In 1943, after enlisting in the Navy, Tom Holcomb started a diary about his experience aboard a destroyer during World War II. At 84, he has a growing appreciation for the importance of preserving a record of his place in history.
CHARLESTON, W. Va. -- He was 17, fresh out of Charleston High School. He didn't dare think of going to college, much less getting a job. His country was fighting a war. "Everybody was in the service if they weren't 4F," he said. So he enlisted in the Navy.
In a small black address book, Tom Holcomb started a diary. Nothing fancy or long-winded. Just brief notations about his life on a destroyer, the USS Barton. By the time the war ended, he had filled three small journals, all just big enough to fit in his pocket.
He married, reared two daughters, sold insurance for a living. The diaries gathered dust in the attic. "I almost forgot I had them," he said.
In 1989, during the 40th USS Barton reunion, two former shipmates encouraged him to print the journals to share with Barton alumni. He spent months perusing the diaries, deciphering his handwriting, checking dates.
His wife, Eadie, typed each entry. He made 100 copies and distributed them at the reunion the following year. "They had no idea about dates and things," he said, "so I'm glad I did it. And now, my children have something."
Nineteen years later, at 84, Holcomb appreciates even more the importance of preserving a record of his place in history.
"The last time this country was united was World War II," he said. "Tom Brokaw is probably right. We are the greatest generation. And about 1,200 of us a day are dying."
Holcomb spent 31 months in the Navy, 25 of them aboard the Barton. "We were just kids when we got on," he said. "We were a lot older when we got off."
Framed medals, including six battle stars, one for the Atlantic, five for the Pacific, hang on his living room wall above a picture of the Barton. A piece of shrapnel from a Japanese plane sits on the table beside a towering cannon shell.
He wasn't always so open about his role in the war. "Most of us never talked about it until recently," he said.
His father, a World War I veteran, wouldn't talk about the war at all. "I asked him how he got to be a sergeant. He said, 'They didn't have anyone else to put in there.' And that's all he ever said."
As he moved through his own war, Holcomb started to understand the emotion his father and other veterans try to bury.
In 1994, he went to Normandy for the 50th anniversary of the landing. "The pillbox was still there," he said. "I pictured myself as an 18-year-old German boy on watch. Everything is calm. The next morning before daylight, about 3,000 ships come up like King Neptune out of the channel. I told my wife, 'I have to get out of here.' I had tears in my eyes."
When he retrieved the diaries from the attic and started to read, long muted feelings pushed sharply into focus.
He traveled 87,310 miles on the Barton, he said, "three-quarters of the way around the world before my 21st birthday."
Every day, he made notes in his diary. He wrote about the awful things he saw, all the blood and guts and gore of war. He wrote mostly about everyday life on a ship. Between sporadic bouts of high drama, he washed clothes, wrote and received letters, got a haircut, went to the dentist, attended church, watched movie after movie after movie.
"Hurry up and wait, that's the military," he said.
Action erupted in stormy spurts. As he read the diaries, he fought the battles again and again. None raced through his mind more vividly than D-Day at Normandy and Cherbourg in the Atlantic.
"We took five brand new destroyers to Normandy," he said. "Four of us were hit. One of us was sunk. The Barton didn't lose any men. We called ourselves 'the Lucky B.'"
On Saturday, May 13, 1944, he left New York harbor with four other ships, then joined 10 cargo ships and two tankers to form a convoy. Despite rumors about the destination, nobody knew for sure, he wrote.
The first stop 10 days later was Glasgow, Scotland. Three days later, they laid out in Plymouth, England. They left on Saturday, June 3. "The division officers said, 'Well, I guess you know where we are going.' It was time for the invasion to start, and we were right in the middle of it."
The Barton led a convoy of LLTs, LCIs and landing barges. As the flagship with a full captain, the Barton led the way. On board with the flag was movie star Robert Montgomery, a lieutenant commander. "He was a handsome man," Holcomb said. "He put on a skit for us one night."
CHARLESTON, W. Va. -- He was 17, fresh out of Charleston High School. He didn't dare think of going to college, much less getting a job. His country was fighting a war. "Everybody was in the service if they weren't 4F," he said. So he enlisted in the Navy.
In a small black address book, Tom Holcomb started a diary. Nothing fancy or long-winded. Just brief notations about his life on a destroyer, the USS Barton. By the time the war ended, he had filled three small journals, all just big enough to fit in his pocket.
He married, reared two daughters, sold insurance for a living. The diaries gathered dust in the attic. "I almost forgot I had them," he said.
In 1989, during the 40th USS Barton reunion, two former shipmates encouraged him to print the journals to share with Barton alumni. He spent months perusing the diaries, deciphering his handwriting, checking dates.
His wife, Eadie, typed each entry. He made 100 copies and distributed them at the reunion the following year. "They had no idea about dates and things," he said, "so I'm glad I did it. And now, my children have something."
Nineteen years later, at 84, Holcomb appreciates even more the importance of preserving a record of his place in history.
"The last time this country was united was World War II," he said. "Tom Brokaw is probably right. We are the greatest generation. And about 1,200 of us a day are dying."
Holcomb spent 31 months in the Navy, 25 of them aboard the Barton. "We were just kids when we got on," he said. "We were a lot older when we got off."
Framed medals, including six battle stars, one for the Atlantic, five for the Pacific, hang on his living room wall above a picture of the Barton. A piece of shrapnel from a Japanese plane sits on the table beside a towering cannon shell.
He wasn't always so open about his role in the war. "Most of us never talked about it until recently," he said.
