Office, 1962, pp. 232-234.

Hoagland, Edgar. The Sea Hawks: With the PT Boats at War. Novato, CA: Presidio Press, 1999, pp. 89-91.

Connelley, Garth. PT Boats in Action. Carrollton, Texas, Signal Publications, 1994.

Manila American Cemetery and Memorial. Online: American Monuments Commission.


Naval Historical Center. Friendly fire statistics.

Nelson, Curtis. Hunters in the Shallows. Washington, D.C., Brasseys Publishing, 2003.

Official Naval Documents obtained under Freedom of Information Act: Report of Action of PT Boat 350, night of April 28-29, 1944; Memorandum to all Hands, J. Paul Austin, USNR, Intelligence Officer; Order Directing Investigation; Investigative Conclusions & Recommendations, Commodore T.J. Moran, USN, Investigating Officer; Statement by Major Dill; Damage report for PT 350; War Diary of Marine Aircraft Group Fourteen.

Oral Interviews: Ollie J. Talley and Dan Williams.

Personal Written Accounts and diaries of the following individuals: Forrest May, Cromwell C. Hall, Dusty Rhodes, Joseph Cubera, and Albert Gentile.

Peter Tare [online]

PT Boats, Inc. [online]

Testimony of the Crew of PTs 346, 347, & 350. May 3-May 5, 1944. Crew members testifying: From PT 346: Lt. James R. Thompson USNR, Commander Motor Torpedo Boat Squadron 25; Lt. Eric M. Howitt Royal Australian Naval Volunteer Reserve, pilot officer; Norman Alfred Nadeau USNR, gunner’s mate second class; James Phillip Alkire USNR, motor machinist mate second class; James Harold Cheek USNR, pharmacist mate second class from USS Hilo; Verle James Wisdom USNR, yeoman second class; Paul Eugene Whitmore USNR, radioman second class; Ensign Gustav Walter Wilde USNR, third officer; John Frkovich USNR, chief pharmacist mate of the USS Hilo, aboard 346; Frank Joseph Burns USNR, motor machinist second class; Ollie J. Talley USNR, motor machinist first class. From PT 347: Lt. (jg) Robert J. Williams USN, skipper; Henry Paul O’Connell USNR, gunner’s mate second class; Forrest May USRN, carpenter’s mate second class; Lt. (jg) Eugene G. Clayton USNR, second officer; Ensign Franklin L. Couch USNR, third officer; James D. Sizemore USNR, quartermaster third class: Dean K. Whitmore USNR, radioman second class; Robert Carpenter USNR, torpedo man; Joseph A. Cubera USNR, motor machinist’s mate third class; Bernard J. McGee USNR, seaman first class; Raymond A. Sequin USNR, torpedo man’s mate second class; Robert J. Valentine USNR, seaman second class; William B. Larson USNR, motor machinist’s mate third class. From PT 350: Harold William Connor USRN, ship’s cook second class; William Frederick Reilly USNR, gunner’s mate third class; Robert Ambrose Gaynor USNR (member of 347) machinist mate second class; William L. Brick USNR, radioman second class; Henry G. Westervelt, USNR, gunner’s mate second class; Lt. (jg) Stanley L. Manning USNR, boat captain of PT 350; Lt. (jg) Baber N. Howell USNR; Harry J. Nicholas USNR, motor machinist’s mate second class; Raymond F. Walk USNR; Clyde W. Wilder USNR, torpedo man’s mate second class; Howard H. Hemphill USNR, motor machinist’s mate first class; Kenneth J. Joyce USNR, machinist’s mate second class.

United Press. “U.S. Planes Sink 3 U.S. PT Boats; 2 Shot Down in Mix-up of Signals.” New York Times, page 1.

Wanapela, Justin. “Victims of Friendly Fire—PT 347& 346” [Online] www.pacificwrecks.com

White, Maury. “USS Hilo” [Online] Available

Williams, Dan. “Tragedy at Sea.” (Online) Available
































ENEMY IN THE MIRROR - PART II
BY Jo Frkovich

BOMBS AND BULLETS RAIN FROM THE SKY
“After we were in the water the planes made run after run for one and one-half or two hours, bombing and strafing the survivors in the water,” testified Lt. Howitt. “One dive bomber circled three times, about twenty feet from Thompson, myself, and another man, at an altitude of fifteen feet, and I could almost recognize his features if I saw him again. Then I noticed that the bombing planes pulled away and disappeared, but the fighters then came down and continued the strafing of survivors for another hour.” Gunner Verle Wisdom reported being “hit in the right leg, twice, on the last run they made.” To the men, it seemed every inch of the water was a target.
The men of PT 346 spread out to make a poorer target; the planes repeatedly would cut a path almost up to the men, and over and over they slipped off their “Mae Wests” (slang for their life jackets named after the buxom star of the times) and submerged themselves until the planes and .50 caliber machine gun bullets passed by. Shells shot by them in the water and also ricocheted off the water back into the sky. The PT men reported the fighters made several low runs and reported they saw the pilots' faces; some said they could recognize the men again. The unspoken thought was, “Why couldn’t they identify us?”
This awful ordeal continued, in total, for one and a half hours, with the men’s only chance of survival being to duck under the water again and again as the planes approached, holding on to their life jackets for cover. This constant submersion is what gave John Frkovich, and many of the other men, an ongoing aversion to ever going in the water again. The men did this so many times they were exhausted. Hanging on to the life jackets while ducking under the water for extended periods was excruciating. The noise from the strafing and bombing was so loud and close it burst all of the men’s eardrums.
As the casualties mounted for the 346 from the strafing, helpless and distraught, the men watched in horror as their friends disappeared one by one under the waves, while they were unable to even retrieve their bodies. Lt. James Burk, Lt. Colonel James B. Pettit, Ensign Alfred Haywood, Bill Walters, Ray Reilly, Allen Walzhauer, Leslie Wicks, Stanley Wisniewski of PT 346, and John Dunner of PT 347, were all lost to the sea. Motor Machinist First Class Ollie J. Talley reported in his testimony that a final bomb hit on top of Bill Walters in the water. There were several reports of Lt. Colonel Pettit first being shot through the lung while in the water; then, clinging to the raft, his head was blown off by the strafing. Ensign Haywood was also killed in the water by strafing. All three men were seen sinking to the bottom of the Pacific.
The remaining men in the water gazed in the faces of the pilots as they closed in. No one knows for sure what caused the planes to finally leave. Gunner Wilbur Larsen, John Frkovich and others thought one of the pilots finally spotted their red-headed commander, (Lt. Red Dog Thompson).
O. J. Talley offers another explanation. He believes his prayers to the Lord were answered that day. Their situation seemed hopeless, and Talley, not a religious man at the time, felt only rain brought by the hand of God could force the planes to go away. In desperation he prayed, “Lord, if you could only make it rain.” It had been a clear day, with only high clouds, but rain DID come. Without radar, the planes could not safely continue the strafing runs; O. J. Talley believes the Lord answered his prayers and not a day has passed since that he doesn’t stop to thank Him.
When the bullets and bombs finally stopped, the surviving men from PT 347 gathered together, with Wilbur Larsen continuing to tow the wounded non-swimmer, Forrest May, first to a life raft, then over to the reef. The men were exhausted, soaked to the bone and nearly drowned.
The survivors of PT 346, many of who were badly injured, ended up in a separate location from PT 347. Finally, after the planes had left, they could also safely access their life rafts. “All survivors from the 346 that could be located swam or were assisted to the raft where Chief Pharmacist Mate Frkovich rendered first aid to the nine wounded,” testified Lt. Thompson.
The carnage that day had been monumental: the dead numbered 16: 14 PT men and two pilots. The wounded numbered 17: all PT men. The worst casualties were on PT 346, with nine killed and nine wounded. By the end of the day PT 346 had taken over 1/3 of the friendly fire casualties on all PT boats in World War II. Only two of the 20 men on PT 346 survived without serious injury: Chief Pharmacist Frkovich, and motor machinist Frank Burns. Even PT 346’s mascot, an Irish terrier dog named Chopper, suffered shrapnel wounds in the face.
It had been a day of incredible tragedy, but with many heroic moments, too. Lt. James Burk, skipper of PT 346, had given his life to save his crew by jumping in the line of fire with the American flag hoping the pilots would see they were Americans and then a few moments later saved the life of the crew’s medic, Frkovich, by ordering him to take his lifejacket; Wilbur Larsen had struggled to keep both himself and non-swimmer Forrest May afloat for almost two hours while dodging bombs and machine gun fire, Lt. Williams, skipper of 347, managed to save most of his crew’s lives by giving the order to abandon ship, and Ray Juneau, machine gunner of 347, refused to leave his guns and kept firing to give his crew cover while they abandoned ship.

AFTER THE ATTACK
The men continued to float in the waters of the Pacific for about another hour and a half, heading for the reef. The men from PT 346 and PT 347, ending up in different locations, did not know the fate of the other crew until much later. The weight of uncertainty continued for the exhausted men. Virtually all the PT men that survived that day were left with broken ear drums and some hearing loss from the constant barrage of bombs and bullets. They could still hear the voices of the Japanese, who had been watching this self-annihilation from the surrounding shores of the peninsula. The Japanese could still be heard as they laughed and drank sake on the shore. Would they come out to finish off the remaining men? Several sharks had been sighted earlier. Had they been driven off by the bombs and the strafing, or would they be drawn back by the blood?
PT 346 survivors paddled to the beacon on the reef and tied up. The time was close to 5:00 p.m. Not long after, fighter planes, along with a Catalina plane, returned looking for the downed Hellcat pilot, Lt. Knight. The men fired flares and took off their shirts, hoping that they could be identified as white. “The planes flew close and inspected us, and then the Catalina landed and picked up a survivor from PT 347 that we had not seen (Henry O’Connell), and then picked us up,” testified Lt. Thompson. “The plane had thirteen survivors aboard and took off. More survivors were seen in the water and the plane circled, and I definitely saw two men, but the plane could not land to pick them up as it was already overloaded.”
The plane also spotted the crew of PT 347, circled around and dropped off a 15-man life raft. They would not be rescued until much later that evening. The life raft did not open all the way, but on the way to retrieve the raft, Larsen and Ray Sequin saw the bow of the PT 347 was still afloat and smoldering. The men were able to salvage two lockers in the crew quarters and found a carton of Lucky Strike cigarettes and a can of Almond Roca, and enjoyed the pleasures of this simple find. “We had no dry matches, but paddled over to the burning wreckage of PT 347 and lit a cigarette from the burning timbers,” reported Joseph Cubera. The men chain-smoked and ate candy that afternoon and evening, still in shock from the two brutal attacks. In a moving tribute to his skipper, Wilbur Larsen also swam to the smoldering bow of PT 347, cut the bullet riddled American flag from its bow, and brought it back to Lt. Williams, a fitting honor to thank their captain who had made the right decisions to protect them that day.
It was 10:30 p.m. before two PT rescue boats, PT 351 and PT 355, arrived for the PT 347 survivors, to bring them back to base on the USS Hilo. These men had spent almost nine hours in the water. It would take most of the night to arrive back at the USS Hilo at 5:30 a.m. The booze came out of the bilges, according to Wilbur Larsen’s account, and the survivors tried to calm themselves and blunt the horrors of the day on the trip back to base. But, of course, this day could never truly be forgotten by any of the men.

