I Remember Dinty Moore

Dinty Moore was the most likeable guy I’ve known, but this could not have been predicted the first time we met. I had answered a knock on the front door of our new house in Ventura to find him standing on the doorstep with two girls. It was early 1949 and my family had recently moved there from Oxnard, 10 miles away. Dinty stood back without speaking, while one of the girls asked for my sister. Phyllis had transferred to Ventura High where, like these three, she was a member of the junior class. But no way would I have transferred, being midway through my senior year at Oxnard High. The two schools were intense rivals in every respect, but especially in sports, and my high-school years were spent developing antagonism toward all things Ventura.

To this day, I have a vivid mental image of Dinty standing there at our front door, a step behind the two girls. I knew him only by reputation as a football player. Without football pads it could be seen he was a slender guy—about 5’11” and 160 pounds-- and yet despite his size would be elected the following year to the league’s all-star football team—as a center! Nowadays, the starting center at any high school in Ventura County would be expected to stand over 6 feet tall and weigh at least 225 pounds.

Without wasting words, I indicated Phyllis was in the back of the house and motioned for them to enter. At the same time, I made it clear that, to me, they were of no significance. In those days, my only contact with guys from Ventura--other than on a playing field--was driving down Main Street and throwing rotten fruit at those that regularly hung out in front of the bank. Now there was one in my house, so I found something to do in the back yard until they had left.

It would be almost two years before we met again. After spending the year following high school in the northern part of the state, I returned during the fall of 1950 and enrolled at Ventura Junior College--mainly to play football. Dinty was no longer in town, as shortly after graduating from high school he had taken a job in an oil field near Los Angeles. It would take the Korean War to get us together.

The North Koreans had invaded the south during the previous summer, but this did not concern me until several teammates—reservists and members of the National Guard—were called to active duty. When some of my friends were drafted it was clear that my days as a civilian were numbered. An emphasis on football had been at the expense of effort in the classroom and as a result I was a prime candidate for the Draft. But time passed and I was not called. Finally, in early December I visited the local Draft Board and asked about my status. That was a mistake. The Draft-Board representative was surprised I had not been called weeks before, and informed me I could expect to be inducted into the Army within a few days.

I can’t say I was surprised by this development; in fact, I had already approached one of my teammates, Jim Romig, about joining the Navy. (My father was a career Navy man, so I was determined to avoid being drafted into the Army.) Jim was a year younger than me, but knew it was just a matter of time before he too would be called and agreed that enlisting in the Navy was the way to go. He then contacted two of his high-school buddies—one was Dinty--and invited them to join us. Both had taken jobs after graduation and knew they would soon be drafted. Dinty quickly agreed to go with us, but the other, Buck Buchanan, had decided to enlist in the marines. (Buck’s choice proved tragic, as less than a year later he was killed by a Chinese mortar on a Korean mountainside.)

Although we signed up early in December, our inductions were deferred until after Christmas. It was before dawn on 27 December 1950 that we boarded a bus in downtown Ventura and headed for the Navy Induction Center in Los Angeles. The following morning we completed our physicals, were sworn in, and by mid afternoon were at the Naval Training Center—Boot Camp—in San Diego. I saw little of Dinty during Boot Camp. Although Jim and I were together, he was assigned to another Company. But on graduating from Boot Camp, the three of us got back together in a large contingent of recruits with orders to report for duty aboard the heavy cruiser USS ROCHESTER, then undergoing a major overhaul at the Mare Island Naval Shipyard, in northern California.

Like most Seaman Recruits fresh out of Boot Camp, we were assigned to Divisions that could make effective use of unskilled labor--a major need of ships being overhauled. The need was greatest in Divisions 1 thru 7, the Deck Divisions, which were charged with getting the main deck into shape. This time Dinty and I were together, assigned to 6th Division, while Jim was placed in 5th Division. My shipboard memories of that time are mainly of chipping and scraping paint--with eager anticipation of liberty at workday’s end. The assignment suited Jim just fine. He recognized there would be an end to the paint in need of chipping or scraping—at least at shipyard intensity. And, more important, the ratings available to Deck-Division personnel--boatswain’s mate and gunner’s mate--were to him the real Navy. But Dinty and I immediately looked for a way out.