His father, a World War I veteran, wouldn't talk about the war at all. "I asked him how he got to be a sergeant. He said, 'They didn't have anyone else to put in there.' And that's all he ever said."
As he moved through his own war, Holcomb started to understand the emotion his father and other veterans try to bury.
In 1994, he went to Normandy for the 50th anniversary of the landing. "The pillbox was still there," he said. "I pictured myself as an 18-year-old German boy on watch. Everything is calm. The next morning before daylight, about 3,000 ships come up like King Neptune out of the channel. I told my wife, 'I have to get out of here.' I had tears in my eyes."
When he retrieved the diaries from the attic and started to read, long muted feelings pushed sharply into focus.
He traveled 87,310 miles on the Barton, he said, "three-quarters of the way around the world before my 21st birthday."
Every day, he made notes in his diary. He wrote about the awful things he saw, all the blood and guts and gore of war. He wrote mostly about everyday life on a ship. Between sporadic bouts of high drama, he washed clothes, wrote and received letters, got a haircut, went to the dentist, attended church, watched movie after movie after movie.
"Hurry up and wait, that's the military," he said.
Action erupted in stormy spurts. As he read the diaries, he fought the battles again and again. None raced through his mind more vividly than D-Day at Normandy and Cherbourg in the Atlantic.
"We took five brand new destroyers to Normandy," he said. "Four of us were hit. One of us was sunk. The Barton didn't lose any men. We called ourselves 'the Lucky B.'"
On Saturday, May 13, 1944, he left New York harbor with four other ships, then joined 10 cargo ships and two tankers to form a convoy. Despite rumors about the destination, nobody knew for sure, he wrote.
The first stop 10 days later was Glasgow, Scotland. Three days later, they laid out in Plymouth, England. They left on Saturday, June 3. "The division officers said, 'Well, I guess you know where we are going.' It was time for the invasion to start, and we were right in the middle of it."
The Barton led a convoy of LLTs, LCIs and landing barges. As the flagship with a full captain, the Barton led the way. On board with the flag was movie star Robert Montgomery, a lieutenant commander. "He was a handsome man," Holcomb said. "He put on a skit for us one night."
The strike planned for June 5 was delayed for 24 hours. "In the meantime, it was getting cold and wet."
The invasion started early the next morning amid a cacophony of roaring guns and low-flying planes. His squadron invaded and bombarded the beach off Cherbourg on the northern coast of France, an effort to clear the beach for encroaching troops.
"There was just about everything floating in the water. Soldiers were floating by, some face up, some face down. There were powder cans, tanks, foam, gasoline and many other things."
Three ships struck mines. Two went down.
German planes flew out that night. The Barton shot down one.
They screened for other ships and nearly got hit as a German dive bomber dropped three bombs just ahead of the bow. "For 10 days, we never slept in our bunks. All night long, we were on our guns, with half the crew sleeping four hours and the other half sleeping the remaining four."
Beachhead established, they left the French coast on Wednesday, June 21, to regroup in England. They returned the following Sunday to bombard Cherbourg.
At one point, a projectile hit the fantail just above the waterline and a repair crew worked to keep water from flowing in. "The projectile did not explode, which was the luckiest break any ship could have, because we would have gone down in a couple of minutes."
Oil gushed through the ship, oozing side-to-side over lockers and bunks whenever the ship rolled.
Sometime later, the O'Brien got hit by a projectile and sustained great damage. "Heads, arms, feet and hands were all over the superstructure, and blood was going back and forth as the ship rolled. Thirteen were killed, seven wounded and one was reported missing.
"...They played Taps for the boys who lost their lives trying to make America a better place to live ... We were all lucky to come out alive."
The Normandy invasion wasn't the worst of it. He reserved that distinction for Jan. 6, 1944, in the Lingayen Gulf. "This is the worst day of my Naval career, which I thought was about ended," he wrote.
Early that morning, the Barton helped sink a tanker. Then they received orders to pick up a man in the water. "One leg was broken practically off. His hands and arms were swollen, and his eyes were shut with blood all over his face ... He died that night."
Later on patrol, they sighted a Japanese plane heading straight for them. "We opened fire with everything we had, but he kept on coming ... He started his dive for our ship in a suicide attempt. Everybody knew it was the end.
"I was trying to load my gun and couldn't keep my eyes off him. My eyes were big, and my knees were knocking hard, but he didn't stop."
The plane hit a few feet forward of the ship and exploded as it hit the water, spewing gas and parts all over the ship. "The pilot's brains were smashed on the forecastle, and someone picked up [his] hand, which the doctor has at present."
One thing that sticks in his mind was the metal shard he found on the signal bridge stamped 'Made in USA'. "We were almost killed by our own metal sold to the Japanese."
On Friday, Aug. 10, he was watching a movie when men on the tender told them the war in Japan was over. "Search lights, flares, horn, sirens, whistles and other things were going full blast. No Fourth of July could be any better, and never forgotten by thousands of men and Filipinos."
That night, they had a sunny-side-up egg and ham for a midnight snack. "It was swell," he declared.
Somewhere in time, the third journal got soaked with water, he said. Using a magnifying glass, he deciphered as much as he could, but the typed journal essentially ends in October 1945.
On March 25, 1946, he received his discharge in Bainbridge, Md.
"I made $1,900.05 during my 31 months in the Navy," he said, "but I got $1 million worth of experience."
Reach Sandy Wells at san...@wvgazette.com or 304-348-5173.
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Which is unlike the current wars where Soldiers and Marines are rotated in and out after a few months, and the enemy is there 24/7 until they win or die.