The USS Finback, a 312-foot-long Gato-class submarine surfaced a little before noon on September 2, 1944 in the treacherous waters near Chichi Jima, the site of a Japanese military base on one of the Bonin Islands, approximately 150 miles north of Iwo Jima. The Finback was assigned “lifeguard duty” and was performing search and rescue missions for American airmen who had been shot down in action and might have survived via bail-out or crash landing.
Earlier that morning, four TBM Avenger aircraft had launched from the USS San Jacinto targeting radio installations on Chichi Jima. At around 8:30 AM, one of the Avengers was blasted by Japanese anti-aircraft shells as it made its bombing run over the island. With the plane on fire and losing control, the pilot continued his run, dropping his four 500-pound bombs on the target he had been given that morning on the San Jacinto. Turning back towards the sea, smoke and flames filled the cockpit, choking the crew of three. Working hard to create distance between the island and the failing aircraft, the pilot ordered his crew to bail out by parachute, shouting “Hit the silk!” over the Avenger’s radio.
As the pilot exited the aircraft, his head smashed into the plane’s tail, slicing a thick gash above his eye, tearing panels from his chute, and sending him plummeting towards the sea at a higher rate of speed than he should have been. Still, he splashed down in the Pacific Ocean and another American plane dropped a life raft near him. He was alive. He was alone.
On Chichi Jima, four miles to the southwest, Japanese authorities began to organize a search party to capture any downed American pilots who might have survived. Boats were launched to find them. The pilot, stung by a Portuguese man-o-war, vomiting from ingesting sea water, and dazed from the trauma of the attack and the bleeding head wound, still had the presence of mind to begin paddling away from Chichi Jima. Allied forces never captured Chichi Jima during the war, and reports of atrocities ranging from Japanese soldiers summarily beheading Allied prisoners to cannibalism of POWs by Japanese troops led to the post-war execution of five of Chichi Jima’s leading officers, including the commander, Major Sueo Matoba.
The current was sweeping the Avenger’s pilot towards Chichi Jima and he desperately paddled against it and out into the open sea. Other members of his aerial squadron opened fire to keep away the Japanese boats heading towards him while another American aircraft radioed the downed pilot’s position to the Finback, which steamed towards him.
When the submarine surfaced, it was unclear to the pilot whether he had been rescued or captured. Then five American submariners appeared on the deck. Grainy video footage, now nearly 70 years old, survives of the Finback's submariners fishing the gangly, 6'2” pilot from the sea after his three-hour-long ordeal battling injuries and the Pacific Ocean.
Like so many of the soldiers and sailors risking and sacrificing their lives on distant continents and in remote seas; like the men who saved his life on that September 2, 1944, the pilot was very young — just 20 years old.
His name was George Herbert Walker Bush.
Today, George H.W. Bush celebrates his 90th birthday and is one of the longest-living Presidents in American history. He was 17 years old and attending the elite Philips Academy boarding school in Andover, Massachusetts when Pearl Harbor was bombed. As Bush and many of his fellow well-to-do classmates prepared to graduate in 1942, President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s Secretary of War Henry L. Stimson gave a commencement address urging the patrician prep school grads to go to college first rather than to enlist in the war. Four days after graduating, Bush turned 18 years old and immediately enlisted in the United States Navy.
With the influence of his father, Bush could have found himself in any number of safe, stateside jobs in the service. Instead, he became the Navy’s youngest fighter pilot. Even before being shot down over Chichi Jima, Bush had experienced the rough landings of flight training and ravages of war. During training, he totaled a plane during a crash landing. In June 1944, he was forced to ditch his plane — fully-loaded with bombs — in the sea during a mission, escaped the plane just before it exploded, and had to be rescued by the USS Bronson. By the war’s end, Bush had flown 58 combat missions during 1,228 hours of total flight time. There were 14 pilots who originally formed Bush’s VT-51 torpedo bomber flight squadron; when he was discharged from the service in September 1945, Bush and just three other pilots from that squadron survived.
Yet, it wasn’t what he saw that haunted George H.W. Bush — indeed, what haunts him still today. It was what he didn’t see as he parachuted out of the burning wreckage of his TBM Avenger on September 2, 1944. Or who he didn’t see.
