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Frank Zalot - a survivor's tale

A largely unreported tragedy during the Second World War was the drowning of 10 United States Navy personnel from the USS American Legion during a training exercise off the Paekākāriki coast near Wellington in June 1943. In this film, one of the survivors, Frank Zalot Jnr, finally reveals the true story of the tragedy and its aftermath. Read the full story of the tragedy here.

Frank was interviewed during a visit to New Zealand in 2012 during which he attended the unveiling of a memorial to the US Navy personnel who died.

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US Navy tragedy at Paekākāriki

Ten United States Navy personnel were drowned off the Paekākāriki coast near Wellington during a beach landing exercise. A landing craft from the USS American Legion was hit by a huge wave while being towed back out to sea. When the craft capsized, an officer and nine enlisted men died.

Wartime censorship meant that newspapers were not permitted to publicise the American presence in New Zealand. A full account of the incident was not published until one of the survivours, Frank Zalot Jr, submitted his account to the NZHistory website in 2011. Read the full account here.

A memorial to the men who were drowned was unveiled during a Memorial Day ceremony at Queen Elizabeth Park, just north of Paekākāriki, on 28 May 2012.

Image: the memorial at QEII Park.

See coverage of the unveiling of the memorial on TV3 and TV1 news:

US Navy tragedy memorial

The memorial to the 10 US Navy personnel killed in the tragedy off Whareroa Beach on 20 June 1943.

The memorial is located at Queen Elizabeth Park, Mackay's Crossing, just north of Paekākāriki. It was unveiled at a Memorial Day ceremony (part of the Salute 70 celebrations) on 28 May 2012. Among those in attendance was Frank Zalot Jr, whose account of the tragedy, provided to NZHistory by his daughter, added considerably more detail to the public record of what happened.

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Jamie Mackay, 28 May 2012 and Andy Palmer, November 2012.

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Unloading vegetables at US camp

US troops unload vegetables at a military camp in Paekākāriki, 26 January 1943.

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Alexander Turnbull Library
Reference: 1/4-000150-F
Photographer: John Pascoe
Permission of the Alexander Turnbull Library, National Library of New Zealand, Te Puna Matauranga o Aotearoa, must be obtained before any re-use of this image.

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United States Navy tragedy at Paekākāriki

USS American Legion APA-17.

This account of the tragedy at Paekākāriki is by US Navy veteran Frank Zalot Jr.

Paekākāriki: everything went wrong

Frank Zalot Jr

‘I was a signalman in the United States Navy aboard the U.S.S. American Legion during World War II: the ship-to-shore signalman from August 1942 through October 1943. The American Legion was a troop transport (AP-35) when I enlisted in December 1941 (right after Pearl Harbor) and was the flagship of a task-unit that brought reinforcements to Guadalcanal from August 1942 into January 1943. We made many landings during that period. In February 1943 the ship was reclassified as an attack transport (APA-17) and became a training ship. We picked up raw troops (marines) in Pago Pago, [American] Samoa and then sailed to Upulo, British [Western] Samoa for landing exercises (April 10th – May 9th 1943). After Samoa we went to Wellington, New Zealand where on June 19, 1943 we took on newly-arrived marines and sailed 30 miles [50 km] north to a place called Paekakariki.

‘The American Legion carried approximately 1600 marines. To get them ashore, we had 35 boats called LCVP’s (landing craft, vehicle and personnel) that were manned by a Navy coxswain and a bowhook. An LCVP was equipped with a ramp that could be lowered to allow personnel to disembark or cargo to be unloaded. We also had two LCM’s (landing craft, mechanized) which carried tanks, trucks, and jeeps ashore.

Frank Zalot Jr

‘One of those LCVPs (PA17-6) was used for the landing party (“beach party”) of about 25 sailors. In landing exercises the beach party went ashore before the marines in order to establish landing positions for the rest of the LCVP’s. After all personnel were ashore, the LCVPs would then start bringing supplies: thousands and thousands of crates of food, clothing, medical supplies, gasoline and fuel for the vehicles, armaments and ammunition. These supplies sustained the troops for at least a two-week period. It was also the beach party’s responsibility to unload all this cargo. And then after the landing was completed, the beach party had to wait for all the others to leave before they too could return to the ship: always the first to arrive and the last to leave.

‘As a signalman, I was an inherent member of the beach party, as was the radioman, who served as backup for the signalman. Our Radioman was Nick Pasquarelli. We provided the only communication between those on shore and the ship. Since radio communication would have been intercepted by the enemy, we had to rely exclusively on visual communication for ship-to-shore or among all ships in a convoy at sea: flashing lights (morse code), semaphore (hand flags), or flag hoist. During landing exercises, ship-to-shore communication was through flashing lights and semaphore. (An LCVP had nothing to hoist flags on. Satellites and high-tech communication were decades away from being invented.)

