Logo by: Pat Stephens, Webmaster, DESA
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The Day I Borrowed the Commandant’s Limo |
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By Andy Bisaccia |
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The erstwhile warship, USS Whitehurst, had a stopover in Pearl Harbor in 1950 on
the way to the Korean Forward Area for the purpose of taking on fuel, supplies
and refurbishing the ship with red lead, gray paint, and new fittings. The crew
collectively rolled up their sleeves and, with a lot of good old elbow grease,
managed to smooth out the wrinkles of the old gal and give her a facelift to
restore her to a semblance of her former youth. The ship had been preserved as
part of the moth ball fleet in Green Cove Springs, Florida since World War II,
and now it was being aired out for a stint of duty in another theater of
conflict, and was about to write a new chapter in its combat history. Little did
I dream that I would become engaged in one of the most unlikely personal dramas
of my life which put into motion a series of events that were bizarre and
incongruous, to say the least. Allow me to
digress a moment to tell you how fate intervened, and how I found myself a
member of the crew on the way to many exciting and unexpected adventures. Shortly after I graduated from college in June of
1950, the Korean War broke out and a couple of months later I received a
telegram from the War Department ordering me to report to active duty at the
Destroyer Base in San Diego. I was a non-drill pay member in the inactive
reserves, and had been assured upon enlistment following WWII that I would be
called up only after the old men, women, children, and the lame. Boy, did they
go through that list fast! In this case, I didn’t mind it a bit and I was
raring to go. I was teaching at a school for brain- damaged children, and it turned
out to be a noble pursuit but very demoralizing work. I felt this call to duty
was divine intervention for my salvation from a fate worse than death.
Ironically, all my friends who were active reservists attached to the Santa
Barbara Naval Reserve never served in the Korean War because their unit never
got called up. I actually felt sorry for them because I always relished an
opportunity to have a new adventure. It had become a big part of my lifestyle
whether by happenstance or fabrication. One day, during my short stint at the Destroyer Base
while awaiting an assignment, I was ordered (nobody ever asks you to do
anything in the service) to report to the classification office for an
interview. I discovered that my old rate of MaM, Mailman, had since been
changed to TeM, Teleman, and now included a composite of Teletype operator,
mailman, and radarman. They cleverly managed to get three rates for the price
of one. I was then told, I think with tongue in cheek, that since I was a
veteran of WW II I had a choice of duty station. With a straight face, I
informed the man that they may not want me because I was only going to be a
tourist in uniform. The gentleman replied that they assured me that they needed
my services, even as a tourist. “Okay that’s a deal”, I said, “In that case I
would like to serve on a heavy cruiser in the Mediterranean.” He gave me a wry
smile, and I audibly licked my chops as I visualized lounging around in the
Navy’s Club Med surrounded by scantily clad chicks on one hand and a Bloody
Mary in the other. Two days later the billet sheet was posted and there we
were, all of us, amongst helpless moans and groans, assigned to ships going to
the Forward Area, a euphemism for the Korean theater of hostilities where a
bloody war was being fought. Surprise, surprise! And there for the first time I
gazed upon the name of my new home for the duration with a twinge of
disaffection, the USS Whitehurst DE 634. I guess the navy was adamant in its
belief that before I would be allowed to board this floating germ contaminant
chamber of horrors, I had to be immunized by a series of seven shots. Well, I
had already gotten them the first day I reported to the base, and I was just
now getting over the soreness and stiffness when I was informed that my shot
record had gotten misplaced. So as not to relive the painful memory of what
happened next, I will leave the outcome of that fiasco to your vivid
imaginations. Stay tuned, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. Now, let’s fast
forward to Hawaii. While we were in Pearl, getting ready for a three day
training exercise to put the ship and crew to the test, I was hanging out in
the radio shack with some of my mates when a radio dispatch came through from
Bupers stating that the Chief of Naval Operations was looking for seven men in
the Pacific theater to fill openings in the General Line for Special Services,
Designator 1635, Navy Intelligence. It instantly piqued my interest. I looked
at the dispatch, and was somewhat amazed to learn that I could meet the
qualifications. It stated that application could be made through the office of
the Commandant of the 14th Naval District at Navy 128, Pearl
Harbor. If I hadn’t been in the radio
shack when the message came through, I would have never known about the
dispatch because it was never posted for the crew to see, as it was supposed to
be according to the instructions. I had to have a game plan to get off the ship to look
into the matter because I didn’t think I’d have the blessings of the “old man”.