SAYING GOODBYE
The next evening, April 30, 1944, back at the army base where the USS Hilo and her PT boats were stationed, the few recovered bodies (those that died aboard PT 350 - Raymond Rouleau, Stanley Janusz, and Bill Hirsch) Ray Juneau from PT 347 and Robert Mills from PT 346, who died on the way back of internal injuries, would be buried by their comrades. Some thirty men went ashore for the burial services in New Britain. The men lived in very primitive conditions but had cut a fair camp in the New Guinea jungle. The mess hall was the one bright spot, with an old piano which Ensign Roger Bordman, a New York Concert pianist, had managed to smuggle across the seas. The music could bring a fleeting calm but was also a sad reminder that the beautiful voice of Bill “Doc” Hirsch, the PT men’s aspiring Broadway star, would never be heard again.
The diary of Seaman Dusty Rhodes recorded the events as the PT men came ashore to bury their friends: “The PT men just straggled off, looking all around the place as if they had entered another world and received instructions for the ceremony from the officer. The bodies of our men were loaded on to a truck to be driven to the base of a large, extremely muddy hill we all were to climb. This hill seemed immense. We weren’t used to climbing mountains, not PT men! The men carrying the stretchers had a tough time, but they finally made it to the place where the shallow graves were dug. The scenery overlooking the bay was beautiful, but marred by the misty, overhanging clouds of death.”
“Our boys, the crews of each of the dead men’s boats, lowered the bodies, one at a time, the corpses wrapped in US Navy blankets,” Rhodes diary continues. “There was only silence and grim, sorrowful faces as the bodies entered the graves followed by the echoing of a dull thud. The Chaplain recited his sermon in a low, hardly audible voice, his words ushered out of his mouth like a train pulling out of Grand Central Station. There was an all hands salute, and the bugler sounded taps, and our boys started shoveling, some fast and furious, others slow but furious, sweat on our foreheads, trickling over our eyes and into the graves, doing what they would have done for us.” His toast to the men being buried, “May the aroma of peace fill your unbreathing heart and may it know the great music that is still to be written in this world you so suddenly left behind.”
The sorrow in the diary of Seaman Rhodes is palpable as he buried two of his closest buddies: Bob Mills, “the man who was my second brother since we first met in Boston,” and Doc Hirsch, a talented and well-loved musician. Doc had a blond mustache, friendly smile and kept the men entertained, regaling them with stories of the two weeks he spent auditioning on Broadway, where he hoped to return some day. As Rhodes is burying Doc he tells him, “You were all I ever wished my unborn son to be.” Rhodes spots Doc’s head of wild brown hair peaking out from under his burial blanket, and laments the loss of Doc’s voice, his music and his laughter. “My eyes on Doc’s - can’t seem to get them off the brown moist earth, gradually covering the form that was the Saxophone King.” Recalling the days of liberty in Panama - the nights in the cooks’ shack celebrating Christmas and New Year’s Eve with six quarters of rum - the memories and loss flooded through him as he buried his friends.
Years later these PT men and their graves would find their final resting place at the Manila American World War II Military Cemetery and Memorial in the Philippines, the single largest military cemetery and memorial of its kind, containing the graves of 17,206 men who died in the Pacific and a memorial to the 36,285 men who were missing and lost to the Pacific war. The Memorial Court, faced with limestone from Italy, is circular and broken into sections by service, and the walls are engraved with the names of those missing. The dedication and the inscription reads:

IN PROUD REMEMBRANCE OF THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF
HER SONS AND IN HUMBLE TRIBUTE TO THEIR SACRIFICES
THIS MEMORIAL HAS BEEN ERECTED BY
THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

HERE ARE RECORDED THE NAMES OF AMERICANS
WHO GAVE THEIR LIVES IN THE SERVICE OF THEIR COUNTRY
AND WHO SLEEP IN UNKNOWN GRAVES 1941-1945


Although the Manila Cemetery and Memorial provides a wonderful tribute to the men, perhaps the more touching remembrance was written and saved to history in the diary of Dusty Rhodes, USNR seaman and ship’s cook aboard the USS Hilo, home base for the PTs. He wrote in his diary to the men who perished and were wounded and grieved for the lost futures and families of the men. His words were born from the anguish of that day, as he asks that the name of each man be remembered.

“The names of the men killed and wounded, or where they came from is of utmost importance to those that were the closest to him - the mother that bore him, the father who supported him and loved him until the end, and of course, the girl he was to marry-- the unborn sons who would have learned to love him in the future. These are the people who sorrow the most. At night when everyone else is asleep, I pray for these people. I pray silently within myself, that these good people of the world keep faith and love in their hearts, for it is the survivors of this universal catastrophe who must and will see the dawn on the horizon.”

COPING WITH THE LOSS
PT boaters lived in close quarters, and the loss of these men was like the loss of family. The men were ordered not to talk about the incident except aboard the USS Hilo, their PT boat tender, but of course, the two terrible friendly fire incidents, only one month apart, resulting in the death of twenty-four men and the wounding of twenty-nine more, were burned into the memory of all PT men from that time forward. “Whenever friendly planes appeared, we wondered whether they recognized us,” reported Edgar Hoagland, author, The Sea Hawks: With the PT Boats at War.
The loss of the men was difficult for the pilots, as well. They worked as a team with the PT men to destroy the Japanese strongholds--the pilots by day and the PT’s by night. PT men were also their rescuers when the pilots were downed at sea, and after these rescues the pilots and PT men often became close friends. The PT boat tender, the USS Hilo, was a converted yacht, and sometimes served as a hangout for the pilots because it had two bathtubs. The pilots would make frequent trips to Sydney for rest and recreation (R & R), and often returned to the USS Hilo with a bottle of scotch under their shirts for the PT men to trade for a bath, a soft bed, and all the cold water they could drink. These PT men and Marine pilots were not strangers; they were real friends. The shaken pilots who took part in the tragedy that day were regular visitors to the injured and hospitalized PT men.

INQUIRY INTO THE INCIDENT
Rumor among the PT men was that General MacArthur raised hell about the incident and leaked it to the press. Nimitz responded by declaring that “no Marine will be indicted, prosecuted or penalized due to this tragic accident,” which in fact was to be the case. These two men were locked in a political battle, which MacArthur would ultimately win, for overall commander of the Pacific to lead the invasion of Japan.
The four day formal inquiry into the incident found that James K. Dill, the major who initiated and led the attack, made the following errors in judgment: unauthorized crossing of the line of demarcation, leading an aircraft attack against friendly surface forces without attempting in any manner to identify them, and extremely careless navigation. However, no action was taken against him. Dill picked himself up after the disaster, devoted his life to his country and made the Marines his career, continuing to serve in the Pacific in World War II and also in later wars, retiring from the United States Marines as a full Colonel.
Many of the pilots testified they had not heard of the line of demarcation or did not know where it was. First Lt. R. P. Lewis, USMCR, “I had never been briefed on the location of the line of demarcation.” First Lt. Dickson, USMCR, “I did not know where the line was.” First Lt. Badgley A. Elmes, USMCR, “I was not briefed on the fact that there was a dividing line between SoPac and SoWestPac.” First Lt. William J. Barr, USMCR, “I had heard about the line, but never knew where it was.”
Often, despite the best of intentions, we fall short of perfection. On April 29, 1944, this had disastrous consequences. It was clear from pilot testimony that the command center had relied too heavily on the inaccurate reports of Major Dill, and that the pilots had relied too heavily on the orders of their command center rather than making their own identification. Major Ernest Hemingway, in charge of the bombers involved in the strike, had inquired if these boats could be Peter Tares (PTs) and was told to keep a lookout for any identification but was assured that ComAirSols had taken all necessary precautions before sending the order to strike immediately. He also stated, “Any fears I might have had about faulty identification were dispelled by the continued low altitude strafing runs by the fighters.”
The top secret reports of May 11, 1944 to the Secretary of the Navy from the Commander of the Seventh Fleet found the boats took appropriate actions to be identified as friendly, that “no attempt was made, or time given by the planes, for identification of the boats” and that the boats “had no choice but to defend themselves.” The report concluded, “The personnel of PT 346, 347, and 350 are to be commended for their conduct under fire aboard the boats and while being strafed in the water.”

RECOMMENDATIONS OF FORMAL INQUIRY
Major recommendations and changes were made to the rules of engagement as a result of this tragedy, greatly contributing to the future safety of the PT men. As a result of these changes and the scarring impact of these incidents on both PT men and pilots, no more PT men would be lost to friendly fire from American planes.
Three of the most significant recommendations of the inquiry are noted below.
1) That all PT boats and aircraft in the Pacific be equipped with VHF radio so that positive voice communication could be established at all times between the PTs, gunboats, and friendly aircraft.
2) That all air commands thoroughly familiarize their pilots with the following: location of lines of demarcation, aerial photos of allied PTs and gunboats as viewed from various altitudes, aids for identification employed by allied PTs and gunboats, operating areas currently in use by allied PT boats and gunboats.
3) That during daylight pilots refrain from attacking or assuming hostile position from altitude until a positive identification of the boats can be made. The panel ruled that the delay involved in doing this is negligible and would result in little loss of opportunity for making a successful attack due to the relatively slow speed of the surface target.
The “mission accomplished” in this case was to help prevent future incidents and deaths by better communication and identification procedures. Although the men involved were ordered not to speak of the incidents, there is no doubt that they were known of and had a profound impact on both the pilots and the PT men.
The next major friendly fire loss at the end of the war came not from pilot error but from our own ships on February 1, 1945. The last PT boats destroyed in World War II, PT 77 and PT 79, would not be taken by the enemy but rather by friendly fire when American destroyers tragically mistook them for the Japanese.