As Bush prepared to bomb Chichi Jima that morning, he was joined by two crew members in his TBM Avenger, tailgunner Ted White and radioman John Delaney. At 26, White was a few years older than Bush, but their fathers had been classmates at Yale, which created an obvious connection between the two young men aboard the San Jacinto. White wasn’t a normal member of Bush’s crew but, that morning, requested that he be allowed to replace Bush’s regular tailgunner, Leo Nadeau, and received permission.
When their plane was hit, Bush did all he could to order his two crew members to bail out of the plane and assist them in doing so, but the black smoke and flames tearing through the aircraft made it impossible for the pilot to see if White and Delaney had indeed exited the plane. Not only had Bush turned the badly-damaged plane out towards the sea, but he dipped the wings to make it easier for the crew members to pop open their door on the left side of the aircraft and bail out. By doing this, Bush cost himself some precious time and made his own exit from the Avenger more difficult — perhaps the reason he slammed against the tail of the aircraft as he parachuted out.
Other American pilots in Bush’s squadron that morning said that they noticed two parachutes deploy from Bush’s Avenger. As Bush plummeted towards the Pacific Ocean, he scanned the sky for the chutes of Delaney and White, but saw neither. As he paddled with one hand in his life raft to get as far away from the coast of Chichi Jima as possible, Bush continued to search the sky and the sea for his crewmates. But it was to no avail. John Delaney and Ted White were never found. If one of the two men did bail out of the plane with Bush and deploy his parachute, he was immediately lost and the same pilots that radioed Bush’s position to the Finback never located him. The other man most likely went down with the crippled TBM Avenger.
Nearly 60 years later, when Bush’s son had also been elected President of the United States, Bush visited the Bonin Islands and spoke to CNN about his ordeal. With all of the experiences of his life — all of the triumphs and tragedies — it was the loss of Ted White and John Delaney which continued to weigh heavily on George H.W. Bush. “I wake up at night and think about it sometimes,” the former President told CNN, “Could I have done something differently? I’m not haunted by anything other than the fact I feel a responsibility for the lives of the two people that were killed. I wonder if I could have done something different? I wonder who got out of the plane? I wonder — wonder why the chute didn’t open for the other guy? Why me? Why am I blessed? Why am I still alive? That has plagued me.”
How much did it plague George H.W. Bush? When the author and historian James Bradley interviewed the former President about his story for Bradley’s book Flyboys, Bush startled Bradley by asking the author if he had any new information about the fates of John Delaney and Ted White.
When the Finback surfaced and fished George Herbert Walker Bush out of the sea, the submariners treated him for his wounds, fed him, gave him new clothes to wear, and he became a part of the Finback crew — an honorary submariner — for the next month, as the submarine continued its mission, patrolling hot spots in the Pacific Theater just in case another downed pilot required rescue.
Everything was still raw when the future President sat down the next day at a typewriter on the Finback and pecked out a letter to his parents back home in Connecticut. It is the testament of a 20-year-old man born with all of the advantages in the world, sharing his story with his parents and letting them know how the war had touched him…and how it could easily touch them:
Dear Mother and Dad,
This will be the first letter you have gotten from me in a good long while. I wish I could tell you that as I write this I am feeling well and happy. Physically I am O.K., but I am troubled inside and with good cause. Here is the whole story at least as much of it as I am allowed to relate right now.
Yesterday was a day which will long stand in my memory. I was on a bombing hop with Delaney as my radioman and Lt. (j.g.) Ted White as my gunner. He did not usually fly, but I asked him if he would like to go with me and he wanted to. We had the usual joking around in the ready room about having to bail out etc. — at that time it all seemed so friendly and innocent but now it seems awful and sinister.
I will have to skip all the details of the attack as they would not pass the censorship, but the fact remains that we got hit. The cockpit filled with smoke and I told the boys in back to get their parachutes on. They didn’t answer at all, but I looked around and couldn’t see Ted in the turret so I assumed he had gone below to get his chute fastened on. I headed the plane out to sea and put on the throttle so as we could get away from the land as much as possible. I am not too clear about the next parts. I told them to bail out, and then I called up the skipper and told him I was bailing out. My crewmen never acknowledged either transmission, and yet the radio gear was working — at least mine was and unless they had been hit back there theirs should have been, as we had talked not long before. I heard the skipper say something but things were happening so fast that I don’t quite remember what it was. I turned the plane up in an attitude so as to take pressure off the back hatch so the boys could get out. After that I straightened up and started to get out myself. At that time I felt certain that they had bailed out. The cockpit was full of smoke and I was choking from it. I glanced at the wings and noticed that they were on fire. I still do not know where we got hit and never will. I am now beginning to think that perhaps some of the fragments may have either killed the two in back, or possibly knocked out their communications.
