Charles W Lawson (1893-1922): Killed in a Mine Explosion

Charles "Charlie" W. Lawson married Mary Frances Crockett on 31 August 1921 in McDowell County, West Virginia. He was 28 years old at the time of their marriage and she was 16. Charles worked as a coal miner and a few weeks before their first anniversary, he was killed by dynamite in a mining accident in Coalwood, a town in McDowell County.

It was a tragic story, but sadly not all that unusual as mining was one of the most dangerous occupations in the country at the time.

And then I found this article about Charlie in the Charlotte Observer:

From The Charlotte Observer, 12 August 1922, page 12

YOUNG MAN KILLED IN MINE EXPLOSION

Tragedy Seems to Have Followed Two Generations of the Lawson Family, of Mount Airy

MOUNT AIRY, Aug. 10 -- The remains of Charlie Lawson arrived here Monday night and were carried to his former home in Virginia Tuesday for interment. The young man was killed in a mine explosion in Coalwood, W. Va. His death calls to mind the sad tragedy of the Lawson family, several years ago, about Christmas time, the elder Lawson, father of Charles, disappeared from his home and after an absence of a few weeks suspicion took form that there had been foul play. A search was made and the body found buried in a field near the home, the field had been plowed to cover signs of the grave. The father was a heavy drinker and was cruel to his wife when under the influence of liquor and the boy was tried for murdering his father. He was sentenced to 18 years in the penitentiary. About a year ago he was pardoned and went to West Virginia where he married. The people in the neighborhood petitioned the governor for his pardon, some feeling that he was not guilty, and if guilty there was great provocation.

Charlie's father was William Swanson Lawson and according to his death certificate, he was last seen on 23 December 1913. The cause of his death was a fractured skull and lacerated brain caused by murder. An article in the 19 January 1914 edition of The Robesonian stated that Charlie, aged 20, and his brother, Samuel, 17, confessed but said the murder was in defense of their mother.

Charles likely served 7 years in the state penitentiary before he was pardoned in 1921.

His wife, Mary Frances (Crockett) Lawson was pregnant at the time of his death and gave birth to a daughter, Naovea Claire, on 11 March 1923.

She married my third cousin twice removed, Theodore Roosevelt Barrett[1], in July 1926. They had four children together before Mary Frances died on 15 January 1936, at the age of 30, of puerperal sepsis, a postpartum infection following the birth of their youngest child.

Theodore married Mary Frances' sister, Marjorie Claire (Crockett) Jarrett, a widow, on 19 July 1939 in Buchanan County, Virginia.

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[1] Theodore Roosevelt Barrett descended from our most recent common ancestor as follows: Benjamin Waldron >> Thomas Waldron >> Augustus Spotts Waldron >> Mary Jane (Waldron) Barrett. Waldron was most often spelled Walrond before the Civil War.

Halsey's Typhoon

Guest Author: John E. Jennings, my brother and amateur historian.

After discovering a distant cousin was killed during World War II when his ship went down during a typhoon, I asked my brother to write about the disaster that caused his death. Machinist Mate 1st Class Edward Henkel's name is included on the Walls of the Missing at the American Memorial Cemetery in Taguig City, Philippines.

***

Almighty Father, strong to save,

Whose arm hath bound the restless wave,

Who bidd'st the mighty ocean deep

Its own appointed limits keep:

O hear us when we cry to thee

For those in peril on the sea.

This old Royal Navy hymn was popularized in the days of sail, but was still readily on the lips of sailors in the closing stages of World War II, for even ships made of steel and powered by steam-turbines had to take heed of Mother Nature’s wrath. Case in point was the typhoon that struck the United States fleet in the Pacific on 18 December, 1944.

By that late stage of the war U.S. 3rd Fleet, commanded by Admiral William F. Halsey—known by the nickname “Bull” because of his single-minded devotion to attacking the enemy—was an all-conquering force, the most powerful armada ever assembled in history. The fleet consisted of 13 aircraft carriers, eight battleships, 15 cruisers and about 50 destroyers. They were supported by a Logistics Group (Task Force 30) of tankers, escort carriers and destroyers, ready to resupply the warships at sea so they could remain longer in the combat zone. Just two months before, Halsey’s fleet had destroyed virtually the entire Japanese Combined Fleet during the Battle of Leyte Gulf. But, there was still plenty of fighting left. MacArthur’s army forces had just invaded Mindoro in the Philippines and Halsey’s carriers operated in support of the ground troops, flying attack missions against Japanese air bases in the northern Philippines. By mid-December, though, his ships were running low of fuel, so he took his fleet far to the east into the Philippine Sea, out of range of enemy aircraft, to rendezvous with TF 30 and refuel.