I figured he wouldn’t want any of his crew to come back to haunt him if they
became Navy Intelligence, so he might dissuade any such action, especially in
light of the fact that we had had a Navy Intelligence investigation on our ship
in Pearl due to complaints about the chow. I felt he had ONI stuck in his craw,
so discretion was in order. The day the
ship was going out on its training exercise presented me with the perfect
opportunity to make my move. I sweet-talked the officer of the deck into
letting me go ashore to pick up the personal and guard mail. That never
required much arm-twisting and was more akin to a sucker punch. The mere
mention of mail always gave me carte blanche to get off the ship. I put on my
undress blues, strapped on my trusty 45 automatic sidearm, grabbed my leather
mailbag and headed for the beach. With purposeful stride and firm determination to
better my lot, I steered my way to the office of the Commandant of the 14th
Naval District. Upon entering this sanctum sanctorum, a Marine sergeant in
dress uniform sitting behind a desk greeted me and asked me the nature of my
business. I told him I was there to
make application for one of the openings in Navy Intelligence. A booming voice
from the inner office suddenly erupted, “ Sergeant, send that man in here.” I
checked my sidearm with the Marine, and he escorted me into the presence of a
portly admiral, the Commandant of the 14th Naval District! I saluted
him and he told me to be seated. “Young man, what makes you think you qualify
for Navy Intelligence?” he led off. “Well, sir, we got a dispatch on board my ship stating
there were seven openings in the Pacific Fleet open to anyone who felt he had
the qualifications to apply. I looked them over and I feel that I can meet
them.” “Alright then, we’ll send you down to Intelligence
Headquarters in Honolulu for a preliminary interview to ascertain if you do
meet the requirements.” He then called out to the sergeant who promptly
appeared at the doorway, “ Call Navy Intelligence downtown and tell them That
I’m sending down an applicant for screening within the hour whose name is
Andrew Bisaccia, a petty officer attached to the Whitehurst. Also, have my car
brought around to the curb. Instruct the driver to take Bisaccia to Naval
Intelligence Headquarters and to bring him back to the base when he has taken
care of his business.” With that, the admiral strode over to a filing
cabinet, opened the drawer, and pulled out a navy neckerchief. He said, “Here, you’ll
need this to get out the gate. Good luck on your interview.” I thanked him and
he shook my hand. I saluted, and departed for the next leg of my adventure into
the unknown. The Marine escorted me down the stairs to the waiting
black limo with the admiral’s flags fluttering on the front fenders. I climbed
into the backseat, and the limo headed for the front gate. I think I was in a
state of partial shock because I couldn’t quite grasp the reality of what was
happening to a lowly white hat sitting in the back seat of the commandant’s own
private limo being escorted by a Marine driver in full uniform to the office of
Navy Intelligence. The thought did run through my head that the navy must be
pretty damned hard up. As we approached the front gate to Pearl, the two
Marines on guard snapped to attention and smartly brought their rifles up to a
salute. That was back in the days before tinted windows. Of course, they
thought they were saluting the admiral until the car pulled abreast of them.
Their jaws literally dropped, and they displayed a wide-eyed look of disbelief
and utter astonishment as they gazed at me propped up in the back seat, pretty
as you please, with my white hat and
undress blues and the grin of a Cheshire cat to further perplex them. I often
reflect on what went through their minds. I wonder how many times they have
told this story, like me, over the last fifty plus years. I’ll bet that made
teetotalers out of some of them. We pulled up to the front of a very non-descript
looking building near downtown Honolulu. The Marine driver hopped out and held
the door open for me. This must have presented a bizarre scene to any
passerby. That goes without saying.
Perhaps anyone who witnessed this anomaly looked upon it as a conundrum that
begged an answer and defied all logic. It probably passed through the minds of
some that I was an undercover agent in some kind of sub rosa operation for Navy
Intelligence and had come in out of the cold, as I strode nonchalantly into the
Honolulu headquarters of ONI and was cordially greeted by a broad grinned WAVE
secretary. After stating my business, I was asked to take a seat.
Shortly, a navy commander emerged and asked me to accompany him to his office.