EPILOGUE--THE MEN
John Frkovich (1918-1973)
Chief Petty Officer, Corpsman in the Pacific
Seeing war clouds on the horizon, John Frkovich, enlisted in the Navy on January 9, 1941, months before the bombing of Pearl Harbor, and spent three years in the Pacific during World War II, serving in the battle of Guadalcanal and other Solomon Islands and New Guinea campaigns. Based on the USS Hilo, he often went out on PT boats to care for the wounded and ill at sea and on shore.
Surviving as a corpsman in the Pacific could be especially difficult; you were targeted by the Japanese and at times both the mental and physical toll could be overwhelming. John Frkovich had trained as a Navy corpsman and learned to care for Marines in battle at Camp Pendleton. The Marine Corps extreme conditioning program no doubt helped him survive as did the weapons training.
Corpsmen in the Pacific carried weapons as well as their medic kit, as they were especially attractive targets to the Japanese. While in the European theatre, corpsman could wear a Red Cross helmet and expect to be spared, in the Pacific any such insignia would be a “bull’s eye” target for the enemy. They knew to kill the corpsman would demoralize the troops, plus result in more deaths when the wounded went untreated. A favorite trick of the Japanese was to call out for a corpsman, then shoot or blow up the corpsman with a grenade when he came to their aid.
For the men injured in the Pacific, 96.5% survived if they made it back to a field hospital, and amazingly roughly two thirds of these men would return to action. Malaria, dengue fever, dysentery and battle fatigue also took their toll often killing more men than the actual battle. Having malaria in the Pacific four or five times was common, and all the sick and wounded men could not be sent back home, as there would be no one left to fight. The threshold for illness evacuation was having malaria ten times.
John Frkovich survived the war and moved on with his life and any stories told of World War II were centered on the non-combat times. In addition to stories about leave in Australia, he told of sometimes traveling with Lt. John F. Kennedy on PT 109. Both men were fluent in Spanish, and Kennedy would often request Frkovich as his medic so he could practice his Spanish. After Kennedy became President, Frkovich told his family that JFK would have recognized him if they had met again because of the many hours they spent conversing in Spanish at sea. Frkovich also told his boys that rumor among the PT men was that PT 109 was hit by the Japanese destroyer because all the men were below deck playing cards that night. Of course, the brave actions that JFK took to save his men after the incident were not disputed.
Frkovich also spoke about being the corpsman aboard PT 26 who treated Eddie Rickenbacker, the American World War I ace known as “America’s Red Baron”. Rickenbacker was rescued after spending 23 days at sea in a life raft in October, 1942. Eddie Rickenbacker had been working on a secret project for the Navy when his plane was shot down. He was in his 50’s at the time, but managed to survive with two others, by attracting fish to the boat with a light, collecting rain water in his fedora hat, and even by catching a sea gull when it landed on his head.
His raft was first spotted by a pilot in a small kingfisher plane. Because one of the men was critically injured, the pilot knew he had to act quickly. The injured man was placed in the back of the plane, and the other two men, one of which was Rickenbacker, were strapped to each wing on the plane for a 40 mile trip to the base at Funafuti. Luckily, PT 26 came upon the scene and was able to take over the rescue. Rickenbacker had lost over 54 lbs. during his time at sea; however, John Frkovich reported Rickenbacker was courageous and down to earth, and that his first request when coming on board was to tour the PT boat as he had never seen one.
Normally, discharges were based on time seen in combat. However, medics were in such great need that this criterion did not apply to them; they were sent over and over into combat. Even though he had seen active duty throughout the Pacific since the beginning of World War II, John Frkovich had received his orders and was preparing for the invasion of Japan in 1945.
. In July of 1945, President Truman announced that an estimated seven million men would be sent to fight in the Japanese homeland. John Frkovich was to be deployed with the second Marine Division in the first wave of the invasion force of 770,000 men, over four times the size of the force that invaded Normandy. After three days, there were no battle plans for the second Marine Division as heavy casualties were presumed to end the units’ combat effectiveness. President Truman’s decision to drop the atomic bomb on Japan saved John Frkovich and many others--Americans and Japanese alike--from facing almost certain death from the invasion of Japan. Interestingly, Japanese war accounts report that many of the Japanese also were relieved the atom bomb was dropped, as it resulted in much less loss of Japanese life than an invasion.
Even after the war had ended, while others were discharged and returning to the quiet of civilian life, the medics, including John, continued to serve for months afterwards, treating the wounded and ill back in stateside hospitals, once again face to face with the destruction and human toll of war.
World War II memories and stories abound, but stories by medics are hard to find. Albert Gentile, Company B, 333rd Infantry provides this glimpse.
Few people are aware of the personal sacrifices the aid men went through. We were not strangers to the platoon we served with, everyone was a comrade. And unlike the other members of the platoon who can't stop to aid a wounded buddy, they have no idea how it tears the aid man apart to witness one of his buddies wounded and helpless. We eat, sleep, laugh, and yes even cry with these comrades; we become a family, and like any family, death affects us all. But more so because it is the aid man who remains with the wounded until he can stabilize the wounds and have him delivered to the battle aid station. I can never describe the feeling you get when you see your closest friend dead from his wounds, knowing that you were unable to save his life. But it has one advantage; you learn not to become to close to anyone, because the pain is too deep when it was a friend who had died.

“You have to remove every emotion in your body, or end up a raving madman. No one can ever understand that unless they themselves lived it. In every war history book you read, there is never a description of what the aid man truly feels, and you never will see one. That is why I have chosen to give a detail account of the pain and sorrow that the aid man lives with every single moment of the day. It isn't the acts of the aid man that becomes important but rather the inner pain that he carries within himself; a pain he dare not show publicly, for to do so you risk the probability that others may see that pain, or (fear) which would demoralize the men who puts their trust in your hands.”

John Frkovich was a gentle and soft-spoken man; someone who did not know him well might not realize the steel that lay beneath the surface. The words of what he went through remained largely unspoken. He coped with his war experiences by carrying on with his life, and not thinking about the war. He came from hearty stock that did what was necessary to survive and provide for his family. His father, Slavo Frkovich, was a first generation immigrant. Hearing the Cossacks were just a village away, he traveled over 300 miles on foot with nothing but the clothes on his back across his homeland, Croatia, to reach a ship to America. He was just ahead of the soldiers from the Ottoman Empire who were conscripting all young men for their war. Arriving in America, he worked in the coal mines of Gallup, New Mexico, until he was in his 60’s. Once during the depression he was trapped in a coal mine collapse and survived, with a severely dislocated shoulder. Well aware of the hundreds waiting to take his place in the mine, he immediately returned to work, having his wife tape his shoulder each day for over a year. He continued to work despite the debilitating pain to provide for his family.
Perhaps, due to his father’s example, John Frkovich also continued to work when diagnosed with rheumatic fever and ordered to bed rest or risk heart damage. Work was scarce after the Depression and bed rest would have meant the loss of his pharmacist job. This may have contributed to his early death of a heart attack at age 55. He gave his heart to his family and to the men he served, and saved many lives in the South Pacific. Proudly, his legacy lives on through his grandchildren and their dedication to serve others--Jimmy, a recent Phi Beta Kappa and ROTC graduate and newly commissioned Marine 2nd lieutenant, Jenna, pursuing a career in public health, and Andrea, majoring in Arabic and Middle Eastern Studies at Duke University on a Navy ROTC scholarship.
Most importantly, the legacy of the men of PT boats 346, 347, and 350 to whom this story is dedicated will continue to serve as an inspiration to others and their sacrifice will not be forgotten.

Ollie J. Talley (1921 to Present)
Chief Engineer, PT 346
Ollie J. Talley, was one of the few survivors of PT 346 in 1944, and is the last know survivor of PT 346 today. Talley lives in Talent, Oregon with his wife, Dottie. Thoughout the ordeal, Talley showed his concern for others. Although injured that day, his priority when picked up at sea was that all of his crew receive medical care first. Because of this, Talley did not initially report his injuries when picked up by the Catalina flyer that rescued the men. Even though he was treated at the base hospital, his injuries were not to be found in the preliminary record. Some 40 years later when the torn ligament in his knee, which resulted from having been blown from the boat, became a disability, Talley straightened out his service records.
After PT 346 was blown apart and while under attack, Talley shared a life belt with Chopper, the Irish terrier, who was the mascot for PT 346. Both man and dog stayed afloat for many hours in bullet ridden and shark infested waters. Chopper had shrapnel wounds to the face, and Talley had shrapnel wounds behind the ear. These two shared a special bond, and after the war Talley was selected by the men to take Chopper home with him to Santa Rosa, California. He later moved to Hemet, California and owned a chicken processing and egg ranch with his brother. Talley finally settle in Oregon working in construction. Today he enjoys his family, his church, and crossword puzzles.

Robert J. Williams (1919- 1991)
Skipper of PT 347
Robert J. Williams joined the Navy in 1937 at the age of 17 and was later sponsored for and accepted to the Naval Academy. Born in Keyport, New Jersey, April 23, 1919, he later moved to Little Rock, Arkansas, and was inspired to go to Annapolis by his English teacher, Mrs. Huckaby, who would later inspire an entire generation with her famous desegregation efforts at Central High in the late 1950’s.
Williams graduated from the Naval Academy in 1942. Before graduating he signed up for PT boats and worked as an instructor at the Motor Torpedo Boat Squadron Training Center at Melville. While there, he was skipper of PT-62 and assigned to RON Four. Naval Reserve Officer Training graduates he instructed in the operation and handling of the Elco 80 PT boats included a skinny charismic guy with a big grin, called John F. Kennedy.
Williams retired from the Navy at the age of 26, about a year after the friendly fire incident, disabled by post-traumatic stress syndrome. Throughout his life the memories of the tragic day came to rule his nights, but Williams successfully fought back against the demons and transitioned into civilian life, becoming an aerospace engineer first, and then later a teacher. He had ten children, including Daniel T. Williams, the youngest, who provided much of the research material for this book and developed and dedicated a web site, Tragedy at Sea, to his father.