The rendezvous point lay in the typical path of typhoons for that time of year, but all hands were much more concerned about getting back to fighting the Japanese then they were about the potential for storms. Even as the weather started making up on the 17th, little heed was given to what seemed by all data available to be a rather small tropical disturbance. Typhoon Cobra, however, would fool the fleet’s meteorologists; it worked up from a disturbance to a full-fledged typhoon in short order and was so densely packed that it spun off few tell-tale signs. So as Halsey’s fleet steamed toward its refueling rendezvous, nobody realized they were sailing directly into the path of a fierce typhoon. By the early hours of the 18th, as the wind picked up to more than 30 knots, Halsey realized he was “confronted by serious storm conditions.” He cancelled the planned refueling at 0500 hours and ordered his fleet due south into what he thought would be the calmer southern quadrant of the storm. But his meteorologists had miscalculated the storm’s true position, so this course change brought his ships into the worst of the gathering storm. By 1000 the barometer plunged and winds gusted to more than 70 knots. Seas built into pyramid shaped mountains and slammed into the ships. At 1149 Halsey ordered all units to take the most comfortable course, giving up any semblance of fleet formation. Escort carrier Kwajalein hove to in order to reduce the pounding it was taking after rolling so severely she scooped up green water with her flight deck catwalks. On other carriers planes broke their lashings and crashed about the hangar deck, causing fires aboard light carriers Monterey and Cowpens. In total 146 aircraft were lost, either wrecked or heaved overboard.

Waves breaking over a Navy oiler during Typhoon Cobra, better known as
Halsey's Typhoon; courtesy of the National Archives and Records
Administration

But it was Task Force 30, the Logistics Group and easternmost of all the fleet units, that caught the worst of the storm. And the destroyers suffered the most. Hull was a smallish (1370 tons displacement) destroyer of an older design. She had been modified during the course of war, being fitted with over 500 tons of extra equipment and armament on her decks, which made her top heavy. Worse still she had several half empty fuel tanks, which can be dangerous in heavy seas because the ship’s center of gravity changes as the contents shift, a dynamic which tends to exaggerate rolls. Naval regulations at the time did not advise re-ballasting under such conditions, although it certainly would have helped stabilize the ship. Hull’s skipper, Lieutenant Commander J. A. Marks had experienced storms in the North Atlantic, but not a typhoon like the one now bearing down on his little ship. At 1100, with wind increasing to over 100 knots, the TF 30 commander (Captain Jasper. T. Acuff) ordered a course change to 140°. It proved a death knell for Hull. The ship failed to respond during the course change and ‘lay in irons’ with the northerly wind on her port beam. She was pounded by one, two and then three monstrous waves, rolling the ship over to 70° each time. Her whaleboat, depth charges and nearly everything on deck was carried off by the sea. Then a strong gust of 110 knot wind knocked her down and kept her pinned on her beam ends. The pilothouse flooded and sea poured into her inner spaces through the stacks. Hull sank shortly after noon, taking with her all but 62 out of a crew of 264.

Hull was not the only ship to go down on 18 December, 1944 in what has come to be known in naval
annals as “Halsey’s Typhoon.” Destroyers Monaghan and Spence also capsized and sank. Nine other
ships were damaged badly enough to need repairs. 790 men were lost. A board of inquiry placed
responsibility for the losses on Halsey, but assigned no negligence to the admiral, finding that his errors in judgment stemmed from a “commendable desire to meet military requirements.” It was also found that lack of suitable weather stations in the Western Pacific contributed to the ignorance of the fleet to the approaching storm. Within months the Fleet Weather Center was established on Guam and weather stations staffed at various other islands to keep track of tropical storms. Guidelines were put in place for destroyers to re-ballast half-empty fuel tanks and flood empty tanks in certain sea conditions.

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Edward Henkel (1923-1944): Killed During Typhoon Cobra

Remember the Maine

Today is the 120th anniversary of the USS Maine in Havana Harbor exploding in Havana harbor. The Maine had been sent to Cuba to protect U.S. interests during Cuban War of Independence against Spain. Teddy Roosevelt, who was the Assistant Secretary of the Navy was convinced the explosion was caused by "outside work," and was desperate for the U.S. to enter the war against Spain. He was aided, in part by William Randolph Hearst and Joseph Pulitzer, two newspaper barons. "Remember the Maine" became the battle cry of a nation which seemed eager for war thirty years after the bloody Civil War.