Fortunately I had fastened all my straps before the dive and also I had left my hatch open, something I hadn’t been doing before. Just the day before I had asked the skipper and he advised leaving it open in a dive. The jump itself wasn’t too bad. I stuck my head out first and the old wind really blew me the rest of the way out. I do remember tugging at my radio cord which I had forgotten to unplug. As I left the plane my head struck the tail. I now have a cut head and bruised eye but it is far from serious. After jumping, I must have pulled the ripcord too soon for when I was floating down, I looked up at the canopy and several of the panels were all ripped out. Just as I got floating down, I saw the plane strike the water. In the meantime, I noticed that there was a liferaft down in the water. Not until later did I discover that it was mine that was supposed to be attached to my lifejacket. I had forgotten to hook it on, and when I left the plane it had come loose and had fallen into the water. Fortunately, the wind didn’t carry me too far away from the raft. The entrance into the water was not too bad. I had unloosened several of my chute straps so that when it came to getting out of the harness I wouldn’t have too many buckles to undo under the water. I went fairly deep when I hit, but not deep enough to notice any pressure or anything. I shook the harness and the wind carried the chute away on the water. The wind was blowing towards shore, so I made every effort to head the other way. The skipper saw me and he saw my raft, so he made a pass over it to point it out to me. I had inflated my mae west [sailors called their inflatable yellow life vests “Mae Wests”] and then started swimming towards the raft. Fortunately, the fall hadn’t injured the boat, so it inflated easily and I struggled into it. I then realized that I had overexerted myself swimming, because suddenly I felt quite tired. I was still afraid that the wind would take me in closer so I began paddling. It was a hell of a job to keep the water out of the raft. In fact I never did get it bailed out completely. At first I was scared that perhaps a boat would put out from shore which was very close by, but I guess our planes made them think twice about that. A few fighter planes stayed nearby the whole time until I was rescued and you can imagine how comfortable that was. One of them came right over me and dropped me some medical supplies which were most welcome, since I had no idea how badly cut up I was. It turned out to be slight, but did use the iodine anyway. I had some dye marker attached to my life jacket and also there was some in the raft so I sprinkled a bit of that on the water so the planes could see me easily. I took inventory of my supplies and discovered that I had no water. The water had broken open when the raft fell from the plane I imagine. I had a mirror and some other equipment, and also was wearing my own gun and knife.
There was no sign of Del or Ted anywhere around. I looked as I floated down and afterwards kept my eye open from the raft, but to no avail. The fact that our planes didn’t seem to be searching anymore showed me pretty clearly that they had not gotten out. I’m afraid I was pretty much of a sissy about it cause I sat in my raft and sobbed for awhile. It bothers me so very much. I did tell them and when I bailed out I felt that they must have gone, and yet now I feel so terribly responsible for their fate, Oh so much right now. Perhaps as the days go by it will all change and I will be able to look upon it in a different light.
I floated around for a couple of hours during which time I was violently sick to my stomach, and then the planes started zooming me, pointing out my position to my rescuers. You can imagine how happy I was when I saw this submarine hove into view. They pulled me out of the raft and took me below where they fixed me up in grand style. As I write this I am aboard the sub — don’t know how long I will be here, or when I will get back to the squadron.
As I said physically I am o.k. The food aboard here is unequaled anywhere I have ever seen. I am getting plenty of sleep and am even standing watches so that I will get the air occasionally. My back ached as did my leg last nite, and also my seat was a bit sore from the chute straps, but the pharmacist mate rubbed me down and today I feel much better. Last nite I rolled and tossed. I kept reliving the whole experience. My heart aches for the families of those two boys with me. Delaney had always been a fine loyal crewman. His devotion to duty was at all times highly commendable and his personality most pleasing. I shall most certainly write to his family after I am sure they have been notified by the Bureau.