After a month or so, there was a call for personnel with an aptitude for mathematics to apply for billets that had become available in Fox Division, which maintained and operated the electronics that directed fire from the ship's guns. Dinty and I had scored high on math in the aptitude tests given in boot camp, so we applied and were accepted. (Not during all the years before or since has there been evidence linking me to an aptitude for math. I remember at the time suspecting that in the confusion of boot camp the Navy had given me someone else’s test result.)

From that point, Dinty and I became close friends, which was hard to figure because we were so different. While I tended to be overly serious, Dinty was overly carefree. I suspect the attraction was that deep down we both wanted to be more like the other, and together we were. So, for example (as illustrated below), if it hadn’t been for Dinty I wouldn’t have strolled down Waikiki’s Kalakaua Avenue and through the lobby of the Royal Hawaiian Hotel attired in a lavalava (with a hibiscus behind my left ear). And if it hadn’t been for me, Dinty wouldn’t have spent a long afternoon examining attributes of the various sailing vessels moored at the Waikiki Yacht Harbor, while quietly contemplating in great detail a cruise though Polynesia.

Dinty had a volatile side that only rarely surfaced. I remember a time that Jim tried to get him to simmer down (I forget what had riled him up) and he responded to what apparently was perceived as a parental-type admonishment by taking two wild swings at Jim’s head. Jim evaded both and pinned Dinty’s arms to his side until he had calmed down. Later, Dinty confided to me with profound relief, “I’m sure glad he didn’t swing back. I would’ve been killed.” Jim was a tough guy—as tough as any I’ve known. But he never flaunted it, as far as I know. He also had exceptional self-discipline for a young guy. I’m sure these qualities helped in his post-navy success as a major college linebacker despite weighing in at less than 170 lbs.

Dinty and I were assigned to the same duty section and it became routine that we pulled liberty together. ROCHESTER took us to many new places over the next two years, and because we both appreciated unfamiliar experiences it was an interesting time. When the ship called at San Diego, we crossed the Border into Old Mexico and found even Tijuana to be an exotic place. And when during annual leave or a long weekend liberty we returned to long-familiar places near home, these too seemed livelier than ever before. Dinty was simply fun to be with.

The most memorable times, however, came after ROCHESTER left California and headed west across the Pacific during late August 1951. She was on her way to the Korean War, but first had to perform some unfinished gunnery exercises. These were to have been completed before leaving California, but persistent coastal overcast had prevented doing so. With growing concern that ROCHESTER would be unfit to make her scheduled late-November return to Korea, the Navy sent her west two months early to complete the gunnery exercises under clear skies of the Hawaiian Islands.

Hawaii of the early 1950s—especially Oahu—was very unlike the Hawaii of today (see below). This was almost a decade before the Islands gained statehood and most visitors arrived by sea aboard passenger liners from California. With relatively few tourists and only two large hotels on Waikiki Beach—the Royal Hawaiian and the Moana—it was a relaxed setting. The photo of Waikiki 20 years after gaining statehood (below, right) shows these two hotels barely visible at the foot of much larger structures that tower above them.

Although ROCHESTER was at sea during most of this time, my recollections are mostly of times ashore. We managed to get to the Island’s windward side on a few occasions, but that required renting a car, and there were other ways we preferred to spend our limited funds. Stateside we would have hitchhiked, but an Island law against hitchhiking was strictly enforced. So most liberties involved Waikiki and bathing suits, although as a change of pace we also put in time along Hotel Street.

Hotel Street was always crowded with servicemen in uniform and others easily recognized as servicemen in civies. Usually I found it a good time for a while, but before long would want to move on. Dinty ended up on Hotel Street during all four Honolulu liberties that he wasn’t with me, and each time returned to the ship with a new tattoo (the only tattoos he acquired during his time in the Navy).