The cause of the explosion is a subject of speculation still today. The board appointed to investigate the explosion soon after it occurred determined the explosion was caused by a mine. However, several naval personnel thought the explosion was caused by an internal accident. The Navy's Steam Engineering bureau chief thought there had been a magazine explosion which caused the Maine to sink. A naval ordnance expert posited those magazine's ignited because of a spontaneous explosion in the coal bunker. Because the ship was powered by bituminous coal which was known for for releasing a gas prone to spontaneous explosions, his premise was quite plausible. Evidence now seems to indicate a fire in the coal bunker "cooked" off the ship's magazine.

Congress declared war on Spain on 25 April 1898. Hostilities were halted on 12 August after Spain was defeated in Cuba and the Philippines and its Atlantic and Pacific fleets were destroyed.  About 280,000 soldiers, sailors, and marines served in the war, many of them volunteers.

The mast of the USS Maine; recovered when the ship  was raised and refloated out
to sea and resunk; Arlington National Cemetery; personal collection

Graves of unknown sailors killed when the USS Maine exploded in Havana harbor;
Arlington National Cemetery; personal collection

Great Baltimore Fire of 1904

My Aunt Katherine's great grandfather, Aloysius Walter, moved his family to Baltimore just before the turn of the twentieth century. Some members of the family worked at the Marsh Market selling produce and others worked in the cigar factories. On 7 February 1904 their lives were disrupted by disaster, which occurred mere blocks away from their rented home.

"Sunday morning, 7 February 1904, was a very cold day in Baltimore. February is always the most wintery month, and this was a typical February day. The skies were clear, but a biting northwest wind was blowing across the city. Uptown those so inclined were on their way to their churches. The downtown districts, as was natural on Sunday morning, were deserted by all but watchmen and an occasional policeman sheltering himself from the icy blast in a doorway on the windward side of the street.

Archibald McAllister, a private watchman employed by a number of big wholesalers to keep an eye on their warehouses, was passing the corner of German Street and Hopkins Place when he saw a puff of smoke emerge from a grating in the sidewalk before the stuffed warehouse of John E. Hurst and Company, one of the major establishments in the Southern trade. He immediately sounded a fire alarm. Another alarm had already been sounded from the automatic system in the building. Firemen were on the scene in a few minutes and prepared to fight what they thought was an ordinary basement fire.

Extra edition of The Sun published in the aftermath of the fire; image
courtesy of The Baltimore Sun

But this was not an ordinary fire. Already it had gained headway among the inflammable dry goods piled up in the building in preparation for the spring visit of the Southern buyers. The gases engendered had to find an outlet. They got it by blowing out the front wall of the building in the very faces of the leisurely firemen. Thus they were made to realize they had something major on their hands and called out more equipment. Before this could be put into action the fire had complete possession of the Hurst building and had begun to spread. Frantically the fireman sounded still more alarms.

They had no chance of controlling it. Even after special trains had brought apparatus from Washington, then Wilmington and then Philadelphia and New York -- and, of course, from York and Hanover in Pennsylvania -- the flames roared on, paying no attention to the then streams of water from the innumerable hoses which the fireman hooked to the hydrants. Every new hose meant a lessening of the water pressure, never high enough to make an effective weapon against a first-class fire. The flames, whipped by the winds, leapt clear over the buildings upon which the firemen were concentrating their efforts and often hemmed them in so that they were forced to flee for their lives, leaving their equipment behind.

Some said that the fire could be stopped by dynamite, and experts were brought in to try this method. Building after building toppled before this roaring assault, but the flames leapt across the gaps created and started afresh on the leeward side.

Not many Baltimoreans slept that night. From Federal Hill, where thousands gathered, the whole extent of the lurid panorama was visible. The warehouses, from that height, would be intact one minute and the next great torches, sending roaring flames hundreds of feet in the air. Large sections of wooden roof or cornice, caught in the upward blast, would fall perhaps a quarter of a mile away and start a new blaze where they landed.

In the threatened streets employers directed clerks in the frantic effort to save records and other valuables before the fire came upon them. In some instances they were in time, but because it was Sunday sufficient volunteers were not immediately available. Oftener than not the would-be salvagers arrived too late to get at the threatened building.

Great Baltimore Fire from across the river; source unknown

On a front almost half a mile wide the flames rushed eastward. New tall buildings with steel frames and brick curtain walls were no less vulnerable than the old solid brick structures whose fronts, in imitation of that of The Sun's famous iron building, had been plated with cast-iron columns.