He spent a few minutes putting me at ease and making small talk. Then he got down to business. We discussed
the qualifications and if I could meet them. Once it was decided that I could
meet the requirements, he had me fill out an application. Afterwards he looked
it over and had me sign it. Then he had the secretary write a letter to my
skipper, Captain Evans, apprising him of what was transpiring and to have him
write a letter to the commanding officer of the USS Haven, hospital ship at
Pearl, to have me undergo a complete medical examination for a commissioned grade
in the General Line for Special Services. Subsequent to this exam, I was to
report to ONI in Honolulu for two interviews on consecutive days. I could have predicted that Evans would treat me with
kid gloves once he got the news I was a candidate for Navy Intelligence. He
seemed quite amenable to the order. It suddenly seemed that if anyone had the
slightest taint of Navy Intelligence lingering about him that he became an
untouchable. He actually congratulated me and wrote the letter to the commanding
officer of the Haven which I took with me the next day when I reported for my
physical exam. Aboard the Haven, I was turned over to a team of three
doctors who gave me a thorough going over from bow to stern looking for any
physical defects which would instantly eliminate me and likely send me back to
face the music. As it turned out, with
a great sigh of relief, they could find nothing amiss with the physical part of
me after a great deal of probing, poking, sticking, x-raying, listening,
thumping, blood-letting, urinating, and pricking. They found me to be in
excellent physical condition, much to my surprise, BUT it was like they had to
find some flaw, albeit one that could be corrected. They agreed that I had a
weak hernia wall on my left side that needed to be reinforced surgically
because it might just give out, I suppose, when wrestling 250 pound spies to
the ground or grunting too hard on the john. Once that was out of the way, I
was ready for the next step in the process—my interviews. I reported the following day back to ONI headquarters
in Honolulu. I was shown into a room where two naval officers in uniform and a
civilian in a suit sat on a dais at the end of the room. I was asked to come
forward and to take a seat in a chair close to the panel of interviewers. The
civilian sat between the two naval officers and appeared to be in charge. After
introductions were made all around, and I was put at ease, the questioning
began. As it turned out, the civilian was none other than Thomas Braden, one of
the directors of the CIA, who I presumed was passing through Hawaii and was
probably asked to head up the interview for whatever reason. Thomas Braden was the Director of International
Organization for the CIA and their chief propagandist. Paradoxically, somewhere
down the line, he was the Director of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New
York. He also later wrote the popular weekly TV serial, Eight is Enough, and
produced it. It told of the bittersweet raising of his eight children when the
mother passed away. Seventeen years later I taught his son David at Thacher
School in Ojai. As a result, I had the opportunity to meet Thomas Braden once
again, and I was surprised that he remembered me and the interview he presided
over many years before. As I sat in the hot seat, I was asked questions
obviously inquiring into my philosophy of life, knowledge, loyalties,
astuteness, and problem solving abilities. Mind you, I was only twenty-three
years old and still wet behind the ears. Pretty heady stuff for one so young.
Perhaps my elderly parents had imbued me with worldly wisdom. I was asked
questions all the way from did I think that communism could be a viable form of
government for countries such as China, as to what I would do to uncover
disloyalties in the high command and how I would handle it. One of the members
of the board noticed on my application that I had listed I was an Eagle Scout.
The interview suddenly took on an informal tone and completely different
tangent as all three of my inquisitors became animated as they reminisced about
their scouting days with great fondness. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised that
they too were Eagle Scouts. For a moment we all reveled in each other’s common
bond and became equals. My anxiety level was diminished, tensions were eased,
and suddenly a rapport existed that wasn’t there before. Following two days of intensive grilling the interview
came to an end, and I was asked to step
from the room while deliberations were underway to determine my fate. After
about thirty minutes, I was asked to return to face the verdict. I was warmly
greeted, my hand shaken vigorously, and hearty congratulations offered by the
illustrious triumvirate. I had passed the test with flying colors. Needless to
say, I breathed a sigh of relief. I was then told that orders would be issued to my
commanding officer instructing him to temporarily relieve me of duty aboard
ship to report to Tripler Army Hospital for corrective surgery pursuant to my
being processed as a candidate for Navy Intelligence. The next day I packed gear into my sea bag, put on my
dress blues, bid adieu to my shipmates, headed down the gangway and off to
Moanalua Ridge where Tripler Army Hospital is situated a few miles out of
Honolulu. Upon arriving at Tripler, I was assigned to a ward, given a bed, and
issued hospital garb that I used mostly as pajamas. There were about eight beds in the ward that seemed to
be reserved for veterans who needed treatment, or people like myself who were
on active duty and were a special case. The man who occupied the bed next to me
was a Japanese American Hawaiian by the name of Clarence Koike, a veteran of
WWII who was a Nisei who served in Italy and had sustained some pretty serious
wounds. He had checked in for some periodical repair work and maintenance. We
hit it off right away and became good friends. His mother and father would come
on Sunday and pick him up. He and they invited me to join them. They took me to
a Buddhist Temple in the Moana Valley where I was a spectator at their worship
service. Afterwards we adjourned to their home where we shed our shoes at the
front door, old country style, before entering. They prepared a fine Japanese
meal followed by an interesting discussion after which we were returned to the
hospital. It was a memorable experience. I came to learn at a young age that
all peoples and cultures have much in common where we can find comfort zones of
discourse and agreement. The weeks rolled by and I became a persona non grata.
