A Paean to the PT Boat (July/August 1998 | Volume: 49, Issue: 4)

A Paean to the PT Boat

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Authors: Dick Keresey

Historic Era: Era 8: The Great Depression and World War II (1929-1945)

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July/August 1998 | Volume 49, Issue 4

One night in August 1943 PT-105 was drifting on station in the Solomon Islands—specifically, two miles southeast of Vella Lavella, three miles north of Gizo, and fifteen miles west of Kolombangara, all of which were enemy-occupied. As a matter of fact, other than the PT boat lying close on my port quarter and a couple of coastwatchers hiding out in the hills, there was not a friendly of any sort within fifty miles. My legs ached from hours of standing on a hard, constantly moving, sometimes bouncing deck. My head and back ached from malaria that was only partly subdued by Atabrine. Only the coffee handed up to me by Zichella, the cook, kept me from dozing off on my feet. It came to me that PT-105 was farther within the Japanese empire than any other ship in the U.S. Navy. That thought led to another: How in God’s name did I end up here?

From a distance, skimming along at full speed, she had a graceful, even delicate profile; closer up, though, she looked squat and truculent.

What had I done to find myself a PT-boat captain and active player in the most ferocious sea war in history? Why was I not sitting at a desk in Washington like most people with three degrees—yes, three: Dartmouth College, L’Éibre des Sciences Politiques, and Columbia Law School. When I had gone to midshipman school, in September 1941, as the best alternative to the draft, I assumed the Navy would see to it that all these academic achievements were put to good use. When I got my commission, I was so sure I would be posted to intelligence that I bought four white uniforms, a sword, and calling cards, all required for duty in Washington or perhaps at a foreign embassy where my fluency in French would be useful. I never knew what glitch instead sent me from midshipman school to the Newport Naval Torpedo School, but after a week or two at that dreary institution I knew that I would never understand the torpedo. By miraculous coincidence, the Navy established a torpedo-boat school down the road at Melville, Rhode Island, and an officer from the brand-new institution appeared one day at the Newport torpedo school and asked for volunteers. I jumped up and waved my arms. If the recruiter had been from bomb disposal, I would have jumped up and waved my arms.

 

I am not quite sure when I was converted from a misfit lawyer in Navy uniform to a dedicated PT officer, but I think it was the very day we arrived at the torpedo-boat school. Our new instructors took us down to the dock and showed us a PT boat. She lay there restlessly tugging at the docking lines, looking as if she wanted to go out and do some damage, and when her engines lit off with a whine, then a cough, then