‘The day after we picked up those newly-arrived troops on the 19th, we had orders to do landing exercises. It was June 20th – summer for everyone back home in the USA, but winter for us down in New Zealand. And we had fierce weather that day: air and sea temperatures of 40 degrees [fahrenheit, ie 4 degrees celsius], if that, a cold rain falling, and gale-force winds. It was a day where everything went wrong right from the start. Adding to our problems was the geography of the beach at Paekakariki: it gets deep gradually – excellent for swimming, but very poor conditions for landing an LCVP.

‘It was still dark in the very early morning when our beach party left the ship. Seas were very rough, so we proceeded slowly. The spray of water coming over the bow was very heavy. We were getting wet from rain and from spray. Our foul-weather gear wasn’t particularly effective. We were all wondering how anyone in his right mind could schedule landing exercises in that weather.

‘About 100 feet from shore our coxswain stopped the boat, lowered the ramp, and yelled “OK guys, get out!” Someone yelled, “Are you crazy? Do you know how cold that water is?!” The coxswain said it was too shallow for him to get any closer to shore. We were in water that was only 12 inches deep, but the waves behind us were breaking at 8 feet and pushing a 4-foot wall of water towards the shore – and us. We removed shoes, socks and everything from the waist down, held our clothes and equipment over our heads, and started for shore. We tried to get to shore before the next wave (and wall of water) could hit us, but halfway to shore, about 50 feet out, we were smacked from behind by a huge wave that put us armpit-deep in frigid water. When we finally made it to shore, we were cold, numb, wet, and in a very foul mood.

‘After dropping off personnel, the LCVPs typically return to the ship and start bringing the supplies. However, the tide had been going out and we were now at low tide. Combined with the gradually sloping beach, we were in the perfect situation for getting stranded. (The perfect storm was yet to come.) With propellers stuck in the sand, none of the boats could back out. What a strange sight: 35 LCVP’s high and dry on the beach with the edge of the ocean about 100 feet away. No supplies were delivered for that training exercise.

‘Later in the day the other 34 boats were rescued by a machine that had huge rubber tires and resembled a crane on wheels. It picked up the boats, marines and all, and deposited them into deep water. (The machine was provided by a New Zealand civilian company.) This was a slow process, made even slower by the number of boats that had to be moved. By the time it was our turn (always the last to leave), it was well past 9:00 p.m. and had long been dark. No one was on the beach.

'The tide was back in, so we had enough depth to move on our own without the assistance that the other 34 boats needed. We were good to go. But the motor was dead. It was that kind of a day. Another of our LCVP flotilla, manned by Coxswain Jim Pauls, noticed our predicament and tried to tow us out. All their attempts failed, however, because the strongest and thickest rope they had was a 1” line that kept snapping under the heavy load. We had to wait a couple of hours more before a larger, more powerful boat (LCM1) arrived with a heavy-duty towline (an 8” hawser), which they attached to our stern. We were being towed stern first – backwards.

‘Waves were running 8 to 10 feet high. Since we were being towed stern first, it was very difficult for our boat to ride the waves: instead of rising and falling with the wave, we could only smash into it and get deluged. About 200 feet from shore we were hit by the first breaker and our boat took on a wall of water. Chief Bosun’s Mate Mulcahy yelled, “For God’s sake, Zalot, tell them to stop!” I jumped atop the motor deck and started sending “dit dit, dit dit” (“Attention!”) on my signal gun, but the LCM kept on going. Had it paused between swells, there would have been enough slack in the towline to allow us to climb up the swell and ride on the surface of the oncoming wave – instead of being crushed by it. No one could see what was happening given the stormy surf and the pitch darkness. I don’t know if anyone on the LCM saw my signal light and if that is why the LCM didn’t cut the engine/motor between waves.

'After about 5-7 minutes of being pulled through the pounding waves, we encountered the breaker that capsized our boat and dumped us into the cold, angry sea. We were then about half a mile from the ship.

'I don’t remember hitting the water, but suddenly I was back in my hometown of Hadley, Massachusetts. I got on a bus at the corner of West and Russell Streets and traveled west for a half-mile. The bus stopped in front of my house. I got off, walked up the driveway, and up the porch steps to the kitchen door. As I raised my arm to knock on the door, I felt a kick to my head and said, “I’m under water.”