I didn’t feel it was my place to speak up and sound any alarms. After all, I
was just a young swab jockey with no clout. I figured when they were ready they
would get around to me. Besides, I was having a good time, so while spoil good
thing? In the meantime, I was
completely ignored. I did give them fair warning that I was only going to be a
tourist in uniform when they called me back to duty. I had to be true to my
word. I would try my best to keep my promise. I would come and go as I pleased and nobody ever said boo
to me. I took in movies at the hospital’s movie theater, went swimming in the
pool, sunning on the deck, playing cards in the dining room, hanging out at the
snack bar, frequented the pool room, kicked back in the library, and went on
liberty to Waikiki. While I was in
Pearl Harbor I ran into Steve Arrellanes one day in the chow line. I was
Steve’s old patrol leader when he was a member of the Copperhead Patrol in
Troop 11 Santa Barbara. Steve was an Airedale in the Marine Corps air
wing stationed at Pearl Harbor. He would fly home almost every weekend on space
available. When he returned, he would come to the hospital and bring me care
packages and letters from my parents. He and I often went on liberty and had
many good times going around the island having adventures. On Christmas day we
ran into a group of older wealthy Americans on one of our excursions to the
windward side of the island. They were staying at the Royal Hawaiian Hotel on
Waikiki and invited to join them for dinner. We both snapped up the invitation
because Steve and I were both feeling homesick and depressed, but thanks to
these gracious people who took pity on us it turned out to be a glorious day.
Mele Kalikimaka! As I remember, our ship pulled out of Pearl in January
heading for Korea. I was the only member from our ship who stayed behind and
watched the ship pull away from the dock. The ship was given a glorious aloha
by beautiful Hawaiian girls who did the hula while accompanied by guitars and
vocalists. My movie camera captured this memorable event in living color for
posterity over a half century ago. About three weeks after I checked into Tripler, I was
kicking back on my bed making a square knot belt from parachute shrouds
supplied by Marine buddy, Steve. An Army surgeon in green operating room
attire, referred to as a Green Hornet, happened through the ward and
caught me lollygagging. He wanted to know why I was occupying a bed when there
were wounded stacked up in the hallways flown in from Korea with blood caked
clothes and IV’s stuck in their arms waiting for a bed and clean sheets? I
suppose that after considerable stuttering and stammering, I told him why I was
there. He abruptly turned to the nurse in charge and told her to prep me that
evening and prepare me for surgery in the morning. Following the surgery, they gave me a whole day to
recuperate. Then, it was up and out of bed joining a group of convalescents on
the lawn outside for exercises in the rain. The day after that, they had me
pushing a bucket on a chair down a hallway swabbing the deck and polishing it
with a buffing machine. The military can be a humbling experience. A week or so later I found myself a passenger on the
baby flat top, USS Cape Esperance, heading for Bangkok to deliver Marine
trainer aircraft to the Thai Air Force. After a couple of days in sin city, we
headed for Yokosuka Naval Receiving Station where I was put on board another
naval vessel destined for Pusan where I subsequently rejoined my ship and
buddies in Pusan Harbor. I believe there were those in the crew who never knew
I had been gone. The Whitehurst was eventually assigned to duty in the
Yellow Sea where we served for several months. During that time, I received a
communiqué from the Chief of Naval Operations that was delivered to me in
person by Lt. Alsover. By signing on the line I would be accepting the
appointment. I was to be decommissioned an enlisted man and commissioned an
officer with orders to be put ashore at the nearest naval facility and be sent
under orders to Washington, D.C. By this time, I was at the top of the list for
discharge since I was a hardship case. We were told that we were all in for the
duration and it looked like the war might go on for a protracted period. Much
to our surprise and delight, the war was winding down and the end was in sight.
Simply put, I decided that my aging, ailing parents needed me at home more than
Navy Intelligence needed me, so I opted to get out. Ironically, Lt. Alsover was
fit to be tied because, as it turned out, his big aspiration was to be in Navy
Intelligence and his application had been turned down several times. I could
understand his feelings. If circumstances had been different I would have
seized the opportunity without hesitation. I felt extremely sorry for all that
I had put the Navy through, including the screening that was a big part of the
qualifying process. Seventeen years later, I applied for Naval
Intelligence, the civilian branch of Navy Intelligence. I passed with flying
colors and became a Naval Intelligence Agent with a GS 14 rating, which gave me
the rank of commander whenever I was in uniform. But that’s another story for a
later time.
Andy Bisaccia has contributed several
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