As for Ted White, I have spoken of him several times in my letters before. He was the fellow from Yale, one class ahead of Stu Clement [Bush’s first cousin]. He comes from St. Paul Minn. White Bear Lake to be exact. Perhaps Dad, you know the family. If so do not write them until you get the word from me or elsewhere that the family has been officially notified. There is a possibility that they parachuted and I didn’t see them, but I am afraid it is quite remote as we received a message aboard here last nite saying that only one chute opened. All in all it is terribly discouraging and frankly it bothers me a good deal.
As time goes by I shall add bits to this letter and will mail it at my earliest possible convenience. I shall do the same by Bar, but shall not go into detail like this over my experience so please read her the parts of the letter which might interest her. It’s a funny thing how much I thought about Bar during the whole experience. What I wouldn’t give to be with her right now. Just to see that lovely face and those beautiful eyes and to know she was by my side. Right now I long to be with you so much. To be with you both and to be with Bar is my main desire — at least it won’t be too long, the time is going by quite rapidly.
Please excuse all my misspellings — they are caused not from ignorance but from carelessness in operating this machine.
much much love to you all,
your ever devoted and loving son,
As he celebrates his 90th birthday, George Herbert Walker Bush has been many things to many people, and has done so much for so many more.
During the Vietnam War, Creedence Clearwater Revival’s song “Fortunate Son” sang: "It ain’t me, it ain’t me, I ain’t no Senator’s son/It ain’t me, it ain’t me, I ain’t no fortunate one, no."
Not too long after World War II, George H.W. Bush was a Senator’s son — his father Prescott was elected to the U.S. Senate from Connecticut. Later, George Bush blazed his own trail. Oilman. U.S. Representative from Texas. An unsuccessful candidate for the U.S. Senate from Texas (encouraged by the Texas Democrat and President Lyndon B. Johnson that the difference between the House and the Senate was the difference between “chicken shit and chicken salad”). U.S. Ambassador to the United Nations. Chairman of the Republican National Committee. Chief U.S. Liaison in China. CIA Director. Vice President of the United States under Ronald Reagan. President of the United States (“41”). Father of one Governor and President (“43”) and another Governor who could very well become President “45”.
But before everything — George Herbert Walker Bush was a war hero. And he was a war hero because of his love, honor, and duty to his country.
Just don’t ask George Bush if he was a war hero.
"It was just part of my duty. People say ‘war hero’. How come a guy who gets his airplane shot down is a hero and a guy who’s good enough that he doesn’t get shot down is not? Ask [John F.] Kennedy about it, why are you a hero? ‘They sank my boat.’ Why am I a hero? They shot down my airplane."
Also…great casting so far on young Hitler, young Lenin, and young Stalin. The younger versions of Hitler and Stalin look just like the real deal.
I’m of the opinion that many of the New Deal relief programs helped, but the national mobilization efforts and military spending prior to American entry into World War II combined with the economic effects of the war itself on the homefront (as well as the fact that millions of people found work during the war either overseas in the military or here at home, particularly in positions that supported the military efforts) had a much bigger effect on recovery.
Yes. Remember, Truman didn’t even know about the existence of the program to develop the atomic bomb until after FDR died and Secretary of War Henry L. Stimson came into his office, closed the door, and said, “Um…there’s something we need to tell you.” FDR was aware of the program and almost certainly would have dropped atomic bombs on Hiroshima (and Nagasaki — don’t forget Nagasaki) as soon as they were ready, like Truman did, if that’s what it took to force the Japanese to surrender.
Some of you may be nearing Graduation Day. Some of you may be older folks like me and have children approaching Graduation Day. Either way, one thing is certain — if you miss your child’s graduation, you better have a damn good reason.
John Sheldon Doud Eisenhower was the only surviving son of Dwight and Mamie Eisenhower. Their first son, Doud Dwight (nicknamed “Icky” to go along with his father, “Ike”), had died of scarlet fever at the age of three — a devastating blow that Ike could, understandably, never fully come to terms with. John, who passed away in December 2013, was born in 1922, less than two years after Icky’s death, and he followed in his father’s footsteps in many ways. He attended the United States Military Academy at West Point, had a respectable career in the military, retired as a general (albeit with four less stars than his father had on his shoulder), and later served as a diplomat and highly-respect military historian. John S.D. Eisenhower was also not only the son of a President, but the father-in-law of a President’s daughter — John’s son, David (the namesake of Camp David), married Julie Nixon in 1968. In old age, John Eisenhower even looked almost exactly like Dwight D. Eisenhower.
