The Project Gutenberg eBook of The tragedy of Monomoy Beach, by
Clarkson P. Bearse
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Title: The tragedy of Monomoy Beach
The graveyard of the Atlantic
Author: Clarkson P. Bearse
Release Date: April 23, 2023 [eBook #70626]
Language: English
Produced by: Steve Mattern
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TRAGEDY OF MONOMOY
BEACH ***
THE TRAGEDY
of
MONOMOY BEACH
THE GRAVEYARD OF THE ATLANTIC
by
CLARKSON P. BEARSE, SR.
(Copyright 1943)
Designed, printed and published on Cape Cod by
THE GOSS PRINT
HARWICH, MASSACHUSETTS
_Introduction_
This will introduce to our readers, the author, Clarkson P. Bearse, Sr.
He is a native Cape Codder and lives in a peaceful typical Cape Cod
home in Harwich Port. In fact he is Postmaster of the Harwich Port Post
office. He was a former member of the Coast Guard Station which figured
in the Monomoy disaster. Due to an injury received in the line of duty
he was unable to report for service, or otherwise he would have been
another victim rather than the author of this thrilling story of the
sea.
For many years he retained the facts about this world famous tragedy,
second only in importance to the Portland disaster. His modesty caused
him to refrain from telling the story until his friends finally
prevailed upon him to fill in at a Grange lecture hour one night. Then
Kiwanis listened to him and was thrilled. Then other organizations
sought his thrilling story. We know he will thrill you, too, as he
paints his vivid word picture.
No living person can tell this story like Mr. Bearse. This tragedy of
the sea is only one of hundreds of ship wrecks which have made these
shoals known as “The Graveyard of the Atlantic” all over the world. We
are proud to present this copyrighted edition for your reading pleasure.
The Publishers.
[Illustration: CLARKSON P. BEARSE, SR.]
_An Appreciation_
_For the historical sketch which decorates each page in this book we
thank Wendell Rogers, the Chatham artist. His generous contribution
has added much to the historic as well as to the artistic value of the
book_.
_For the accuracy of the Honor Roll of the Town of Chatham as of August
1, 1943 we are indebted to Town Clerk Levi Denson._
_The American Legion of Harwich, Cloyde Pate, Commander, is also due
official recognition for their sponsorship of the Harwich Honor Roll._
_The Publishers._
THE TRAGEDY of MONOMOY BEACH
or
THE GRAVEYARD of THE ATLANTIC
CHAPTER I
I was born and brought up on Cape Cod. To me it is the only place on
earth. In olden times, in times gone by, people away from here had
the idea that Cape Cod was a narrow strip of land extending off into
the ocean, consisting of sand dunes and fish shanties. But in recent
years there has been a radical change in the opinion people have had
about Cape Cod. Now they are looking at Cape Cod as it really is.
The automobile, the chamber of commerce, boards of trade, and other
advertising agencies have opened Cape Cod wide, and it has been
explored from one end to the other by thousands and thousands. Now some
of these people are prophesying the future of Cape Cod, but they are
not only prophesying the future of Cape Cod but they are delving down
into the past--down into its past records and past history. Recently,
almost within the year, they have gone down forty-one years and have
come up with the old Monomoy Disaster. Sometimes they come into the
post-office and question me about the disaster. I not only have to
admit that I had been associated with those men who were lost, but was
familiar with the disaster itself, so I have been telling them and all
others who were interested by an address. I appreciate the privilege of
addressing so many distinguished gatherings.
It was the seventeenth day of March 1902, when the news spread--and it
spread like wildfire all over--not only over the towns of Chatham and
Harwich, the two towns most directly affected by the disaster, but over
the surrounding towns and all over Cape Cod, for that matter. Women
ran from one house to the other, telling the news--men congregated on
corners, in stores and elsewhere, discussing the news. The report was
that every surfman on the old Monomoy Lifesaving Station, with the
exception of one, had been lost. They had perished off the back side
of Monomoy Beach in the tide rips and the seas. In telling the story, I
have entitled it, “The Tragedy of Monomoy Beach or the Graveyard of the
Atlantic.”