Scene during the fire; image courtesy of Wikipedia

The new courthouse, of Beaver Dam marble, stood as a bulwark on the left flank of the advance and though it crumbled a bit, still it saved the post office and the City Hall. Here and there, scattered through the district, there were low and solidly built banking houses. Over these, in a few instances, the flames leapt impatiently. The little building of Alexander Brown & Sons was one of those which escaped, because it was small and compact and because its roof could withstand the rain of blazing debris. But everything else went.

The aftermath; image courtesy of the Library of Congress

By Monday evening the destroying enemy reached the Falls. The wind had died down, and, save for a few dying thrusts at the lumberyards across the stream, he made no further conquests. From Liberty Street east to the Falls and from the basin north to Lexington Street little was left save the segment protected by the courthouse. Every major wholesale warehouse, every major downtown hotel, most of the banks, all the newspapers save one small one, and all save one or two office buildings had gone down. The official count said that 1,343 buildings had been burned in the area of 139.9 acres. The damage could hardly be estimated. The accepted figure is $150 million...Baltimore had never suffered a calamity like this before."[1]

Map of the area of Baltimore that burned in the 1904 fire; image courtesy
of The Sun

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[1]The description of the Great Baltimore Fire of 1904 is from Hamilton Owen's 1941 book, Baltimore on the Chesapeake.

The Weather Outside Was Frightful

Hurricane Camille made landfall in Waveland, Mississippi as a Category 5 (on the Saffir-Simpson Scale) storm on 17 August 1969.  In all nearly 300 people were killed in the U.S., over 8,900 were injured nearly 6,000 homes were destroyed, and approximately 14,000 severely damaged. Estimated total damage costs were $9.13 billion in today's dollars, making it the second most expensive hurricane in history up to that point.

Track of Hurricane Camille; map courtesy of Wikipedia

Luckily, for the residents of Louisiana, they were on the western side of the hurricane. Yet, the death and destruction were still intense. Winds gusted up to 125 miles per hour in Slidell, Louisiana, where many members of the extended Muir family lived. Louisiana experienced storm surges of 10 to 16 feet of water, which can be catastrophic for low-lying coastal areas.

Eastbound lanes of U.S. Highway 90; image courtesy of Wikipedia

It was the last killer hurricane to make landfall with only last-minute warnings. While the use of satellites was in its infancy at the time of Camille, the storm intensified in the Gulf of Mexico and defied predictions that it would hit the Florida panhandle. The science and technology used to predict hurricanes has rapidly advanced since Camille, which makes the devastation in the wake of Katrina all the more inexplicable.

Ship was part of the destruction caused by Camille; photograph courtesy
of the Times-Picayune

________________
This post was originally published as part of my multi-volume book, The Descendants of Robert Muir (c1800-1869)

Headstone Inscription that Led to Discovering a Tragedy

As I was transcribing the headstone of Jay Edwin Rauch into my family tree, I read it and was brought up short. What could it possibly mean?

Jay Edwin Rauch headstone; photograph courtesy of Find A Grave volunteer,
Karen

He carried on though his heart was broken.

Further investigation revealed his wife, Irene St. Clair Beard, who was a twin sister of Inez Fleming Beard and my first cousin twice removed, and their only known daughter Martha Anne Rauch, were killed in a automobile accident on 25 November 1967 near Roanoke, Virginia. This was just two days after Thanksgiving and one month before Christmas.

Irene (Beard) Rauch was 59 years old when she died and daughter Martha Ann, a student at the University of Richmond, likely home for the holidays, was just 23.

Twin sisters, Inez and Irene Beard; photograph courtesy of Mary Logan
Eubanks via Ancestry.com member Sophia143Martin

Martha Ann Rauch from the 1964 University of
Richmond Yearbook,  The Web; photograph courtesy of
Ancestry.com

ROANOKE -- Police yesterday identified Mrs. Rauch and her daughter, Martha, as the victims of a head-on two-car crash Saturday night on State Rt. 117, just north of Roanoke.

Treated at Community Hospital for injuries they received in the crash were Ralph T. Moses, 35, and his wife, Mrs. Angaline K. Moses, 30, of Staunton.

Trooper H. T. Haskins said Moses was the driver of of a 1962-model auto which was in a collision with a 1963-model car driven by either Mrs. Rauch or her daughter.

Published in the Richmond Times-Dispatch on 27 November 1967.

Such a short, terse article to describe an unimaginable tragedy as Jay Rauch lost his entire family in the blink of an eye.

Jay Edwin Rauch was struck by a driverless rolling car on 15 January 1970 and died two days later at Roanoke Memorial Hospital. He was buried beside his wife and daughter in Evergreen Burial Park, Roanoke, Virginia.