But when John Eisenhower graduated from West Point, as his father had done in 1915, Dwight D. Eisenhower missed the solemn and important ceremony. Mamie was there, but Ike was not — he wasn’t even on the same continent.
Fortunately, Ike was forgiven. He had a good reason for missing John’s graduation from the United States Military Academy.
For John S.D Eisenhower, June 6, 1944 was Graduation Day; for Dwight D. Eisenhower and 160,000 Allied soldiers, it was D-Day. John tossed his hat in the air with his fellow West Point cadets on the very same day that his father was commanding the Allied landings on Normandy, the largest amphibious invasion in the history of the world.
With millions of Americans fighting overseas during World War II, most newspapers across the United States printed daily lists of American soldiers who had died in battle. After 12 years as President through the Great Depression and World War II, Franklin D. Roosevelt died at his post on April 12, 1945 in Warm Springs, Georgia. In one of the most fitting tributes to a Commander-in-Chief, the following day’s list of war casualties in many American newspapers included FDR’s name next to his soldiers.
The book about FDR’s health isn’t by his doctor, but is a relatively recent book that I reviewed and have mentioned a few times: “FDR’s Deadly Secret” by Dr. Steven Lomazow and Eric Fettman. It’s a revealing look inside the health crises that took place during Roosevelt’s Administration and eventually killed him early in his fourth term.
Most astonishing is the possibility that FDR’s doctors and President Roosevelt himself covered up how seriously ill he was at times, particularly in 1944, in the midst of World War II, as he sought his unprecedented fourth term in the White House. Dr. Lomazow and Fettman make a convincing case that FDR had terminal brain cancer and abdominal cancer towards the end of his Presidency, knew about it, covered it up and ran for another term, and that his existing illnesses contributed to the cerebral hemorrhage which killed him on April 12, 1945.
I highly recommend “FDR’s Deadly Secret”. And for those who think it is crazy to believe that President Roosevelt would cover up or lie about his health, let’s not forget that FDR was somehow successful at hiding the fact that HE COULDN’T WALK from most Americans despite the fact that he was President longer than anyone in history ever was or ever will be. Keeping an illness hush-hush wasn’t a stretch for Franklin Delano Roosevelt.
(By the way, I’m totally fine with FDR lying about his health and staying in office to try to finish the job. We were in the middle of the biggest, most dangerous war in the history of human existence. We needed leaders like FDR and Winston Churchill as bad as guns needed bullets. A dying FDR and drunk Churchill were worth more than any other two leaders at their very best.)
This is one of those things that a group of people are always going to find some way to dise or argue, but your professor is wrong and you are right.
After Hitler and Eva Braun killed themselves, they were taking outside of the bunker and their bodies were burned and buried in a crater left behind by artillery shells or bombs. Hitler was adamant that his aides burn his body because he had learned that his buddy Mussolini, who had been executed by firing squad alongside his mistress, had his corpse dumped in a town square where angry Italians spit on it and mutilated it before stringing his dead body up by his feet. Hitler didn’t want any disgruntled Germans who might still be alive to have the same opportunity.
The remains of Hitler and Braun were badly burned, so they weren’t immediately recognizable (unlike Goebbels, whose body was also burned, but still easily identified). When the Soviets cleared the bunker a couple of days later, they found the charred corpses of Hitler and Braun and extensive interrogations of Nazi leaders who had been in the bunker in the final days (now being held as Soviet prisoners) all confirmed how Hitler had died and where he was buried. The Soviets took possession of what was left of Hitler and Braun, and although there were rumors that Hitler had survived and escaped to South America or wherever, he was dead. The Soviets even suggested at times that Hitler escaped — Stalin flat-out told Truman that Hitler was still alive despite the fact that the Soviets actually had his charred corpse. Eventually, the Soviets cremated the remains for good and dispersed them in a way that ensured there wouldn’t be a final resting place that might become a rallying point for Hitler’s supporters.
In a kind of creepy epilogue, there’s now an apartment building on the site of where the Reich Chancelerry (Hitler’s bunker) was located in Berlin and the place where the bodies of Hitler and Eva Braun were burned and buried is actually a sandbox next to playground for children.