My most vivid memories of our time at sea during this period are of sleeping topside to escape the heat below deck at night. It was, of course, strictly prohibited, so we had to use great stealth in getting our mattresses to a little-used area aft of the stack. There, looking up at the stars, we had long conversations before drifting off to sleep. And at these times, in particular, Dinty showed a depth of mind that would surprise some that knew him only casually. We were never able to remain there till morning, however, because at some time during the night the inevitable rainsquall would send us scurrying below.

ROCHESTER completed the gunnery exercises in early November and continued her journey westward. After several days in port at Yokosuka, Japan, she got underway for Korea, arriving on station with Task force 77 on 28 November. During the weeks that followed, she alternated between escort duty with the fast-carrier group and operating independently or with a destroyer for firing missions along the coast.

At the outset, we found war duty monotonous. When not at General Quarters, the standard watch schedule alternated 4 hours at action stations with 8 hours off. Not before or since have I got so much sleep! Normally, time off watch during the day was occupied by routine maintenance, but most maintenance in Fox Division required knowledge of electronics, which left minimally trained seamen like Dinty and me with little to do. Obviously, we could have used this time to acquire the technical knowledge needed to advance in grade, but….

I don’t recall where Dinty’s action station was during that first month of operations off Korea, but mine was as operator of radar that directed fire of the 40-mm mount on the fantail. And if his experience was as uneventful as mine, I can see why I have no memory of it entering into our conversations. The radar operated by me often malfunctioned, and at these times there was little I could do other than blindly turn dials--which never solved the problem. (The primitive radar of that era would be no match with the high-precision radar of today.) Fortunately, the 40 mm batteries were not called on to fire at enemy targets. They were the ship’s main defense against attacking aircraft, but being unable to get the radar operating with any consistency during a 4-hr watch left me with no hope of providing the split-second response needed in the event of an air attack. Of course, the battery could be fired without benefit of radar, but that knowledge did nothing for my sense of significance. An aircraft had attacked ROCHESTER during her previous tour of Korean-war duty and dropped a bomb that glanced off her crane without exploding. There was no need to remind me that the crane involved was just a few feet above the small compartment where I spent so many hours in front of an inoperative radar screen.

Another problem was that during the early part of our Korean tour we seldom got out into fresh air. There was a shortage of foul-weather jackets, so these were issued only to personnel whose duties exposed them to the weather. Others with rank managed to get jackets, but seamen lacking specific need and who were low in the pecking order, like Dinty and me, had to go without. So in the bitter cold of that Korean winter we simply remained below deck. When after some time jackets were finally issued to us, we immediately marked them with our names in big letters, prominently displayed on large white patches (see photo, above). There were still many aboard without jackets, so it was prudent to have ours clearly identified.

After a month in the war zone, we returned to Yokosuka to refurbish both ship and crew. Japan was to us immensely interesting, being so unlike home in California. I remember a pervasive grayness that, in midwinter, was exaggerated by lack of heat. The great transformation that would come with a surging economy was still several decades in the future, and while we saw no visible sign of the destruction inflicted by WWII (which had ended less then 7 years before), its effects were still evident in the general mood. The lack of prosperity had one positive result, however: A seaman’s pay could be stretched much farther there than in the States (another sharp contrast to the present), so much of our time ashore was spent purchasing gifts for the folks and others back home.

That first month of operations off Korea had convinced me that I was not cut out to be a Fire Controlman. Navy ratings had become somewhat familiar to me while growing up in a Navy family, and I had been most favorably impressed by the duties of Quartermaster-- especially those that involved navigation; in fact, during the few hours spent on the mock ship used in Boot Camp, I had imagined myself Quartermaster of the Watch. But the navigation group in ROCHESTER was small and I had been aware of no openings during my time on board. Nevertheless, during our return to Korea I approached the Navigator and asked about joining his group. To my great surprise, he immediately arranged a transfer and within days I was in N Division.