Fatal Colliery Accident

Andrew Cairns Muir was the adopted son of my first cousin three times removed, Nathaniel Muir and his wife, Ann "Annie" Hutton. Adnrew's birth parents were Andrew and Elizabeth (Cameron) Cairns. He was born in Glasgow, Scotland, on 2 March 1902.

When the 1911 census was enumerated, he was living with his adopted parents at 44 High Street, Bathgate. He became a coal miner like his adopted father and married Isabella Henry Adams on 31 December 1926 at the church manse in Bathgate. Andrew and Isabella had two daughters in 1932 and 1935.

Snippet from the Register of Corrected Entries regarding
Andrew Cairns Muir's death; personal collection

About 5:00 a.m. on 24 November 1936, Andrew was working at Easton Colliery when a "quantity of material fell from the roof of his working place upon him. He died of asphyxia. The jury at the inquest into his death ruled it accidental according to the Register of Corrected Entries filed at the parish registrar's office on 5 January 1937. He was buried at Bathgate Cemetery. He was 34 years old at the time of his death.

Nathaniel and Annie (Hutton) Muir memori monument;
photo courtesy BillionGraves.com

The inscription reads:

Created by Nathaniel and Annie Muir in loving memory of their sons
Nathaniel who died 19th March 1908 aged 13 years
Andrew husband of Isabella Adams accidentally killed 24th Nov 1936 aged 44 years
Annie Hutton Muir died 24th Nov 1935 aged 63 years
Also the above Isabelle Adams died 18th Jul 1984 aged 81 years

Fatal Coal Pit Accident

William Brown Shaw was born on 5 Jun 1866 in Lesmahagow, Scotland, at his grandparent's home. He was the illegitimate son of Mary Watson Shaw (about 1846-1918), the second wife of my great great grand uncle, Robert Orr Muir. No father was identified when William's birth was registered by his grandfather.

Robert Orr Muir married William's mother on 23 June 1871 and the blended family included Robert's three living children from his first marriage to Jane Paton Loudon, his new wife, Mary Watson Shaw, William, and William's half-sister, Margaret McNeil Shaw, also illegitimate. Robert and Mary produced nine of their own children between 1872 and 1887.

In 1878, at the age of 12, William followed his step-father Robert into the coal mines. He worked at the Auchlochan Mine near Coalburn. On 5 October 1878, William was ascending shaft of the No. 2 pit, known as "Major Pit;" when he fell out of the cage, used to raise and lower the miners; and sustained fatal injuries. He survived 18 hours after the accident but died the next day at the home of his mother and step-father.

From the Register of Corrected Entries for William Brown Shaw's
death registration; source ScotlandsPeople

His step-father registered his death with the parish office on 7 October. He provided "Andrew Brown, farmer (reputed father)" to the registrar -- the first and only time a possible father was mentioned in records. Prior to her marriage, Mary Shaw worked as a domestic servant at the 270-acre Auchenheath Farm, owned by William Braxter. He employed several domestic and farm servants and I have often wondered if that is where she met William's father.

52 Ancestors #31: A Savior of the USS Indianapolis Survivors

Ancestor Name: William Graham CLAYTOR, Jr.

I have an ancestor who once wrote:

"If any family tree is shaken hard enough, I am sure it will produce stories of heroes and horse thieves. Lives to be proud of and some to regret. Your family tree, no doubt will be the same, so I think it is wise to remember that we are totally responsible for ourselves and our lives but we owe no debt to the past."

This is a story about one of the heroes.

I have written about William Graham Claytor, Jr., and his father before. Both were accomplished professionals who gave much to their communities and the country. But today I'd like to write about the highlight of William Graham Claytor's service during World War II.

Lt. Wilbur C. Gwinn was on a routine patrol mission. Flying low over the ocean he spotted an oil slick and followed it until he saw several men waving madly and floating in the vast Pacific ocean. He sent an urgent message to squadron headquarters and began dropping supplies to the survivors. Gwinn was stunned; a major ship must have sunk and he had received no word of it prior to his patrol mission. Gwinn was replaced by Lt. Marks, flying a PBY. As he approached the site, he believed he was on a wild goose chase and responding to a garbled message. He was incredulous when he arrived and made his own count of the survivors. Wouldn't someone know if a vessel carrying at least 150 men had been sunk?