James R. Burk (1916-1944)
Skipper of PT 346

James Reber Burk was the youngest of three “stair stepped” brothers born to a Episcopalian family (Paul H. and Marguerite Burk). Jim was raised on an apple farm in New Jersey often rowing with his brother on the Rancocas Creek. He was affectionately called “the kid”. His oldest brother, Paul, was highly intelligent with a warm humor and a modest approach to every challenge. Joe, the middle brother, a world renowned athlete, was often referred to as the “world’s best oarsman” (winning the 1939 Sullivan Award for best American Amateur Athlete having shocked the British with his win of the Henley Regattain 1938 and again in 1939). Joe, quiet and unassuming, was also a decorated World War II veteran and longtime rowing coach at the University of Pennsylvania.
James Burk was known as “Mr. Personality”; his bright sense of humor cheered any room. He was a capable and energetic man known for his warmness, the size of his smiles and his ease with athletics. Jim also excelled in rowing and won the Annual Royal Henley rowing doubles held in Ontario in 1940. Jim first enlisted in the Army Air Forces in April 1941, but was subject to bouts of air sickness, so later transferred to the Navy, beginning as a machinist’s mate, second class, and later achieving the rank of lieutenant and command of his own PT boat, the 346. Jim married Stella Elizabeth Klein (Betty) before he left for the Pacific and named his PT boat, “Betty Bee” for her.
Circumstances would take both Jim and his brother Joe to the Pacific as PT boat captains. Jim wrote home on April 15, exactly two weeks before his death, telling his parents he had taken part in several sorties against the enemies and had recently seen his brother, Joe. Jim made the ultimate sacrifice for his country and his men. Over 60 years later, James Burk, is still remembered, but not by history books or television documentaries. He is remembered in the hearts of his family and in the hearts of the Frkovich family who owe their existence to him. Jim has come to define the word “leader.” For not once in all of his actions did he consider himself above others, even when it meant sacrificing his own life. He has left a legacy for the next generation and a challenge to us to place our country and others above ourselves.
Jim’s brother, Joe, would achieve much for his country as a PT boat commander in the Pacific. He was decorated with the Navy Cross, Silver Star and two Bronze Stars, completing 63 missions in the Pacific and credited with a record setting 13 barges destroyed on one of those missions. Time Magazine referred to Joe as “Barge Buster Burk” and the history books called him “Tiger Joe Burk”, but as a man who himself devoted his life to others, at 92 he seemed to be most content to simply be the brother of Jim Burk, a man who had made the ultimate sacrifice.
Jim’s great nephew, Kevin McCaffrey, who strongly resembles Jim, also graduated from University of Pennsylvania (like Jim and grandfather, Joe). He carries on the proud Burk tradition of service in Army Special Forces and was recently awarded the Bronze Star for a mission in Iraq.


ALL THE MEN REMEMBERED
Below are the names that Seaman Rhodes asks us to remember. The following lists the servicemen on board PTs 346, 347, and 350 on April 29, 1944. Of the 50 PT men on the three boats that day, 16 were killed including two Marine pilots, 17 were injured, and 19 survived the ordeal without physical harm; however, no one was untouched by what happened that day.

Crew Members of PT 346
(9 killed, 9 wounded, 2 unharmed)

Killed:

Lt. James R. Burk USNR, Skipper, (KILLED)
Lt. Colonel James B. Pettit, United States Army, aboard as observer, (KILLED)
Ensign Alfred W. Haywood USNR, (KILLED)
William Neal Walters USNR, seaman first class, (KILLED)
Robert West Mills USNR, ship’s cook second class, (KILLED)
Raymond Russell Reilly USNR, torpedo man’s mate second class (MISSING)
Allen Frederick Walzhauer USNR, gunner’s mate third class (MISSING)
Leslie Wilson Wicks USNR, seaman first class (MISSING)
Stanley Wisniewski USNR, quartermaster third class (MISSING)

Wounded:

Lt. James R. Thompson USNR, Commander Motor Torpedo Boat Squadron 25
Lt. Eric M. Howitt Royal Australian Naval Volunteer Reserve, pilot officer
Norman Alfred Nadeau USNR, gunner’s mate second class
James Phillip Alkire USNR, motor machinist mate second class
James Harold Cheek USNR, pharmacist mate second class from USS Hilo (shot in the hand)
Verle James Wisdom USNR, yeoman second class (hit twice in the right leg)
Paul Eugene Whitmore USNR, radioman second class (shot in the left leg)



Ensign Gustav Walter Wilde USNR, third officer aboard PT 346
Ollie J. Talley USNR, motor machinist first class (torn cartilage in knee, shrapnel behind ear)

Unharmed:

John Frkovich USNR, chief pharmacist mate of the USS Hilo, aboard 346
Frank Joseph Burns USNR, motor machinist second class

Crew Members of PT 347
(2 killed, 3 wounded, 10 unharmed)
Killed:

Raymond Theodore Juneau USNR, seaman first class (KILLED, refused to abandon ship)
John Harry Dunner USNR, coxswain (DROWNED)

Wounded:
Lt. (jg) Robert J. Williams USN, skipper
Henry Paul O’Connell USNR, gunner’s mate second class
Forrest May USNR, carpenter’s mate second class

Unharmed:
Lt. (jg) Eugene G. Clayton USNR, second officer
Ensign Franklin L. Couch USNR, third officer
James D. Sizemore USNR, quartermaster third class
Dean K. Whitmore USNR, radioman second class
Robert Carpenter USNR, torpedo man
Joseph A. Cubera USNR, motor machinist’s mate third class
Bernard J. McGee USNR, seaman first class
Raymond A. Sequin USNR, torpedo man’s mate second class
Robert J. Valentine USNR, seaman second class
William B. Larson USNR, motor machinist’s mate third class


Crew Members of PT 350
(3 killed, 5 wounded, 7 unharmed)

Killed:
Raymond Arthur Rouleau, USNR, motor machinist mate second class
Stanley John Janusz USNR, gunner’s mate third class
William Edward Hirsch USNR, seaman first class

Wounded:
Harold William Connor USNR, ship’s cook second class
William Frederick Reilly USNR, gunner’s mate third class
Robert Ambrose Gaynor USNR (member of 347) machinist mate second class
William L. Brick USNR, radioman second class
Henry G. Westervelt, USNR, gunner’s mate second class

Unharmed:
Lt. (jg) Stanley L. Manning USNR, boat captain of PT 350
Lt. (jg) Baber N. Howell USNR
Harry J. Nicholas USNR, motor machinist’s mate second class
Raymond F. Walk USNR
Clyde W. Wilder USNR, torpedo man’s mate second class
Howard H. Hemphill USNR, motor machinist’s mate first class
Kenneth J. Joyce USNR, motor machinist’s mate second class




Bibliography/Research/Works Cited:

Associated Press. “Two PT Boats, Two Planes Lost in South Pacific Error.” San Francisco Chronicle. May 4, 1944, page 1.

Breuer, William. Devil Boats. New York, NY, Presidio Press, 1987.

Bradley, James. Flags of our Fathers. New York, NY, Bantam Books, 2000.

Bradley, James. Flyboys. New York, NY, Back Bay Books, 2003.

Bulkley, Robert J. Jr. USNR (Retired) At Close Quarters: PT Boats in the United States Navy. Washington, D.C., U.S. Government Printing Office, 1962, pp. 232-234.

Hoagland, Edgar. The Sea Hawks: With the PT Boats at War. Novato, CA: Presidio Press, 1999, pp. 89-91.

Connelley, Garth. PT Boats in Action. Carrollton, Texas, Signal Publications, 1994.

Manila American Cemetery and Memorial. Online: American Monuments Commission.


Naval Historical Center. Friendly fire statistics.

Nelson, Curtis. Hunters in the Shallows. Washington, D.C., Brasseys Publishing, 2003.

Official Naval Documents obtained under Freedom of Information Act: Report of Action of PT Boat 350, night of April 28-29, 1944; Memorandum to all Hands, J. Paul Austin, USNR, Intelligence Officer; Order Directing Investigation; Investigative Conclusions & Recommendations, Commodore T.J. Moran, USN, Investigating Officer; Statement by Major Dill; Damage report for PT 350; War Diary of Marine Aircraft Group Fourteen.

Oral Interviews: Ollie J. Talley and Dan Williams.

Personal Written Accounts and diaries of the following individuals: Forrest May, Cromwell C. Hall, Dusty Rhodes, Joseph Cubera, and Albert Gentile.

Peter Tare [online]

PT Boats, Inc. [online]

Testimony of the Crew of PTs 346, 347, & 350. May 3-May 5, 1944. Crew members testifying: From PT 346: Lt. James R. Thompson USNR, Commander Motor Torpedo Boat Squadron 25; Lt. Eric M. Howitt Royal Australian Naval Volunteer Reserve, pilot officer; Norman Alfred Nadeau USNR, gunner’s mate second class; James Phillip Alkire USNR, motor machinist mate second class; James Harold Cheek USNR, pharmacist mate second class from USS Hilo; Verle James Wisdom USNR, yeoman second class; Paul Eugene Whitmore USNR, radioman second class; Ensign Gustav Walter Wilde USNR, third officer; John Frkovich USNR, chief pharmacist mate of the USS Hilo, aboard 346; Frank Joseph Burns USNR, motor machinist second class; Ollie J. Talley USNR, motor machinist first class. From PT 347: Lt. (jg) Robert J. Williams USN, skipper; Henry Paul O’Connell USNR, gunner’s mate second class; Forrest May USRN, carpenter’s mate second class; Lt. (jg) Eugene G. Clayton USNR, second officer; Ensign Franklin L. Couch USNR, third officer; James D. Sizemore USNR, quartermaster third class: Dean K. Whitmore USNR, radioman second class; Robert Carpenter USNR, torpedo man; Joseph A. Cubera USNR, motor machinist’s mate third class; Bernard J. McGee USNR, seaman first class; Raymond A. Sequin USNR, torpedo man’s mate second class; Robert J. Valentine USNR, seaman second class; William B. Larson USNR, motor machinist’s mate third class. From PT 350: Harold William Connor USRN, ship’s cook second class; William Frederick Reilly USNR, gunner’s mate third class; Robert Ambrose Gaynor USNR (member of 347) machinist mate second class; William L. Brick USNR, radioman second class; Henry G. Westervelt, USNR, gunner’s mate second class; Lt. (jg) Stanley L. Manning USNR, boat captain of PT 350; Lt. (jg) Baber N. Howell USNR; Harry J. Nicholas USNR, motor machinist’s mate second class; Raymond F. Walk USNR; Clyde W. Wilder USNR, torpedo man’s mate second class; Howard H. Hemphill USNR, motor machinist’s mate first class; Kenneth J. Joyce USNR, machinist’s mate second class.

United Press. “U.S. Planes Sink 3 U.S. PT Boats; 2 Shot Down in Mix-up of Signals.” New York Times, page 1.