Our return to the war zone found Dinty and me at new battle stations. Although N-Division centered its activities on the ship’s bridge, my action station as junior member of the group was about as far from the bridge as one could get and still be on board the ship. In a tiny compartment designated “After Steering”, which was deep below deck, close above the rudder, I stood ready to steer the ship in the event battle damage took out the regular steering system on the bridge. One might question whether this setting was really much different from the tiny radar compartment where earlier experience had turned me against being a Fire Controlman, but the differences were major. In contrast to staring at a malfunctioning radar screen with a sense of inadequacy, here I had every confidence that I could steer the ship if called on to do so. Also, both on and off watch I found myself reading the quartermaster manual and other related publications.

At about this same time, Dinty was assigned to direct fire of one of the 40 mm batteries, which put him out in fresh air. This would have qualified him at the initial distribution of foul-weather jackets if it had been his action station when ROCHESTER first arrived off Korea; in fact, he commented to me that he was uncertain whether his new assignment was based on recognition of increased capabilities, or on being a guy that already had a jacket.

Dinty and I spent progressively less time together after my transfer to N Division. Although we continued to join up for liberty during the week or so each month that we were in Japan (Yokosuka or Sasebo), our Divisions were quartered in different parts of the ship and our duties took us in different directions. Then shortly after ROCHESTER returned to the states in May 1952, I was detached for a 4-month session at Quartermaster school on the east coast, and I did not get back to the ship until just a few days before she left for her third tour of Korean-War duty.

By this time Dinty was a short-timer on board. He had submitted a request for shore duty several months earlier, and orders arrived just before we left the states directing him to report to a naval installation on the western Pacific Island of Saipan. As ROCHESTER was headed in that direction, he was instructed to stay on board until arrival in WestPac. During the stopover at Pearl Harbor we had a great time revisiting familiar places on Oahu, but immediately upon arriving in Yokosuka he was detached for transport to his new duty station. We exchanged a few letters over the next two years, but did not meet again until after separation from the Navy.

It was an afternoon in late October 1954 when Dinty, Jim and I got together for the last time. Each of us was headed in a different direction and it just happened that all three were in town on that day. (I no longer had a base there, as my family had moved away the year before.) Our reunion was at the large concrete “V” on the hillside above town, where we polished off several six-packs. I remember that it was a good time, but 50 years later have no recollection of what we talked about. Early the following morning I left for the east coast, and it would be almost two years before I passed through Ventura again. That was late in1956, and I had to thumb through a phone book to see who was still around. I found Dinty listed and when I called his number a female voice answered. That is when I learned he was married. I stopped by their house later that day and we talked of old times, but with a baby crying in the next room it was not easy to keep the conversation flowing. That was the last time I saw him.

Over the years that followed I became immersed in college, marine biology and finally a family. Memories of the early 1950s, the ROCHESTER and people I knew during that period, gradually faded and only rarely came to mind. That situation continued to develop until the mid 1990s, when an unexpected e-mail arrived from the USS Rochester Association’s Farrell Ferguson. He had been tracking down ex-Rochester sailors and came across a reference I had made to my military service on some web site.

I had been living in northern California for many years and scarcely took note when driving past Ventura on infrequent trips south. (Today’s route is a freeway that bypasses downtown Ventura.)  But Fergie’s e-mail resulted in a rush of memories that had lain dormant through the years. An urge to reconnect with Dinty and Jim led me to call my sister Phyllis, who had been one of their classmates. Phyllis had been living on the east coast since shortly after high school, and although still loosely connected with a few of her Ventura friends, she knew nothing of Dinty or Jim. She was, however, able to give me the address of a classmate that had been involved with organizing infrequent class reunions (which she had not attended). Through him, I reconnected with Jim and learned that Dinty was no longer with us. In 1985 he had suffered a sudden and unexpected stroke that ended his life at age 53.

Remembrance by Ted Hobson