USS Indianapolis survivors with a shark in the
water, the survivors worst enemy during the 5 days
before they were rescued; photograph from a
French website

Then Marks heard from the commander of the destroyer USS Cecil J. Doyle. In his book, Fatal Voyage: The Sinking of the USS Indianapolis, Dan Kurzman describes this moment:

"...Claytor, a stone-faced officer with a will to match, who, like Marks, was a bright young lawyer and reserve officer endowed with a deep sense of personal mission in the war.

Anything up? Claytor asked.

Marks told him of our mission, but with skepticism. Claytor was puzzled by the report, too. Actually he'd heard of it minutes earlier from his own command and was heading toward the designated area to help in the rescue effort. If the report was accurate, the horror these men must be going through! What ship must have gone down? He could not have guessed that it was the USS Indianapolis -- commanded by Captain McVay, the husband of his dear cousin Louise." 

Commander William G. Claytor (center) with crew members from the
USS Cecil J. Doyle; photograph courtesy of Findagrave.com member Steve

As Claytor neared the survivors, he lit up the ship's search lights, turning the clouds a pinkish white the survivors could see. It was the first glimmer of hope they'd had in several days.

"...Claytor had given the men the a pink cloud as a symbol of hope. Whoever was guiding him, it wasn't his superiors. He was breaking Navy rules repeatedly, but like Marks, was ready to risk court-martial if it meant saving even one life. 

Though sailing in submarine territory, Claytor had ordered his seamen to switch on two 24-inch search lights -- one to find the survivors in the water and avoid running over them and the other beamed to the heavens to let them know help was on the way. The danger was that any enemy submarine lurking in the area would find his ship a perfect target. But, given the circumstances, he felt that it was a calculated risk was warranted. Claytor had been well-trained to to calculate risks, and to bend rules when conditions so required. A native of Roanoke, Virginia, he had served as president of the Harvard Law Review and law clerk to Judge Learned Hand and Supreme Court Justice Louis D. Brandeis."

The USS Cecil J. Doyle was the first Navy ship on scene and immediately began plucking survivors out of the ocean. What they found was horrific. Soon several ships had arrived and the rescue continued in earnest. It is thought nearly 800 men survived the torpedo explosions and sinking yet 112 hours later only 300 men were rescued. The rest were victims of their injuries and sharks.

Captain McVay was court-marshaled, the only Navy man so punished for losing a ship in wartime. He committed suicide in 1968 but was finally vindicated by Congress in 2001. His second wife, the former Louise Claytor, died of cancer in 1961. William Graham Claytor, Jr. went on to become president of Southern Railway, secretary of the Navy, deputy secretary of Defense, acting secretary of Transportation, and president of Amtrak.

The main hall at Union Station in Washington, DC, is named Claytor Concourse in his honor.

To learn more about the sinking of the USS Indianapolis and why it took so long for the survivors to be rescued, please read my brother's guest blog. My brother is a World War II historian and will be publishing a book in the near future.

This is my entry for Amy Johnson Crow's 52 ancestors in 52 weeks challenge.

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William Graham Claytor, Jr. was born 14 Mar 1912 in Roanoke, Virginia, to William Graham and Gertrude Harris (Boatwright) Claytor. His father was a prominent executive in the utility industry and his mother was a poet. He married Frances Murray Hammond and they had two children. He died on 14 May 1994 in Bradenton, Florida, and is buried at Fair View Cemetery in Roanoke. The reference in Dan Kuzman's book about his "dear cousin Louise" was tantalizing. No one with Claytors in their tree had a Louise Claytor. I traced her back to her great grandfather; her Claytor family came from southern Maryland and her father was a physician, who moved his family to Washington, DC, about 1900. I have yet to find a connection between the two Claytor lines.

Guest Blog: Saga of the Lost USS Indianapolis

When I told told my brother John, we had an ancestor who was involved in the rescue of the survivors of the USS Indianapolis, he volunteered (or maybe I politely begged) to write a guest post about the tragic loss of the ship. Today is the 69th anniversary of the day she was torpedoed in seas that were thought to clear of the enemy. In a few days, I'll post about the role our ancestor played in the rescue and how he disobeyed orders to do so and in a moment of pure serendipity, discovering the ship was the Indianapolis, of which his cousin's husband was the commanding officer.