Eight miles down from Harwich is the town of Chatham. Everybody knows
that Monomoy Beach extends off from Chatham--off into Nantucket Sound
in a southerly direction something like ten miles. It is approximately
two miles wide, and is composed wholly of beach sand, a growth of beach
grass, occasionally a brush swamp, and a few meadows. Its topographic
makeup is sand dunes and hollows, hollows and sand dunes, all sizes and
shapes, and the sand continues to blow and shift. Today there is a sand
dune, tonight a dry gale of wind, tomorrow a piece of level ground.
Today there is a piece of level ground, tonight a sand storm, tomorrow
a hollow. So it is, year in and year out. The sand continues to blow
and shift.
Monomoy Beach is bounded on the east by the broad Atlantic, and the
seas--the seas--the seas roll in from an expanse of three thousand
miles and break and pound and roar upon the strand in an unbroken line.
Sometimes I tell my friends if they desire to see the ocean in its
raw, if they desire to see those seas that roll in from this tremendous
expanse and break and pound and roar upon the strand, if they desire
to see the tide rips that break and boil and foam, if they desire to
see the lightships off in the distance guiding the shipping down over
the shoals, if they desire to see the tide as it sweeps out of Caleb’s
Bay and meets the ocean, and produces those tremendous tide rips down
there on the end of Monomoy Beach or Point Rip--if they desire to see
all this, I suggest that someday in an easterly gale they take a trip
down on Monomoy Beach--way down to Point Rip, and there they will see
the ocean in its raw. Then, in good weather, look off and see the
shoals--the shoals that extend way across to Nantucket cut down through
here and there by false and major channels, and the tide rips, hundreds
of them breaking and boiling and foaming--the same shoals and the same
tide rips that turned the Mayflower back three hundred and twenty-one
years ago. They are there today.
In the days gone by, in the olden times, the back side of Monomoy
Beach was rightly called the “Graveyard of the Atlantic.” Why? Because
more ships and more schooners grounded and pounded themselves to
pieces and washed upon the beach--more men lost their lives and their
bodies strewn along the back side of Monomoy Beach than any other like
locality in all the world. Why, fifty, seventy-five, and a hundred
years ago did our fathers brand the back side of Monomoy Beach the
“Graveyard of the Atlantic?” Because of episodes like this that follow.
This is but one episode, all others were similar.
CHAPTER II
Now come with me, if you will, to a country home somewhere, some
place, in some land. Standing in the open doorway of that home is a
mother and her son, the son a splendid specimen of physical manhood
standing beside his mother his hand resting on a sailor’s clothes bag.
That morning the mother had packed that clothes bag until it was full
with warm stockings, warm mittens, warm underclothes, warm shirts,
warm blankets, and everything a young sailor required. She was saying
to her boy, “Now, Jimmy, you are going away to sea. You are going to
stand on your own and I want you to be a good boy. As your mother, I’m
concerned over your welfare. Your success is my life, your joys are my
joys, and your sorrows are my sorrows. As your mother, I want to know
where you are and how you are getting along. So I want you to promise
me above all other things that you will write me from every port. Now
you’re going out to face the world and experience life itself, and
whatever happens I want you to be a man. Keep away from the saloons and
the bar-rooms, and leave the booze alone. Remember the fate of your
father--Booze, the damnable stuff called booze. From the time it issues
from the poisonous coils of the distillery until it empties into a sea
of crime, degradation, despair and death, it pollutes every substance
and, in a measure, weakens every man, woman, and child who comes in
contact with it. As your mother, I am asking you to leave it alone.” He
answered, “Yes mother I am going away to sea. I am going to stand on
my own and I promise you upon my word of honor that I will write you
from every port. Now I’m going out, as you say, to face the world, and
whatever happens I intend to play the part of a man. So far as possible
I’ll keep away from the saloons and bar-rooms and leave the booze
alone.” He picked up his clothes bag, threw it over his shoulder as
young men did of yore, went down the path to the road and down the road
until he came to a bend in the road. He stopped and looked back. His
mother was still standing in the doorway. She waved her boy good-bye.