Wanapela, Justin. “Victims of Friendly Fire—PT 347& 346” [Online] www.pacificwrecks.com

White, Maury. “USS Hilo” [Online] Available

Williams, Dan. “Tragedy at Sea.” (Online) Available

ENEMY IN THE MIRROR

World War II Tragedy in the Pacific

The Loss of PT BOATS 346, 347, & 350

A STORY OF MISTAKEN IDENTITY AND
THE WORST PT BOAT FRIENDLY FIRE INCIDENT OF THE WAR


Written By Jo Frkovich
Research Materials from Dan & Thomas Williams

PART I

PROLOGUE
War is without a doubt one of the worst, most destructive inventions of mankind. It causes pain and suffering on a scale that is truly beyond human comprehension. This was never truer than in World War II, where nearly all of humanity experienced carnage on a scale that was greater than anything that has since come before or after it. At least 49 million died, and millions more suffered. In this huge conflict, it is easy to get lost in the numbers and lose the personal stories that really put a face on how horrific war can be. One such story is that of a friendly fire incident that occurred to a small group of sailors off New Guinea in 1944. The story was sad and tragic, but in war those stories are common. As a result, the incident and the men who bravely survived it were almost lost to history; however due to the efforts of the families of some of the victims and a few survivors this incident will live on as a defining example of honor and courage.
The story was not easy to uncover. As the family of any war veteran will readily tell you, war experiences are held close in the mind of most of those that served. The experiences are often so scarring that just repeating a story can revive ghosts and memories that are simply too painful to remember. This was especially true for Chief Petty Officer John Frkovich, who had seen the worst of World War II through the eyes of its victims, spending three years in the Pacific as a Navy corpsman, most of the time based aboard the USS Hilo, a (PT) boat tender and home base for PT boats in the South Pacific.
Corpsman, like John Frkovich, tried not to become too close to anyone; the pain was too great if they could not be saved. In the end, they more than anyone saw the results of war first hand--going from injury to injury, treating the wounded and the dying, and serving as doctor, confessor, and substitute family to these men.
John Frkovich was present for the invasion of Guadalcanal and for the other Solomon Islands and New Guinea campaigns in the Southwest Pacific. Then, in his third year in the Pacific War, in March and April of 1944, he witnessed in the span of a month the death of 22 PT men and the wounding of 29 others due to two separate friendly fire incidents. In both cases, allied planes had mistakenly identified the PT boats as the enemy.
The search for the truth behind these chilling friendly fire attacks detailed in the pages that follow began with an account overheard by his sons on fishing trips where John Frkovich traded war stories with his buddies or from stories shared by their mother. Most of the stories the men shared were of good times on leave in Sydney, Australia or other adventures, but once John Frkovich spoke solemnly of spending nine hours floating in the waters of the Pacific Ocean during World War II. He was one of only a few survivors from his PT boat, destroyed by American bombs in a tragic case of mistaken identity. Years later, when his son, Jim, asked him what it meant to be a leader, John Frkovich told him about James Burk, the young PT boat skipper, who had saved his life that day.
Frkovich’s PT boat was hit and sinking and still under attack by 22 American planes. Busy tending to the wounded, Frkovich had not found time to locate his life jacket. However, Frkovich did find a life jacket to place around his skipper, who was mortally wounded. But Lt. James Burk in a last unselfish act of leadership ordered Frkovich to take the life jacket, accepting certain death, knowing that he could not survive in the open sea without one.
After years of searching, in 2006, John Frkovich’s family located James Burk’s brother, Joe Burk, then 92, also a World War II PT boat captain. The brothers attended the University of Pennsylvania together and fought the war in the Pacific together, but Joe Burk had no details regarding his brother’s gallant last moments. No words can really describe the emotions that washed over the two families as the story was shared.
The facts in the story that follows, taken from actual testimonies and diaries of the men involved in the friendly fire incidents, paint a graphic and often moving picture of the events that took place that day.

THE SEARCH FOR ANSWERS
With searing Arizona summer heat literally cooking his skin and the refuge of cool water just inches away, what could have kept John Frkovich, a Navy PT boat veteran and a man who loved boating, out of the water for almost 30 years? His friends and family could only wonder. Given his love of boating and the Arizona summer temperatures frequently in excess of 110 degrees, why would John Frkovich NEVER be enticed to enter any body of water?
The story came out slowly in bits and pieces, never fully discovered until 32 years after his death in 1973, when a World War II claim for lost items from PT boat 346 was found in his papers. An internet search for any reference to PT boat 346 quickly filled in the horrific details of an account that had been front page news in many newspapers including the May 4, 1944 editions of the New York Times and the San Francisco Chronicle.
The New York Times headline, “U.S. Planes Sink 2 U.S. PT Boats; 2 Shot down in Mix up of Signals” was a very limited account of events that took place in Pacific waters on April 29, 1944.
Today, certainly the death of two Marine pilots and 14 Navy men, all by friendly fire, would be termed more than a “mix up”. During World War II military mistakes were reported but not sensationalized. It was recognized that men at war were fighting a hard battle for everyone’s freedom and, although tragic, errors resulting in friendly fire casualties sometime occurred. In what is often the irony of war, a horrific toll was taken, not by the enemy, but by the mistakes of our own.
Approximately 20 percent of the casualties on PT boats during World War II in the Pacific were the result of friendly fire, due primarily to the loss of lives resulting from the April 29, 1944 tragedy and from a similar incident that occurred on March 27, 1944. In the span of only one month, 22 PT men had been killed by friendly fire. These two incidents represented 85% of the total friendly fire casualties on all PT boats during WWII in both the Pacific and Europe. Until then, the PT crews had relatively low casualty rates, especially given their often pointblank fighting range with the Japanese.
Why so many friendly fire casualties over such a short space of time? Planes were being produced now at the rate of 4,000 per month, and many of them were now being directed to the Pacific. Roosevelt was betting heavily on the air war, and the United States was still playing catch up. These badly needed planes and pilots were a blessing to the Pacific war effort, but there was also a learning curve and learning curves involve mistakes.
PT boat 346 had been involved in both friendly fire incidents--first as a rescuer in March and then as a victim in April. PT boat 346 was skippered by Lt. James Burk, age 28. He and his brother, Joe, were from New Jersey, raised on an apple farm, both graduates of the University of Pennsylvania (Wharton) and both skippers of PT boats in the Pacific. Jim had wanted to be a pilot but experienced air sickness. Joe Burk, one of the most decorated PT men of World War II, kept close tabs on his younger brother and was very relieved to learn that PT 346 had been rescuer and not victim in the March, 1944 friendly fire attack. Sadly, a month later Joe learned that on April 29 a second friendly fire attack had occurred. This time his brother’s boat had been destroyed, and Jim was missing. News traveled slowly, and Joe remained hopeful for many long days that his brother might have made it to shore after his boat was bombed. When he learned the specifics of the incident, he did not hold the Marine pilots or command responsible; his view was in war time “foul ups” happen. No one was to blame. MacArthur was aboard Joe’s PT boat about that time, and Joe reports the sorrow of the incident and the other burdens of war weighed heavily on MacArthur. Joe Burk often ferried MacArthur around the islands. In early 1945 when MacArthur made his long awaited return to the Philippines, it would be Joe Burk who would bring the Japanese commanders to MacArthur for the surrender signing of the 40,000 Japanese troops in the Philippines.
Paradoxically, James Burk’s brother, Joe, survived World War II because in November, 1944, he travelled home on leave for a few days to comfort his parents who were grieving over the loss of his brother. During that time, Joe’s boat, PT 320, was spotted at night by a Japanese bomber who completely destroyed the boat with all men lost but one.
Pound for pound the PT boats and their men made a very significant contribution to the War in the Pacific. Although mistaken identity caused the men of PT 346, 347, and 350 to be subject to a fierce attack by their Marine friends, it in no way lessens the heroic acts of the men that day as they fought for survival, nor the contribution they made to the success of the war. As a result of the tragedy of that day, identification procedures would be dramatically changed. No further PT men would be lost to the fire of American planes.
The search that began in 2005 with the discovery of John Frkovich’s PT boat number, 346, would lead to an internet web site, “Tragedy at Sea,” and to Dan Williams, son of one of the PT boat skippers whose boat (PT 347) and men were also lost or injured in the friendly fire incident that day. His compelling web site provided detailed accounts by his father, Lt. Robert Williams, and other tales of the dramatic events as they unfolded that day. Dan’s cousin, Thomas Williams, obsessed by the impact this event had on the life of his beloved uncle, had doggedly fought to obtain transcripts of the investigation of the incident, including the testimony of the crew involved and personal diaries and accounts given by the men. At the time, the men were given specific orders not to discuss the incident, but to Thomas Williams, the words and personal accounts left a compelling trail of events and broken rules of engagement, a story that had to be told.
While the men were ordered not speak of the incident at the time, today the events of April 29, 1944, are sometimes taught to Navy and Marine cadets at the United States Naval Academy to illustrate how friendly fire incidents can occur and to emphasize the importance of sound intelligence and communication across the services.