Some of the crew of the USS Indianapolis; photograph provided to Steve
Butler by Sherry Adkins in hopes someone could recognize her uncle, James
McLaurin "Mack" Harrison, who was killed sometime during the loss of
the ship

Over to my brother:

The ultimate fear of any sailor, from the days of the earliest ocean voyages right up to the present day, is to be lost at sea.  To have your ship sink out from under you and to be left alone on the wide ocean expanse is a fate dreaded by all who have ever departed from the security of terra firma.  Such fears became a reality for the crew of USS Indianapolis a few minutes before midnight on the 29^th of July 1945.  The cruiser went down fast after being struck by two torpedoes from the Japanese submarine I-58.  Out of a crew of 1,196 it is estimated that 800 – 850 managed to get off the ship before it slipped beneath the waves.  Only twelve life rafts and six floater nets could be released in time—not enough to accommodate all of the survivors.  Several hundred men were thus cast into the dark empty sea with just a life vest to keep themselves afloat.

At least they had a reasonable hope of quick rescue.  Indianapolis had just completed a high speed run from San Francisco to Tinian to deliver parts of the atomic bombs that would eventually end the Second World War.  At the time of its loss, Indianapolis was making a routine passage across the Philippine Sea to Leyte where it was to join Task Force 95.  A year before the Philippine Sea had been the crossroads of opposing fleets and the scene of two massive sea battles (The Battle of the Philippine Sea and the Battle of Leyte Gulf), but at this late stage of the war the sea was far to the rear of the combat zone.  The submarine that sunk Indianapolis may well have been the only enemy combatant for miles around.  Indianapolis went down about 300 miles from the nearest land (Palau Islands), an easy day’s sail for most ships.  Furthermore, the area was criss-crossed several times a day by aircraft conducting the routine and administrative drudgery of rear area support tasks.  If the survivors from Indianapolis could just get through the night they would surely be rescued the following day.

Unfortunately, their situation was far darker than they even imagined.  Nobody was looking for them!  Indianapolis radiomen managed to get off two SOS signals before the ship went under.  But despite the fact a distress signal was received by at least three stations, no action was taken to either organize a rescue party or even to investigate.  It seems the Japanese sent fake distress calls so often in attempts to lure out American search vessels that SOS signals were routinely ignored unless the ship’s identity could be confirmed by radio contact.

USS Indianapolis on 10 July 1945 off Mare Island after her final overhaul; photo
courtesy of the National Archives and Records Administration

Even worse a breakdown in the routine communications procedure for tracking ships at sea meant that nobody noticed Indianapolis’ failure to arrive at Leyte the morning of July 31^st.  The movement of warships was obviously rather secretive so the Navy had established a set of communication guidelines regarding departures and arrivals of warships.  Following protocol there had been an announcement over the radio network when Indianapolis departed Guam, but no announcement would be made upon her safe arrival at her destination.  It was typically up to the commander at a warship’s destination to take appropriate action if a ship was overdue.  However, in the case of Indianapolis on this particular cruise things had become confused.  The operations officer for Task Force 95, to whom Indianapolis was to report upon arrival at Leyte, did not know to expect Indianapolis because his staff had incorrectly decoded the message informing him of the ship’s impending arrival.  When Indianapolis failed to arrive as scheduled, the Leyte port director assumed she had been diverted en route, as warships often were, and took no action.  In other words, the Navy had lost a 10,000 ton ship.

The poor souls drifting in the Philippine Sea paid a heavy price for the Navy’s failure to devise a communications scheme to keep track of its ships.  With little fresh water, food or protection from the elements the survivors faced a horrific ordeal.  Hopes for a rescue faded after the first full day adrift.  Several planes were spotted, but try as they might they could not get the pilots’ attention.  The day of their expected arrival in Leyte came and went and still there was no sign of rescue.  As the long days mounted their suffering became ever more protracted.  Even as the tropical sun scorched them by day, the water gradually sapped their body heat so that hypothermia eventually set in.  Dehydration took its predictable toll.  Some fell to prey to hallucinations or gulped seawater to quench their overpowering thirst.  The ship’s oil made eyes sting and open wounds fester.

Although hypothermia and dehydration undoubtedly claimed more victims, the killer that has become inextricably linked to the Indianapolis disaster is the shark.  Big, aggressive oceanic whitetips, which had probably been following the ship, started circling groups of survivors as soon as the oil slick dissipated.  After first consuming those who had died of wounds the sharks then began attacking the living.  Woody Eugene James tells the harrowing story:

The day wore on and the sharks were around, hundreds of them.  You’d hear guys scream, especially late in the afternoon.  Seemed like the sharks were the worst late in the afternoon than they were during the day.  Then they fed at night too.  Everything would be quiet and then you’d hear somebody scream and you knew a shark had got him.

It is impossible to know for sure exactly how many fell victim to shark attack.  Doug Stanton, author of In Harm’s Way, considers that as many as 200 were eaten.  All told 880 men died as a result of the loss of Indianapolis, around 500 of them having died in the water after abandoning ship.  The survivors were finally spotted—completely by chance—by a passing aircraft on August 2^nd.  The last man rescued, pulled from the sea the following day, had been in the water for 112 hours and had drifted 124 miles.

