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Jim Stuart

Within a couple of days of my posting, Classmates sent me an e-mail that someone had responded to it. I logged on to Classmates and found that a "Janet Stuart" had replied to my posting. Very excited, I opened the reply:

Subject: RE: James Stuart, Shipmate

Previous Email: Dear Allan, Thank you for finding us. Look fwd to talking with you. The website is in my wife's name. I was on Franklin Dec44 till we were hit, in April 45. Duty station was phone talker on bridge and yeoman in chaplain's station. Battle dressing station on hanger deck. Have attended several reunions, your name sounds familiar, do you belong to the Association? Regards, Jim

I had no idea what the duty "phone talker on bridge" entailed, but I could imagine clearly what his duty must have been like at the "battle dressing station" on the hangar deck. I didn't know what a yeoman did for a chaplain, but I suspected that Jim must have known the celebrated hero, Father Joseph T. O'Callahan.

His question about my belonging to the Association and his reference to himself as a "shipmate" startled me: He must be assuming that I am my father, that I am Lieutenant Commander Allan C. Edmands, Sr. Some clearing up was necessary.

Right away I responded, still within Classmates:

Dear Jim, thank you for your response. Actually, I am Allan C. Edmands . . . the son of Lt.Cmdr. Allan C. "Ace" Edmands, commander of Torpedo Squadron 5 (assuming command in June 1944), who was killed (presumably-- his remains were never officially found) in the explosions on the deck on 19 March 1945. . . . [I told him about Lt. Carr's letter and my doubts about the Academy ring and dog tags being found anywhere else but on his remains.] I have the ring and dog tags in my possession. I never knew my father, as I was not quite 3 years old when he was killed, and duty made it impossible for him to be home much. I'm sorry if my participation in Classmates made you think that I was my father; I didn't know how to make it clear in the Classmates form. I have exactly the same name as my father. I would be interested in attending a reunion sometime if I would be welcome. I would be very interested in learning any information about my father, since all I have are the official telegrams and service record from the Navy Dept. Thank you for e-mailing me, Jim. For further correspondence, please write to me at allan@greatgrand.com. Regards, Allan

He suggested that I join the USS Franklin Association and attend the annual reunion. "Each year, upwards of a couple of hundred veterans attend, though this number is now rapidly declining" I recalled again that grim statistic.

"You might be able to discover someone who knew your father well, saw him in action, or knows more of the 19th," he said. He told me of one man whose late father had been in the Black Sheep Squadron, who through the Franklin Association had met his father's shipmate and best friend. "Since both your Dads were flyers, they probably even knew each other." He suggested that I meet this man, a Phil Gentry, and later on he arranged for us to communicate through e-mail.

I would be pleased to help you follow thru with joining the Association, and at the same time, would strongly suggest that you consider enrolling your father in the "Navy Log" sponsored by the Naval Heritage in Washington, an online website for all the men's pictures, stories, and information. Also, I hope you will consider applying for the newly-authorized Navy/Marine Corps Combat Action Award Ribbon. Your father is eligible. I would be honored if you would allow me to sponsor your Dad in the Navy Log. Let me know and I'll help you.

I am very excited with this opportunity to communicate with one of my Dad's shipmates-- and very grateful for your generosity. I should have pursued this years ago, but I'm so happy to have made this contact with you.

I never made it to my battle station when we were hit, because of damage and fire. In fact, MOST never made it to their battle stations that day. It wasn't until late in the morning that general quarters were called, and MANY, to this day, say that it was never called. Father O'Callahan was my superior, along with Protestant Chaplain Harken, and a Jewish layperson who served as Rabbi. I helped them with typing their services, setting up equipment, burials at sea, etc. I did not see any of these men the day we were hit, for I had made my way with others who were trapped below, to the fantail and was trapped there, unable to do more than survive. [Then, in a subsequent e-mail:] On the 19th March, I was with a group of 15 to 20 men caught below decks, and we worked our way aft until we found a passageway that came out onto the fantail. We were not part of Lt. Gary's rescue. At the outset, there were about 30 men total on the fantail, and during the course of that day, all but 6 of us were either killed, or blown over the side, or jumped because we were trapped by fire. There was no other way out.

Being connected with the Chaplain's office, I participated in the early burials at sea. . . . The first time I saw a flag-draped body in a sewed-up sea bag, weighted with a shell casing, and as the body was angled to the sea and the flag became limp, I had to choke down strong emotions.

The conditions here were unbelievably horrible. Smoke and fire were everywhere. Forty millimeter ammunition was exploding just above us on a gun mount and the oil-soaked tub winches were blazing away in fire. We could see the deadly events that had happened, and were still happening, right before our eyes. Men were on fire, others had limbs torn or shredded, and ghastly things like faces were gone or heads blown off. We crouched or stretched out in gun mounts or behind other gear heavy enough to protect us from the flying shrapnel and smaller explosions. An explosion ripped off one side of my life preserver and something creased my battle helmet and burned the right side of my face. A small piece of metal hit my hand. . . . The dead and wounded were all around us. Most of the wounded died in place, or later in the sea, and I remember one badly wounded man, who soon perished, asking the Chief for a smoke. We saw men caught in the oil-fed flames in the sea, while others struggled to reach debris, and others just slipped from sight. Scores died in our view.