He waved his mother good-bye, went around the bend in the road and
was gone, and gone forever, leaving his mother still standing in the
doorway.
That was sixty years ago. Sixty years ago ninety per cent of all the
freight that went north and south, east and west, along the Atlantic
seaboard went by water and ninety per cent of all the freight that went
by water went under sail. This was the old sailing days and there was
a tremendous fleet of those freighters or coasters as we called them,
all rigs, sloop rigs, two-masted schooners, three-masted schooners,
four-masted schooners, brigs and barks. Anyone who knows anything about
the old sailing days knows that it was almost an impossibility to beat
down over Nantucket Shoals when the wind was to the east or north as it
is so often here on Cape Cod. They would anchor as far back as Menemsha
Bight, Tarpaulin Cove, Vineyard Haven, and Woods Hole. They would
anchor down off Falmouth, down under the breakwater at Hyannisport,
down under the breakwater at West Dennis, and wherever there was an
anchorage you would see those schooners tied up, anchored, waiting for
fair wind. At last it would come, the wind would breeze up from the
west. Then they would hoist their sails and anchors, get under way, and
start out down over the shoals. You would see them coming--sometimes
hundreds of them--with their white sails showing like clouds against
the blue sky. In those days the only outlet going down over the shoals
to the east and the north was the Pollock Rip Slew, a channel between
two shoals. Moored at the entrance of the Pollock Rip Slew was the old
Pollock Rip Lightship, number 47. It was the duty of the crew of a
lightship in those days to count and log the shipping that went one way
and the other over the shoals. The Old Pollock Rip Lightship, number
47, had the record of having counted and logged in her log book over
five hundred sails in twenty-four hours going and coming down over the
shoals. They would come down over the shoals, pass out through Pollock
Rip Slew, and head up the back side of the Cape for their destinations.
CHAPTER III
So this day, sixty years ago, the wind was to the westward and
schooners were passing through Pollock Rip Slew all day. At sunset
that night the head of the fleet was up off the highlands. From the
highlands down to the tip of the end of Monomoy Beach, they were
scattered along. At dark the wind had died away to a dead calm. At nine
o’clock that night the wind breezed up to the northeast. At twelve
o’clock there was a living gale of wind with snow sweeping down across
the back side of Cape Cod and Monomoy Beach. Whatever became of that
fleet of schooners that passed over the shoals that day nobody knows.
How many of them were that far advanced that they rounded the Cape and
reached their destinations--how many of them shortened sail and jogged
off into the channel and saved themselves--how many of them turned
back and tried to get down through Pollock Rip Slew into smoother
water--how many of them went ashore on the back side of Cape Cod and
Monomoy Beach--how many of them founded on the spot, nobody knows. But
the next day the back side of Cape Cod and Monomoy Beach was strewn
with wreckage. Remember, sixty years ago there were no telephones
connecting one station with another, so the news leaked down through
to the old Monomoy Lifesaving Station, Captain William F. Tuttle of
Harwichport, either by gunners or by fishermen, that there had been
some terrible wrecks off the back side of Monomoy Beach and Cape Cod,
and to look out for bodies. So every surfman who stepped out of the
threshold that night was warned to look out for bodies.
The first watch down to Point Rip from 8 to 12 was a man by the name
of Almond Wixon of Dennisport. He was walking down the “Bend,” halfway
down from the old Monomoy Lifesaving Station to the old Monomoy
Lighthouse was a bend in the beach they referred to as “The Bend”, so
walking down the bend that night he saw an object washing in the surf.