'My survival instinct kicked in and I started to swim to the surface, grabbing a shipmate’s belt-buckle on the way up. I took a deep breath and went under again. When I came up the second time, Chief Mulcahy yelled, “Hang on, Zalot – we’ll make the beach.” He grabbed a life-jacket that was floating by, slipped his arm in one of the arm openings, and then I did the same through the other. Next I started stripping off the heavy gear that I was carrying: a back-pack, a canvas sack containing two, heavy, cell batteries for my signal gun, and a pair of binoculars. The first to go was the binoculars. As I dropped them, I remembered Quarter Master Archibald’s warning when he issued the binoculars to me that morning, “These cost 125 bucks. Don’t come back without them.”

'I was facing the shore and noticed a light on the beach pointing out to sea. In size and intensity it resembled the headlight of a vehicle, but with only one beam. Through the light I could see the heads and flailing arms of my shipmates silhouetted against the light. They screaming, “Help! Help! I can’t swim!” These were screams of panic, fear, and dying. This scene became a nightmare that has haunted me ever since.

'Mulchay and I struggled to get to the shore, but the tide was going out and was very strong. We found ourselves drifting further and further out to sea. We would sit on the crest of the wave for a couple of seconds and then quickly swoosh to the bottom of the swell up to the next crest. Those swells were 10 feet high. After about 30 minutes our life-jackets became water-logged and we were no longer above water when the waves would crest. As waves broke over our heads, we had to use our free hand to cover mouth and nose, trying to keep from swallowing or inhaling water. We were too exhausted to hold our breath.

'The roar of the wind and sea was very loud and it was still pitch dark. Suddenly the clouds parted and the moon came out. I desperately started looking for a pencil, paper, and a bottle. I knew I was dying and wanted to write a note to my mother to tell her that I was thinking of her right to the very end. Then I passed out.

'In the meantime the LCM came alongside the American Legion’s gangway with our LCVP in tow – upside-down. The towline was still attached, but was straight down into the water – our boat had sunk as soon as it stopped moving from the tow. Only then did anyone realize what had happened. A general alarm sounded on the ship, and all available boats were launched to search for survivors. I don’t remember hearing or seeing the rescue boat. One of the sailors in the rescue boat said he saw my hand sticking up from the water and threw a life-ring over it; then he pulled me over to the boat. I also remember two sailors hanging over the side of the boat, trying to lift me into it. One yelled, “We can’t budge him! ” Someone else yelled, “There’s a guy hanging onto his leg.” Two other sailors grabbed Mulcahy and pulled us into the boat. I was thrown into the bow like a sack of flour, landing on my back.

'The rescue-boat was tossed about pretty badly by the rough seas, and every time water broke over the bow, it would come crashing onto my face. I couldn’t move my arm and therefore, couldn’t cover my mouth I could see and hear, and I knew exactly what was going on, but I couldn't move, I couldn't talk. I was effectively paralyzed. But my mind was very clear. I was lying there thinking, “They pulled me out of the ocean and now I’m going to drown in the boat!” One of the sailors approached with a hot cup of coffee. The boat lurched. He lost his balance and spilled the coffee on my face. Of course I didn’t feel it, my body being numb. But he did see that water was coming over the bow and onto my face, and so he put a life-jacket on my face and that kept the water away.

‘Upon arriving at the ship, I was immediately taken to sick bay. The doctor gave me a glass full of Three Feathers whiskey and put me to bed. Lying there I would shake violently for a few minutes and then stop, and then start shaking again. All I could hear was men screaming. Two of my closest buddies sat by my bedside all the time. After a while I started talking, but I was still unconscious. I could hear my voice – very strange. It took several hours for me to regain consciousness. My friends said, “Boy, were you having a conversation. Who were you talking to?” I was talking to God. He was on a white cloud, flanked by two angels. After 68 years that image is as clear now as it was then.

‘Ten men drowned: one officer and nine enlisted men:

Herbert C. Winfrey (Ensign)
Howard J. Britton (Seaman 1st Class)
Joseph P. Lorbietski (Seaman 1st Class)
William D. Roundtree (Seaman 1st Class)
Alva L. Skoog (Boatswain’s Mate 1st Class)
Kenneth G. Snow (Seaman 1st Class)
Alden P. Thatcher* (Seaman 1st Class)
Charles F. Vetter (Seaman 1st Class)
Walter J. Yanghis (Seaman 1st Class)
Dale G. Cox (Seaman 1st Class)

‘*Thatcher is the tenth victim, but is often not counted among the drowned because his body was never found. All the other drowning victims had washed ashore. A sad note of irony: Lorbietski was an excellent swimmer – the best of our crew, and yet he drowned; Mulcahy couldn’t swim at all, but he saved me from drowning. In a ceremony some time later aboard the U.S.S. American Legion, Chief Bosun’s Mate Mulcahy was awarded the Presidential Unit Citation for saving my life.