The ship began settling, followed by a deathly shuddering and a serious starboard listing (later determined to be thirteen degrees), then secondary explosions slapped us again. Black smoke enveloped the fantail deck we were occupying. It was time to leave! By now, there were only six men left alive in our location. Three of us left the ship at 10:45 am by climbing down a rope and falling the remaining forty feet into the burning, turbulent ocean. The three sounds I remember at this time were the Japanese planes buzzing around eager to join in the finale, the plopping and splashing of shells and bullets in the sea, and the roar of gunfire. No one thought that we, or the ship, would survive the fall of night. . . . I had chosen between the dubious security that the ship offered and those perils that awaited in the burning-oil encrusted Pacific Ocean. . . . When I hit the water from that distance, my torn life preserver tangled in the battle helmet and was choking me. I nearly drowned right where I jumped. Underwater, I removed the steel helmet, kicked off my shoes and followed the torn preserver to the surface for a desperate breath. In a few moments, I was able to see my new dilemma. At that frightening moment, the ship was floating rapidly away, listing ominously and trailing smoke. It was like seeing my companion and my security moving quickly away. I wanted to reach out and pull her back to me like a toy sailboat.

I was pulled aboard the Hickox at 12:35 pm, but was no help to my rescuers because there was no physical strength left. I could not have survived another thirty minutes in the water.

Jim provided me contacts to officials in the Franklin Association, who, he said, "may be able to put you in touch with someone still alive who knew your Dad, was in his group, and the events of that day. Chances are, Allan, if you join soon, before all are gone, you will find someone who knew him." Again I was reminded of that grim statistic.

He also suggested I visit the U.S.S. Yorktown in South Carolina:

Should you be able someday to visit Patriot's Point SC, our sister ship, EXACTLY like the Franklin, named the USS Yorktown, is moored there, purchased and owned by an Assoc. that was first made up of survivors. The room just like your Dad would have sat in to learn his flight lessons is just like it was, and real, restored planes like he flew are sitting on the decks below. I believe you would "feel" something of his life there. [Then, in a subsequent e-mail:] If you visit the USS Yorktown, not only will you be able to see the Franklin dedicated compartments, but also tour the hanger deck, flight deck, superstructure, flight ready room, bridge, crew compartments, mess galley, fantail, 40mm and 20mm gun tubs, etc. I think it would give you a real sense of shipboard life to see it all. You can smell the engine oil and how close the air is as you work your way down to the crews quarters.

Jim sent me applications to fill out, a fresh copy of the 1945 Collier's article "Chaplain Courageous," about Father O'Callahan, U.S. Navy war photographs of the Pacific War (Pearl Harbor to Tokyo Harbor), and copies of the Nimitz News newsletter of the National Museum of the Pacific War.

He appreciated the pictures of Ace that I sent him:

I can't remember whether I have seen him, although it is more than likely that I did. He is ruggedly handsome, with perhaps a glint of mischief and fun in his eyes. From my position as a phone talker on the bridge, I more than likely observed your father taking off or landing at different times, along with other members of the air groups. On the 19th, however, I was 1 deck below there.

My mother was not very communicative about my father, possibly because it remained too painful a subject for her to discuss and possibly because she felt it might be disloyal to my stepfather (a fine man and the only father I ever really knew). I suppose that now, with both of them having passed away, I feel an urgency to find out as much as I can about my father. Even his older sister, my 93-year-old Aunt Jean, remembers very little about him. I'm hoping that I might come in contact with someone who knew him on the ship. I so much appreciate your helping me make these initial contacts.

Your letter was so moving. I feel if you simply let go of your stepfather's good influence, your mother's too, and open yourself to the place in your heart that was meant for your real Dad to fill, the memories, the lives, you can learn of and the feelings you can have for and about him, will come and fill that space as naturally as if they were always meant to - and of course, they were. That place in our hearts is built into all of us, and once you know its there, its easy. It won't come in the way or time or place you think it will, and you can't "will it" to come to you, it will simply rush in one day in a moment, and you will feel something you know was "him," the essence of what he was, what he did, and felt. It will seem like a shock, but a wonderful one.

When I was little, they used to give me his album of Navy photos he had taken on board different ships, and I looked at those photos over and over again. I saw so many pictures of men standing with their arms around each others shoulders, smiling, that I thought it was all a grand adventure. He didn't get killed, and he came home a hero, was all I knew.

I read about things he talked about, convoys they were in, sinkings, mines, submarines, and its been like a movie of my life before I was me. They say you can remember being in the womb, well I know part of Dad that became me, was passed on to me, went with him wherever he was during the war, too. I hope you will come to feel this as I do.

She told me how Jim had conducted a memorial ceremony at her father's gravesite.

I felt his presence there too, and a kind of relief and thanks from him that we remembered his need. So, you see, we actually help complete our father's lives even when they are gone, by our actions that say we care about those war days and what they did. They know.

But this narrative is about what happened to my father on that terrible day on the Franklin. Survivor hero Jim Stuart did not know Ace, but he did help me track down Franklin survivors who did know him. He and Jan take a deep interest in my findings, and their observations help me to keep the findings in perspective.

Continue with the narrative