PT BOATS IN THE SOUTH PACIFIC CAMPAIGN
Early in the war, large warships were in short supply, and PT boats were often the only link and sea protection for those fighting on the surrounding Pacific islands and for pilots shot down at sea. PT boats were present at Pearl Harbor and PT boat 23 is credited with shooting down the first Japanese aircraft of the war, a torpedo bomber approaching the submarine base where the PT boats from Squadron One were docked.
In 1942-43 they largely patrolled the Solomon Islands shipping lanes referred to as “The Slot” attempting to take out large Japanese ships. PTs were called “the mosquito fleet”, and their crews--brave, daring and sometimes reckless--were charged with using deadly torpedoes to sink the Japanese fleet with their “toy boats” early in the Pacific War. In 1943, the PTs in the Pacific transitioned to a new and more effective role, “barge busting”. They became a primary tool used to sink Japanese barges, take out gunboats and shore installations, interrupting the supply lines to the Japanese troops on the islands.
PT boats were made of wood, carried 3,000 pounds of highly explosive aviation fuel, were powered by three modified Packard airplane engines and could go from 10 to 45 miles per hour in 12 seconds. Armor was added later for protection, and the boats generally were about 80 feet in length. The boats provided accommodations for three officers and 12-14 crew. They were generally equipped with two 20 millimeter guns, four .50 calliber machine guns, 2-4 torpedoes, and sometimes depth charges. The boats were involved in fierce island fighting which often took place at very close range. To the Japanese they were known as “Devil Boats”.
This close range fighting was a challenge, even when the PT boats were victors and the Japanese were captured. There was no word in Japanese for “surrender”, and they fought to the death. PT men reported having to club the Japanese on the head with boat hooks or having to capture them with cargo nets, but this was difficult work. Often the Japanese men would purposefully drown themselves or hide grenades and try to blow up the PT men along with themselves when captured and pulled into the boat.
Sometimes pranks would rule the day and break the tension of war. A May 1, 1944, article in Time Magazine, “Speed Boat Limit”, tells of the Navy issuing orders in the Solomon Islands that PT boats “no longer exceed 25 knots in inlets, because the wakes were washing the Army privies off their stilts forcing their occupants into the water.”
PT boats were often brought through the Panama Canal. These PT boats first based in Tulagi had been instrumental in helping to stop the “Tokyo Express” steaming by Guadalcanal and had then moved on to fight the Japanese in the Southern Solomon Islands, and then to the Japanese strongholds of the Central Solomon Islands, New Guinea and Rabaul, New Britain. Rabaul, where the friendly fire incident took place, was the Japanese 8th Area Army Headquarters and stronghold with major airfields close by.
The airmen worked by day, and the PT boats by night sighting and sinking enemy barges. Early in the war, it would not be unusual for American forces to reign supreme in the day because of air superiority, nor for the Japanese to control the nights due to their large forces on the ground. The PT boats were instrumental in changing the nighttime dynamics of the war in favor of the Americans. By the frequent exchange of information the PT men and the American pilots could achieve excellent results.
By forcing the Japanese to spread their artillery along the Solomon Islands in an attempt to protect their supply lines against the PTs, their guns and men could not be directed toward other strategic targets such as Australia. The disruption in supplies caused by the PT boats often forced the Japanese army to make three days rations of rice last nine days or otherwise forced them to subsist on roots and their pack animals, thereby weakening both their body and spirit.
The PT men themselves lived a very rugged life: they would often spend 24 hours a day on their boat while either patrolling or tied up on the water. These PT men were known for their uncanny ability to keep the boats running despite the unavailability of replacement parts, bad gas, and the stress placed on both the men and the boats from the constant patrols and combat. It was not uncommon to take parts from one PT boat coming in from patrol to use in another PT boat so it could go out on patrol. Sometimes American supply lines would also be cut, especially early in the Pacific war. In 1942, at Port Moresby, New Guinea, John Frkovich reported the men had canned fruit cocktail as their only ration for six weeks straight (explaining why he could not eat it after the war). American supplies remained cut off after the Japanese invasion of Port Moresby, until the Japanese were stopped by the Battle of the Coral Sea.
Of the approximately 400 PT boats deployed in the Pacific in World War II, around 15 percent were lost--primarily to enemy fire or from becoming stuck on a reef. Most of the remaining boats were burned after the war--121 alone were burned at Samara in the Philippines. These small, poorly armored, wooden vessels that had achieved so many victories were viewed as inventory that had been expended with no practical purpose after the war.

THE FIRST FRIENDLY FIRE ATTACK--MARCH 27, 1944
A horrific rescue mission began on March 27 when eight PT men were killed and 12 wounded due to friendly fire by five fighter planes under the command of the Royal Australian Air Force. PT boats 346 and 354 were dispatched to the scene. The two PT boats that came under attack, PT 353 and PT 121, had been investigating a report of an enemy schooner in Bangula Bay when they were attacked by the Australian pilots. The gunners of both PT boats had begun to return fire before being stopped by their skippers. After one of the Australian pilots identified the boats as friendly, he attempted to radio the others and maneuvered to head off the other pilots, but this happened too late. Both PT boats exploded and burned as they sank. A life raft was dropped off to the PT men by a P-40 plane, and the tragic error was radioed in to the 78th Squadron Headquarters.
Later it was determined that a report that showed the PTs were operating in the area had been forwarded to command but had been placed in the wrong file. As a result, the pilots had not been notified the PT boats were in their area of patrol. A Navy investigation into the causes of pilot error cited poor communication and misidentification of the PT boats as larger Japanese gunboats.
Five very long hours after the attack, the suffering men were finally rescued. PT 346 and PT 354, guided by a P-40 plane, arrived at the site and had the job of picking up the survivors, many of whom were horribly wounded. Others had severe burns resulting from the wall of flames that came as the boats exploded. Since PT boats were powered by three modified air plane engines and carried 3000 gallons of 100 octane airplane fuel to propel them, and were loaded with torpedoes and ammunition, horrendous fires and explosions often occurred when hit.
Twenty out of twenty-nine aboard the two boats had been killed or wounded. The rescuing crews from PT 346 and 354 loaded up the wounded along with the bodies of the dead, “who had been tied to life rafts or stretched out in the bottom of lifeboats along with the injured, ” according to Lt. Commander Crowell C. Hall, executive officer of the PT boat Squadron 25 attacked that day. “The men were in tough shape; many were moaning. The sun was deadly that day and these men were baking in the brutal heat. We used our helmets to pour water over the injured to provide some relief.” Once PT 346 arrived to render medical care, the wounded were given morphine shots and made as comfortable as possible and taken back to base.
Approximately one month later, setting course for PT 347 and PT 350 on a second rescue mission, those aboard PT 346 would soon find themselves victim taking even heavier casualties under a similar attack from friendly fire.
For over a year not one PT boat had been sunk due to misidentification; and since the beginning of the war, there had been no PT casualties from friendly fire in either the Pacific or Atlantic. Yet in March and April of 1944 two incidents were to occur only a month apart. The tragedy was somewhat inexplicable to Lt. Commander Hall. Hall had been severely wounded (shot in the knee and neck, leg broken) in this initial friendly fire incident. “PT boats looked nothing like what the Japanese have,” according to Lt. Commander Hall. The Japanese gunboats were 60 percent longer, built on a barge platform, and lacked the PT boat’s sleek profile.” In Hall’s written account of the tragedy he stated, “Perhaps it was inexperience and youth that caused the tragedy. Put a young inexperienced man in a plane, and he loves to show off. We have the same problem in PTs. Some of our young boat captains thought there was no bigger thrill than to jab the throttles all the way forward and tear across the ocean like a cowboy riding herd. We relieved them of command if we caught them.”
Sadly, the March 27 incident was to be all too soon repeated, but next time with American pilots firing on the PT men. And next time not only would they attack the men, but they would mistakenly return a second time with an entire squadron of bombers and fighters intent on wiping them out.

SECOND FRIENDLY FIRE ATTACK- APRIL 29, 1944--CHAIN OF EVENTS BEGINS
The tragic day began at in the predawn hours of Saturday, April 29, 1944 when PT boat 347, out on nighttime patrol for the Japanese, headed for the coast of Rabaul, New Guinea, Japanese headquarters for the 8th Area Army. The PT men became stuck on an uncharted coral reef in the Southwest Pacific at about 2 a.m. (Often the only maps the men had were outdated German ones which charted the area during World War I; the coral reefs had grown considerably since then.) T
The night was quiet and very dark. The location played an important role in the tragedy, as it was just 3 miles from the line of demarcation. That line divided the Pacific Ocean into two different areas of command. The PT boats were in an area commanded by General MacArthur (Southwest Pacific Command). The Marine planes, which would subsequently sink the PT boats, should have been patrolling just to the east of their actual location and were under the command of Admiral Nimitz (South Pacific Command).
The war in the Pacific had no supreme commander, unlike the European theatre where Eisenhower was in overall command. In the Pacific theatre, power was shared between Admiral Nimitz and General MacArthur. When no one person is in charge, lines of authority are blurred, communication is poor, and the results are often disastrous. In the military the stakes are high because lives can be lost. This played out over and over in the Pacific War starting with confusion at Pearl Harbor, left unprotected when Army and Navy enemy scouting efforts were not coordinated. The Army assumed the Navy was patrolling and the Navy thought the Army detection service was operating--providing a window for the Japanese to successfully initiate their attack.
On April 29, 1944, once again, poor communication and lack of coordination would lead to disaster. Although there were daily dispatches to the South Pacific Command from the Southwest Pacific Command regarding the PTs whereabouts, they were not relayed to the air units, setting the stage for calamity. Moreover, many of the pilots involved in the PT boat attack reported they had never been told there was a line of demarcation between the two separate areas of command.
PT boat 347 was captained by Lieutenant Robert J. Williams, an Annapolis graduate of the class of 1942. Lieutenant Williams, as a skipper, was greatly admired by fellow officers and his crew and was looking forward to a long and prosperous career in the Navy. As previously mentioned, boats had maps of the Pacific which were often inaccurate with the shoals not clearly marked. This particular coral reef was not on the maps at all. “Any PT man will tell you that he worried as much about reefs as he did about Japs,” said Lt Commander Hall, USN, whose PT boat had been sunk by friendly fire less than a month before. “You get hung up on a reef near an enemy held shore and you’re a sitting duck.” In fact the loss of PT boats to reefs rivaled the losses to enemy fire. Even one of the first PTs in the Pacific based at Pearl Harbor during the attack met its end not at the hands of the Japanese but by becoming stuck on a reef. Although Lt. Williams did not bear any fault for the events of the day, clearly he could never shake the weight of their burden and his career in the Navy effectively ended that day. His was a classic case of survival guilt. Spinning over and over in his mind was the thought, “What could I have done differently so the 16 men lost might be alive today?” He was subsequently “early retired” a year later from the Navy, partially mentally disabled from post- traumatic stress syndrome.