USS Indianapolis survivors aboard the USS Bassett; photograph courtesy
of Steve Butler

There is in fact a double tragedy:  the loss of the Indianapolis and the lost Indianapolis.  Captain Charles McVay was convicted for the first tragedy for having hazarded his ship by failing to zigzag.  It was a raw deal to be sure, which was not corrected until 2001 when his name was cleared of any wrongdoing.  Regardless of whether his actions contributed to the disaster or not, the heavy burden of responsibility for the lives of 880 men under his command tore at McVay for the rest of his life.  Egged on by hate mail from victim’s families, he committed suicide in 1968.  The Navy, on the other hand, never properly explained culpability for the second tragedy—why 316 poor men drifted in the open sea for more than four and a half days while nobody looked for them!

Stay tuned for a future post about the part one of my ancestors played in the rescue of USS Indianapolis survivors.

_______________

My brother, John, is writing a book about World War II. The sources he used for this post are:

“A Survivor’s Story, In Woody’s Words.”  ussindianapolis.org.   Netwide Development (accessed June 24, 2014).

Morison, Samuel Elliot.  Victory In the Pacific 1945, History of the United States Naval Operations in World War II, Vol XIV (Castle Books, 1960), p. 319 – 330.

Stanton, Doug.  In Harm’s Way—the Sinking of the USS Indianapolis and the Extraordinary Story of its Survivors, (Henry Holt and Company, 2001).

The Great Cyclone of 1896

Sometimes the news of the times in which our ancestors lived can be fascinating. On 27 May 1896 a series of severe thunderstorms and tornadoes struck the central Midwest. The "cyclone" that hit St Louis and East St Louis was a historic tornado that is still considered the third deadliest and most costly tornado to strike the U.S.


Electric train car blown off a bridge in East St Louis

The tornado spawned from a supercell; it touched down in St Louis first and then crossed the river into East St Louis. At least 255 people were killed in the two cities that afternoon, including 35 at the Vandalia railroad freight yards. Many more may have been killed as several steam ships were destroyed in the Mississippi river and bodies were never recovered.

Many of my ancestors lived in nearby Madison County as well as in St Clair County and East St Louis at the time the great cyclone hit. According to The Great Cyclone at St. Louis and East St. Louis by Julian Curzon published in 1896, "Nearly half of East St Louis was wrecked. The damage was done in a few minutes' time, and how anyone in the path of the cyclone escaped is a mystery to all who passed over the devastated section."

Courthouse in East St Louis

"A law case was being tried in the court house. When the storm clouds began to gather, the foreman of the jury implored the judge to discharge them. The court house at the time was being shaken by the wind. Five minutes after the jury departed for their homes, the courthouse was destroyed by the tornado."

Eads bridge (view from East St Louis)

"The scene from the Eads bridge resembled a battlefield. The dead and dying were removed from the ruins by willing workers, and the burning mills and warehouses lighted their funeral pyres with a distinctness that added horror to the awful scene." Rescuers and clean-up crews found a 2x10 wooden plank driven through a wrought iron plate.

Grain elevator on the Mississippi river levee in East St Louis

"The wind struck the levee just north of the East St Louis elevator about 5:30 p.m. The wharf at Wiggins Ferry was the first to suffer, and it was thrown far up on the levee."

National Hotel in East St Louis

"At the hotels panic prevailed. Women ran from one room to another, and along the corridors, screaming and seeking protection. Men who had faced almost every peril were powerless to comfort them. One glance from the window told them that the storm was one of greater force than any they had gone through or even contemplated. The strongest of them trembled and there were none who pretended they had a reasonable hope of escaping alive."

Martell bridge in East St Louis

"When the dawn came it was possible to see the devastation wrought by the storm in East St Louis. The sky was clear, and the beauty of the morning strkingly contrasted with the scene of desolation that was disclosed. On the river bank, from Kehlor's mill on the south to the elevators on the north, not a house was standing. These huge structures and the cold storage company's plant were badly damaged. The river bank was was lined with the wrecks of boats.

With the river banks as the base, the entire triangle formed by what is called the Island, there is not a whole house standing. Even the Relay Depot had its corners broken and two huge roundhouses were shaved off below the tops of the middle of the locomotives which stood within them."

The newspaper in nearby Troy, Illinois, where many of my ancestors lived, carried a story about the tornado the next day:

Weekly Call, 28 May 1896