‘Because of the tragedy, training exercises were cancelled and we returned to Wellington, New Zealand. Wellington was our home base for more than a year. I met a girl there and soon became an adopted member of her family. When we got there, I said to the doctor, “I know this is the last time we will ever be in Wellington.” The war was getting closer and closer to Japan, and military bases were moving with it. Wellington would become just too far away. I wanted to go ashore to say good-by to my adopted family, the O’Briens. The doctor said, “If your temperature drops to 105, you can go.” And I said, “If it goes up to 125, I’m still going.” He said “Go ahead. I won’t stop you.”

‘The O’Brien family ran a milk bar – a drug store that also served food. When I arrived at the milk bar, I was met by Mrs. O’Brien. She said, “Did you hear about that awful thing that happened in Paekakariki last night?” I said, “Did I hear about it?! I was in it.” Then I told her the story. She didn’t say another word. Two weeks later I received [a] one-page letter from her:

My Dearest Frank,

On the night of the 20th I was very tired and retired early. I had a dream that you were in terrible danger. I got out of bed, onto my knees and prayed to God to see you safely through your danger. I prayed on my knees for a very long time, at least 45 minutes. It was midnight when I got back into bed. I couldn’t tell you this that night at the milk bar. But I wanted you to know.

Your loving New Zealand mother,
Jean O’Brien

‘We capsized at 11:17 pm and I was rescued at midnight. (Our watches had stopped at 11:17; they weren’t waterproof.) Did God really hear the prayer of a loving mother whose son was in terrible danger or was this just a coincidence?

Frank Zalot Jr in 2009

‘A Board of Inquiry was formed about two weeks later aboard ship to investigate the Paekakariki incident. It was chaired by Lt. Commander Jensen. When I testified before the Board, he pressured me to place all the blame on Lt. Jg Ackerman, the officer in charge of the beach party. I insisted that Ackerman was not responsible. The findings of the inquiry were that no one was responsible for the disaster – it was just a series of events where everything went wrong. The only positive result from all this horror was that from then on, all members of a shore party had to wear life-jackets while in the boat.’

On 28 May 2012 a memorial was unveiled at Queen Elizabeth Park, near Paekakariki, to mark this tragedy. Frank Zalot Jnr was among those who attended the ceremony. A short documentary about the tragedy was published by Manatū Taonga shortly afterwards.

Credit:

Main image: Wikipedia

Text and other images: reproduced with permission from Frank Zalot Jnr and his family. See also, related article on the MassLive.com website (27 June 2011)

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Parliamentary special train re-enactment 2008

On 6-8 August 2008, a century after the first train traversed the entire length of the North Island main trunk line, that historic journey was re-enacted. A modern-day Parliamentary Special train, hauled by Steam Incorporated's restored Ja 1271 locomotive (built at Hillside workshops, Dunedin, in 1956), left Wellington for Auckland on the morning of 6 August. Its first stop was at the historic rail town of Paekakariki, where MP Winnie Laban formally opened a 100-year-old signal box that had been restored by the local rail heritage group.

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Neill Atkinson, 2008

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Paekakariki refreshment room

Paekakariki, north of Wellington, was another well-known refreshment stop on the main trunk line. Although this crowd appears well behaved, one traveller complained that in the refreshment rooms 'a gentleman lost all trace of quality, femininity disappeared, as men and women clawed to reach the counter, there to be served tea or coffee in cups which felt and looked like lumps of lard, and to be served sandwiches, rock cakes and hot pies'.

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Archives New Zealand/Te Rua Mahara o te Kawanatanga
Reference: ABIN-W3337, Box 44

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Statistics Department's staff picnic, 1938

The Census and Statistics Department’s annual staff picnic, Paekākāriki, 1938

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Statistics New Zealand

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The camps - US Forces in New Zealand

US military forces in New Zealand map

American life in New Zealand between 1942 and 1944 was centred on the camps, most of which were within marching distance or a short train journey from Wellington or Auckland city.

In the south, the major area of American settlement was on the Kapiti coast, between the west coast beaches and the mountainous Tararua Ranges. Around Paekākāriki there were three large settlements, Camp Paekakariki, Camp Russell (now in Queen Elizabeth Park) and, on the other side of the highway, Camp McKay (also spelt Mackay). Close by were smaller camps at Pāuatahanui, Judgeford Valley and Titahi Bay. In all, more than 21,000 men could be accommodated in the area.