FIRST ATTACK OF THE DAY (EARLY MORNING)
The tragic chain of events began to unfold during a routine mission by PTs 347 and 350 to intercept any enemy traffic north or south, around Cape Pomas. Their orders were to destroy enemy barges, ships and shore installations wherever possible. It was a nighttime operation, and the boats were to have returned to base by sunup. When PT 347 became stuck on a reef at approximately 2 a.m., PT boat 350 (nick named “Nifty-Fifty” by the crew) and commanded by Lt. S. L. Manning spent half the night, almost five hours, attempting to dislodge her. Manning later reported, “In all this time, we were unable to get PT 347 off the reef.” When dawn broke efforts continued, but at great risk as the boats became clearly visible. The risk became life threatening as two planes were identified circling close by, and general quarters (the order to assume battle stations) sounded. The planes went into the attack position, so the PT men assumed they were Japanese Zeros.
These two planes were actually part of United States Marine fighter squadron VMF-215, led by Major James K. Dill, and part of Nimitz’s South Pacific Command. This squadron had passed through Hawaii and Midway in 1943 and later began combat missions in the Solomon Islands with its base moving progressively forward until it reached Torokina. In March 1944, it returned to Bougainville under the command of Major James K. Dill. By the end of World War II, Squadron 215 would be credited with downing 137 enemy air craft in the Pacific, with many fine men lost to the sea or to Japanese brutality. In October of 1944, the unit would be transferred state side to train new pilots.
Dill had been sent out earlier that morning to scout and attack any targets of opportunity. Four Corsairs headed out, but one plane had engine problems and headed back to base accompanied by his wingman. The two remaining planes had headed slightly off course, now in waters operated by the separate Southwest Pacific command. Having wandered off course, they had no information regarding the PT boats operating in the area. Major Dill’s wingman, Lt. Cochran, spotted two ships ahead, and the planes decided to fire on the targets, heading to 6,000 feet above the targets and well above the reach of anti-aircraft fire.
The Corsair fighters were one of the most heavily armed and fastest planes of the time, with speeds over 400 miles per hour. These planes were called “whispering death” by the Japanese due to the low pitched sound the engine made and the damage its six .50 caliber machine guns could inflict. The Corsair measured 33 feet in length with a wing span of 41 feet. It also had a very long nose which made landing on a carrier or looking directly below more difficult for the pilots, a flaw that would hamper the pilot’s ability to identify the PT boats as friendly.
The weather was clear and the sea was calm with a visibility that day of 15 miles, yet Major Dill reported seeing “no recognition signals of any kind.” However, by many of the PT men’s accounts, the planes began firing from two miles away, too far to allow for adequate visual inspection. There is little doubt that a visual by the pilots would have identified these boats as their own. Throughout the attack, PT 347 signaled “S” and “V” with the searchlight. Three officers aboard waved their arms frantically, unsuccessfully trying to raise the pilots using the radio daytime frequency until the last plane disappeared from sight.
Why were the pilots flying so high allowing them to remain oblivious to the PT men’s signals? Simply put, pilots flew high to avoid being shot down by the enemy so they could return alive and continue the next mission. Unknowingly they veered slightly off course, and with no intelligence to inform them that American PT boats were in the area, their true belief was that these were Japanese gunships.
The Japanese seemed to have a special hatred for these pilots who killed from the sky, and they were often ruthless when American pilots were shot down and finally within their grasp. Captured pilots were often killed immediately. Stories of pilots that were weighed down with chains and thrown overboard, hacked to death, bayoneted or beheaded circulated among the men. Japanese General Tachibana had even decreed that all POWs would be executed and eaten. The war in the Pacific was brutal, primitive, and it took every ounce of a man’s wits to avoid extinction. Perhaps it was the survival instinct that kept the planes too high.
Just before 7 a.m. Doc Hirsch and Red Connors, two cooks aboard the 350, were preparing a breakfast of flapjacks, bacon and coffee. Less than 20 minutes later, Doc Hirsch, who had come along just for the ride, would be dead, and Red Connors would be wounded, and PT 350, severely damaged and riddled by aircraft machine gun fire would be heading back to base at Talasea, Papua New Guinea, carrying three dead and five wounded. One American pilot would be dead. In the space of a just few minutes and a single strafing run made by two planes, many lives were changed or lost, and an even greater horror would be set in motion.
As the initial battle between the Marine pilots and the Navy PT boats began, some of the men thought the planes were their own as they approached. There was some disagreement regarding whether the planes were friendly; the Corsair fighters were not the typical American fighter planes the men were used to sighting. Were they going to buzz the men? This was a common practice, hated by the PT men. Were they trying to identify the boats? The men were hoping the planes would come near enough to recognize the PT boat’s distinctive silhouette and see the two huge aircraft identification stars painted in blue and white on both the chartroom canopy and on top of the day room canopy, the largest being seven feet in diameter. Several men reported, “All the gear was cleared from these areas immediately when the planes were sighted.” American flags waived from the top of the PT boats’ masts, forward and aft. PT 350 also started a 360-degree turn to the right as instructed for emergency identification, but Lt. Manning testified, “Before I had completed a third of the circle, the action had begun.”
With smoke coming from the leading edges of the planes’ wings and a path of bullets ripping up the water heading towards the boats, the PT men knew they were under attack.

PT BOAT 35O TAKES HEAVY LOSSES
Once the planes began to fire, PT boat 350, assuming the planes must be the enemy after all, proceeded eastward into deeper water and opened fire. Radioman Louis Brick sent a message to the USS Hilo, “We are being attacked by planes,” and then the radio received a direct hit, making further transmission impossible. As the two planes were pulling out of their dive, PT boat 350 blew a hole in one of the fighter’s wings and the plane went down. The pilot, Lt. Cochran, was lost at sea.
The damage log for PT boat 350 shows how much carnage had been delivered by a single run of the two Corsair planes. It reads:
Shrapnel on the port side of 37 mm, hole in the starboard deck and shrapnel marks forward, hole in deck by starboard forward cleat, 2 holes in deck on starboard bow, whole in forward hatch, shrapnel under life raft stowage, 2 holes in 20 mm ready service locker, also exploded one mag and hole in 20 mm handle, 1 20 mm mag creased, 20 mm mag caved in, shrapnel at galley hatch, 2 holes through forward combing on chartroom, 2 holes on top of chart room, shrapnel in 50 caliber turret on forward side, hole in forward torpedo rack starboard, hole through radar breather tube, hole in mag for 30 caliber, 50 caliber on starboard side hit by shell, hole in deck above starboard fuel tank, 3 holes in radar mast, forward starboard torpedo had 20 mm hole in warhead, hole through starboard side of day room, sheared cable on starboard depth charge rack, shrapnel through radar rack, beach casing of 40 mm hit, 1 hole engine room hatch cover, 2 hits on 40 MM ready service locker causing it to start on fire, 2 holes through auto loader cover on 40 MM, shrapnel holes in 40 MM ready box starboard side, 2 holes in aft day room, hole in forward port of day room on port side, 2 hits on deck on port beam, 7 bullet holes in cockpit, hole in port forward torpedo rack, 5 holes on port side of hull, 1 hole forward starboard side hull, 2 hits on aft starboard torpedo, hole in port 50 caliber turret, 50 caliber in port turret hit, blew up 2 37 MM ammunition boxes, and ammunition. Hole in mag for starboard twin 50 caliber mounted between torpedoes, exploding some of the ammunition.

The damage to PT boat 350 was extensive. Heavy smoke was pouring from the stern, and sheets of flames were coming over the engine hatch. Ammunition was exploding, and the boat was taking on water very rapidly in the engine room. Smoke continued to pour from the crew’s quarters and the chart room. A small fire in the crew’s quarters and a much larger fire in the armory were extinguished with the CO2 system, and the engineers finally got the engines started. PT 350 was ordered back to base. Two depth charges and four torpedoes had to be jettisoned to lighten the ship because of the bad leaks in the engine room to gain some speed. The engine room continued to flood, and they were able to drain it aft, but only while underway. It was a difficult trip aboard a PT with extensive damage and over half of its 15-man crew dead or injured.
The heavy smoke over PT 350 caused by the puncture of the smoke screen generator prevented accurate identification of the downed and burning plane. A few of the men thought the attacking planes were American, but most thought they were Japanese Zeros, and that was what was reported to command. The planes had swept around wide and up to an attack position and started in quickly, preventing easy identification. They also were a type of plane not common in the area; the men were used to seeing P-38s, P-40s, and P-47s, but not the Corsair fighters.

PT BOAT 346’s RESCUE MISSION
PT 347 had not been fired upon and had not suffered any personnel or material casualties but instead remained stuck on the reef, still a “sitting duck” in the daylight. Lt. Williams took a life raft to deliver medical supplies to the injured on PT 350. One of General MacArthur’s base commanders, Lt. “Red Dog” Thompson, commander of Squadron 25 at Talasea, was dispatched to help PT 347, still on the reef, and to deliver medical aid to the wounded on PT 350. He took out PT boat 346, skippered by Lt. James Burk and carrying Chief Petty Officer John Frkovich and Seaman James Cheek to render medical aid. Lt. Colonel James Petitt, United States Army, also went along as observer. Lt. Colonel Petitt left the base unaware he would die in less that six hours, perhaps suffering the most brutal wounds of the day.
Also on board was “Chopper”, an Irish terrier dog and beloved mascot of PT 346. Chopper had been raised by the crew from a puppy. He was a stray found by the men just before they went through the Panama Canal as they headed out to the South Pacific. The Panamanians had offered to trade the men a pig for Chopper, but they declined and kept a loyal friend. Chopper spent hours swimming in the Pacific fetching the men’s caps, a skill that saved his life later when he would have to stay afloat wounded for many hours.
As a precaution, Lt. Thompson had requested air cover from Cape Gloucester. It turned out that the damage to PT 350 was too extensive for PT 346 to come along side to provide medical aid. PT 350 could not stop without flooding so the men headed out to help PT 347 off the reef, and PT 349 escorted the damaged PT 350 back to base.
Lieutenant Thompson arrived at the site of PT 347 around 12:30 p.m. and began working to pull the boat from the coral heads. Around 1:30 p.m., the men heard planes approaching in the distance. The planes were flying in roughly five rows of four planes each. There were high clouds, but visibility was good enough to pick the planes out at a distance of ten miles. Lieutenant Howitt and Lieutenant Burk (skipper of 346) inspected the planes with glasses and noticed American markings on them. Lt. Thompson told the crew it was the air cover he had requested. “We have recognized them as friendly planes. They are our air cover. Go back to work. We have to get this done.” The salvage work continued. Both boats were immobile and tied together as the planes approached.

SECOND ATTACK OF THE DAY IS LAUNCHED
At the same time General MacArthur’s men were preparing to rescue PT 347, Admiral Nimitz’s men were preparing an all out attack on the gunboats, believing they were Japanese. The remaining Corsair Pilot and commander of the VMF-215 fighter squadron, Major Dill, returning to base, radioed that his wingman had been shot down, and that he had strafed two large Japanese gunboats. He radioed, “Order immediate attack!” Colonel C.T. Bailey at Green Island, under the command of Nimitz, held off ordering the attack until he could speak personally with Major Dill. After Major Dill landed, he reported the boats were 125-foot Japanese gunboats (PT boats are 80 feet in length) and heavily armed. He also gave an incorrect location of Lassul Bay. The PT boat schedule from the night before was checked, but for the wrong location.
Relying on Dill’s report, Colonel Bailey then launched an armada of planes in response (22 to be exact), all headed to finish off two gunboats, one immobile on a reef. The planes would not be able to locate the gunboats in Lassul Bay but would be redirected by Major Dill to the actual location, just North of Cape Lambert and outside of the planes authorized area of operation.
Terror was going to rain from the skies on PT 347 and PT 346 in a few short hours. The earlier morning attack involved two Corsair fighters and a single strafing run lasting only a few minutes, but now an entire squadron (four Corsair F4U fighters, six Avenger dive-bombers, four Hellcat F6F fighters, and eight Dauntless dive-bombers) was on the way. By 2:00 p.m. the two American PT boats would be facing the firepower of more than one hundred .50-caliber machine guns and thirty bombs. This ferocious attack on the men of PT 346 and 347 would continue until 3:30 p.m., or for approximately one and a half hours.