Camp Hale, Auckland Domain

In Auckland there was a scattering of camps from Pukekohe and Papakura in the south to Mechanics Bay, Western Springs, and various parks on the Auckland isthmus. Here 29,500 could be accommodated. Two other places also hosted the Americans. North of Auckland a number of farm camps were set up in the Warkworth area, while Solway Park in Masterton had beds for some 2400 Marines.

Many of the camp sites were quite small and occupied land that already had memories and associations for New Zealanders. In Wellington, Anderson’s Park where boys had played cricket and Central Park where lovers had strolled were suddenly covered in huts. Hutt Park raceway hosted not horses but American soldiers. Auckland Domain was covered by regular lines of army huts. In both Wellington and Auckland a remarkable number of buildings were used by the Americans. In the capital, Hannahs Building, the Bank of New Zealand, Odlins and Tisdalls served as stores or offices. It was difficult, if you lived in these two centres, not to be aware of the invasion.

Conditions

Mess queue at Camp McKay, 1943

Camp life seemed spartan for men landing directly from the United States, but comfortable for those arriving from the heat of a Pacific battle. At first most of the Americans lived in pyramid-shaped tents, but increasingly they moved into two-, four- or occasionally eight-man huts. There was often no electric light or heat, and the louvred windows let in the cold and the damp. Men brought up in the central heating of American suburban homes found New Zealand winters unpleasant.

Soldiers lined up with their own mess gear at the cookhouse and ate in mess rooms with bare wooden tables. Food was plentiful, and cooked if possible in American style. But the local staples, especially fatty lamb (‘god-damned mountain-goat’), were not easy for the visitors to cook or to eat. All the larger camps had stores from which American products – cigarettes, Coca-Cola – could be bought. The camps did their best to make the men feel at home amid bush and sandhills.

The camp drill

Marines training in the Tararua Ranges

The first bugle call was at 6 a.m. and the men were at physical drill 10 minutes later. The subsequent routine depended on where they had come from or were headed. Those arriving fresh from the United States were here to be trained for battles on Pacific islands. There were few ceremonial parades in full dress uniform, although all stood to attention at sunset when ‘Old Glory’ was hauled down. There were long route marches to toughen up young city slickers and scouting missions in the Tararua Ranges, which stood in for tropical jungle; artillerymen learnt how to fire under camouflage; landings on Pacific beaches were practised on the Petone foreshore, at Eastbourne, and more ambitiously on Māhia Peninsula, south of Gisborne. When reality finally dawned at Guadalcanal and Tarawa, these practices must have seemed innocent and pleasant by comparison.

Tragedy at Paekākāriki

Wartime censorship meant that newspapers were not permitted to write about the American presence in New Zealand until November 1942, and thereafter the news was strictly controlled. One unfortunate episode never reported was the drowning of 10 United States Navy personnel off the Paekākāriki coast near Wellington in June 1943. Read more about this incident.

When the horror of the Pacific war got too much, the men might return to New Zealand. Some came simply for what a later generation described as ‘R & R’ (rest and recreation): a period of good food, good times and peace in which the body could recover and the mind let go of its nightmares. Others, less fortunate, returned on stretchers. Some were wounded; more came back suffering the fevers of malaria. In all, 19 hospitals were set up to take almost 10,000 patients. Cornwall Park in Auckland and Silverstream in Wellington were the sites of major institutions. To provide care and the human warmth of a familiar female accent, a considerable number of American nurses came to New Zealand. This was not just a male invasion.

Unloading vegetables at a US camp

Men too worked at providing the back-up needed by a modern army. The Quartermaster Corps took over large warehouses and areas of the wharves, procured local goods, and packed them off to the war zone. New Zealand conditions added some difficulties. Wet winters, the restricted range of vegetables available and periodic disputes with the ‘wharfies’ were not the least of the problems. Though locals at times muttered about the Americans’ fondness for machinery (they introduced forklifts to New Zealand), all were impressed with their efficiency and thoroughness.

The American forces worked hard and craved time off. But New Zealand leisure habits were very different to American ones. So the visitors devised their own forms of entertainment and established enclaves of American culture. There were games of baseball, jazz concerts, dances, and five Red Cross clubs which offered cheap hamburgers, doughnuts and Coca-Cola.

Camps McKay and Russell, Paekākāriki

Camps McKay (or Mackay) and Russell on either side of the main highway north of Paekākāriki.

Credit:

Alexander Turnbull Library
Reference: F 100013 1/2
Permission of the Alexander Turnbull Library, National Library of New Zealand, Te Puna Matauranga o Aotearoa, must be obtained before any re-use of this image.

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