SECOND ATTACK OF THE DAY BEGINS
Around 2 p.m. the planes began to circle the area at high altitude and started making their runs. It slowly dawned on the sailors below that these friendly planes were not providing air cover, but launching an all out attack. “The planes had started peeling off to attack us, starting their runs at a distance of six or seven miles from the north,” Lt. Howitt reported. He also heard a voice over the radio say, “All right fellows, let’s go.” Lt. Thompson frantically attempted to contact the planes by radio but had no success. Prior to the attack and during the dive, the radiomen from both boats on the voice circuit called, “This is Sacred,” (meaning we are PT boats), and giving every known plane call signal they could think of – Hydraulic, Frolic, Smutty and Fred (all known fighter calls in the Southwest Pacific). The two PT boats, still tied together, never moved or fired.
But there was never any effort on the part of the planes to identify the PT boats. The planes were too high and too far away, and took no time to look the boats over before beginning their attack. “The planes made no attempt of any kind to challenge or identify the boats and came no closer than six or seven miles before starting their run,” testified Lt. Howitt. Unfortunately, no system of recognition signals can prevent an attack unless aircraft make an effort to identify their targets before attacking and give the boats a chance for their recognition signals to be seen. The boats were covered with three blue and white identifying stars (an additional star had been painted on the c*** pit cover of PT 347 since the first attack). Radio contact was attempted over and over, and American flags were flying. PT 347, which was hit earlier that day, had covered her deck with every available American flag--one flying from the radar mask, one from the stern, one especially rigged to hang from the bow and one draped over the engine room hatch; four in total. On PT 346 the officers braved machine gun bullets to hold up an eight foot American flag for identification. Some pilots would later say they saw the flags, but thought it was a trick by the Japanese.


PT 347 EXPLODES AND SINKS
PT 347, an easy, immobile target stuck on the reef, was the first target. Nicknamed “Zombie” by her crew, PT 346 would be consigned to the ranks of ghost ships that day. Gunner Wilbur Larsen provides this firsthand account. “The first bomb overshot the boat (thank God), and hit the reef, which blew coral all over the boat. Some of the boat’s guns were jammed with the coral and out of commission.” PT 347 fired several shots at the attacking planes. The abandon ship order was given by Lt. Williams, saving many lives as in a few short moments there would be several direct hits by bombers and a series of explosions followed by fire, which would completely destroy PT 347. Ensign Couch, third officer, reported she burned and exploded in front of her men.
Machine gunner Raymond Juneau, seaman first class, refused to leave his post and kept firing his .50 caliber machine guns to provide cover as the crew of PT 347 abandoned ship. He gave his life for his shipmates and was the first casualty on 347 when the direct bomb hit blowing PT 347 apart, just three minutes after the order to abandon ship.
Gunner Wilbur Larson, busy firing his 20-millimeter gun, also stayed on the boat until the last minute, but got off safely, then swam to rescue a passenger who was with him on the patrol, Carpenter Mate Forrest May. Larson reported that May got off the boat and was standing on the reef “yelling at me to come help him, as he couldn’t swim and had one thumb shot off, and he was hanging on to it.” Gunner Larsen got the injured non-swimmer, Forrest May, into the water so he would not be such an easy target as the dive bombers continued to try to hit PT 347. His personal account: “The bombers missed a couple of times and finally hit it with the third try. It was raining 100 octane gas from our fuel tank, and I was afraid the PT boat would catch fire, but it didn’t at that time.”
Little did the men know that their ordeal was just beginning. Soon after PT 347 was blown up by a bomb the men’s situation became even more precarious; several of the men reported tremendous gasoline fires and explosions and that the boats simply disintegrated. Larsen reports, “After the boat blew up they started strafing us. My non-swimmer and I faced each other so we could tell if the plane was lining up with us to strafe us, then we would duck under the water where we could see the .50-caliber bullets swooshing by.”
After going over the side, Seaman Larsen had removed his web belt and wrapped it around Forrest’s wrist and his hand in an attempt to keep Forrest’s severed thumb attached; he held his non-swimmer as they went under the water again and again--a very difficult ordeal for Wilbur Larsen who had Forrest May in tow. Wilbur Larsen would later be awarded the Navy Marine Corp Medal for saving Forrest May’s life. He spent the entire time in the water, not only keeping himself afloat but also keeping his non-swimming buddy afloat by pulling him up out of the water and then under again to avoid the non-stop air fire.
Lt. Williams ordered his men in the water to “REMAIN DISPURSED,” and also ordered them to put their helmet on their life jacket and duck under the water as the planes came in. The continual submersion required by the men proved too much for John Dunner of PT 347, who drowned. No one could say for sure if he had been hit. He became the second casualty of PT 347. Robert Valentine reported holding onto his life jacket, swimming under the water when the flames and bullets came, then returning to the surface to find his life jacket shot to pieces. He swam to a smoldering mattress, and hid behind it when the planes came in, again and again, for the kill.
Meanwhile Lt. Thompson, squadron commander who was on the 346, had made every attempt to contact the planes by radio to identify the boats as American, but to no avail. Bomber pilot Major Ernest Hemingway reported hearing a phantom cry, “Planes overhead,” but he attributed it to the fighter pilots.

PT 346 SINKS AND TAKES HEAVY CASUALTIES
The crew of the 346 was at general quarters, but no order to fire was given, and no shots were fired prior to the first run at PT 346. Lt. Thompson later testified, “I tried to contact the planes by radio. Lt. Burk, meanwhile, had hoisted a set of colors which were approximately eight feet in length.”
Lt. James Burk, skipper of 346, placed himself in the direct line of fire with the American flag to help identify the PT boat as friendly and save his men. This brave act did not surprise any of the men. The first shots from the planes hit him. Gunner Frank Burns testified, “The planes got Mr. Burk, our skipper, on the first run, so Mr. Thompson went to the wheel while Mr. Haywood, our executive officer, fired our recognition signals. The first bomb was a close miss, which put our engines out of commission and started a fire.” Burns’ station was the bow operating the 37-mm gun, and he reported, “All my ready boxes were shot up on the first run, on the second run the gun itself was blown from the mount.”
Meanwhile Chief Pharmacist Frkovich gave Lt. Burk, who had been gravely wounded a shot of morphine, and applied tourniquets where his legs used to be. As always, Frkovich kept his medic pouch close. In it were morphine syringes, bandages of all types including those for large chest wounds, adhesives, safety pins, tweezers, sulfa to disinfect wounds, penicillin and thick white pieces of cloth to be used as tourniquets for missing limbs--the tools that could mean the difference between life and death for the crew that day. During this time bombs were hitting all around the boat and planes were strafing. No one had been prepared for the attack; they thought the approaching American planes were their air cover. Many, including John Frkovich, did not have life jackets. Frkovich prepared to stay with his skipper and wait for his death. He had eaten with this man, suffered with this man, and, now, he would die with this man. However, just as he had begun to accept his death, the Captain performed one last act of courage.
John Frkovich had located a single life jacket and was attempting to place it on his wounded skipper, Lt. Burk. But Burk ordered Frkovich to take the life jacket for himself and to abandon ship, knowing full well that it signified his own imminent death. Seconds later Burk was gone. Concerned only for his men and their survival of the ordeal that was to come, he took his last breathe.
Ollie Talley was in the engine room when the first bomb hit, taking out the batteries and tearing up the starboard engine, causing a fire. He came out and saw the planes and Lt. Burk, curled up in the cockpit, dead. Over 60 years later when he was told that Lt. Burk had ordered Frkovich to take his life jacket, O J Talley replied, “I am not surprised, Lt. Burk was a great man and would have done anything for his men.” James Burk had lived his short life as it should be lived, as a leader and hero and in the service of others. Not once in all of his actions did he consider himself first, even when it meant his own demise.
Gunner Bob Mills was firing away on the forward 20 caliber machine gun, attempting to get the planes to abort. He would later die on the way back to base from internal injuries. Lt. Thompson, with Chief Frkovich by his side, made one last valiant effort to identify the boat as friendly. “I cut the large colors from the mast and stood up on the day room, holding them up so that the planes could see them. Chief Petty Officer Frkovich held up the other end of the colors, directly in the line of the strafing planes, which approached within at least 200 yards while strafing, without giving any sign of recognizing the colors.” Once again this valiant attempt to gain recognition as friendly was greeted with a burst of machine gun fire.
“All guns on PT 346 opened fire when it became apparent that the first planes were going to continue firing at it,” testified Lt. Howitt. After coming under heavy attack, PT 346 shot down a Hellcat F6 fighter (its pilot was later identified as Lt. Knight), which only made the situation worse. Ensign Wilde testified he and some of the other men tried to throw the life raft overboard, but “we saw another plane coming in, so we hid behind the forward torpedo on the port side. Seeing a bomb released I took hold of the railing on the dayroom. It appeared to me that the bomb went through the bulkhead into the crew’s quarters. The explosion lifted the entire boat.”
A second account was provided by Lt. Thompson. “A 1,000 pound bomb passed through the day room and exploded beneath the boat,” he testified. “The boat immediately went into flames, and I ove over the starboard quarter into the water.” Verle Wisdom and Paul Whitmore also reported abandoning ship.
Several men reported being blown off the boat into the water: John Frkovich, Frank Burns, J.H. Cheek, and James Alkire. Chief engineer O. J. Talley reported being blown out of his shoes, with a life raft in hand. Witnesses from nearby PT 347 saw the explosion lift the entire boat out of the water. The abandon ship order could scarcely be heard over the roar of the fires and the exploding ammunition. Frkovich told his family he could not have survived the upcoming ordeal in the water that day without the life jacket from his skipper, James Burk.
Lt. Williams from the PT 347 indicated he looked over at the 346 and saw her burning furiously, with the TBF’s skip bombing and planes strafing her. Pieces of PT 346, along with many of her men, were blown through the air. Both Lt. Burk and PT boat 346, the “Betty Bee”, named for Lt. Burk’s wife were gone. But at that moment the men had no time to mourn their loss.

ENEMY IN THE MIRROR Continued SEE PART II