A sea would break, run up the beach, and the object would roll over and
over; the sea would recede and the object would roll back. In telling
the story, Almond Wixon admitted that for a minute he had the jitters,
but he waded in, kicked the object, and it was nothing but a bunch of
seaweed rolled up in the shape of a man, washing in the surf. He went
on five minutes more--ten minutes more--then he saw another object in
the surf. This time a sea would break, run up the beach, the object
would roll partly over, the sea would recede, and the object roll
back. Wixon wasn’t concerned this time for he said to himself, “It’s
nothing but another bunch of seaweed.” So he waded in again and kicked
the object. As he did, he had the sensation of kicking an old decayed
pumpkin. Remember that in those days they never carried lanterns so
he bent way over and looked, and, there at his feet was a dead man
washing in the surf. Poor Almond Wixon, standing there that night at
nine o’clock, two miles from the Station with a dead man washing at his
feet! Thirty-seven years after he perished in the sea himself as one
of the crew of the ill-fated Cross Rip Lightship which was torn from
her moorings by drifting ice, floated off into oblivion and was never
heard from again.
Previous to this, a surfman found a body in the surf and hastened away
to the station for help. When they returned, the body had floated
away and was lost. After that, the orders were that whenever you
found a body in the surf, before going for help, to haul it up over
the high-water mark. So Almond Wixon bent over, turned the dead man
on his back, put his hands down under his armpits, raised up, and as
he did, the dead man fell against his stomach. In that position he
walked backwards--up, up, over the beach, up over the high-water mark,
and laid the body down. He hastened away to the station and notified
Captain Tuttle. The captain, in return, called out every surfman and
put them out on the beach to hunt more bodies. At daylight they had
found four. They found two to the north of the station, and two to
the south. Then the orders were to assemble those bodies over on the
inside, on the bay side, ready to take them across to the mainland.
The two they found to the north of the station they took over on an
improvised stretcher. With two men carrying a stretcher, they went
over the sand dunes, down the hollows and through the sand, ankle
deep. The two they found to the south of the Station they pushed over
in a pushcart, wheels with wide tires, over the sand dunes, down in
the hollows, and through the sand. At last they were assembled on the
inside.
Sixty years ago there were no automobiles coming and going down the
beach with semi-flat tires, as there are today. The only way those
men could get across to the mainland in winter was in dories. So they
loaded the bodies into a thirteen-foot dory, two in the bow and two in
the stern. A surfman named Bearse took the forward thwart, and Captain
Tuttle himself took the after thwart, and they started for Harwichport.
It was the intention of Captain Tuttle that morning to take those
bodies across to Harwichport because he lived there. He intended to
deliver them to the medical examiner and the undertaker and then go
home and spend a few hours with his family before starting back. After
they started, the wind breezed up to the west. The sun rose in the
east and the wind increased from the west until there was a strong
westerly wind. Heading up for Harwich Port, they could make no headway
so they eased her off a bit to make headway. In two hours and a half
they arrived in Deep Hole, South Harwich. They landed at the foot of
Deep Hole Road with the bodies. What a predicament they were in! Sixty
years ago there were no automobiles, no telephones, no bicycles--only a
few men owned horses. In order to contact the medical examiner and the
undertaker, it was necessary to walk. Captain Tuttle left the bodies in
charge of surfman Bearse and started for the undertaker, who at that
time was a man named Levi Long, who lived on Long Road in the house
now occupied by Jeffrey Delorey. From the undertaker’s, Captain Tuttle
walked up to Harwich Center. At the corner of Main and Bank Street
where the gas tanks of Mr. Mulcay are now there was the office of the
medical examiner Dr. George N. Munsel. From there he walked down by
schoolhouses, down Forest Street to Harwichport, down Sea Street to his
home. He was late and had but a short time to stay. Then he walked back
to South Harwich, down to the foot of Deep Hole Road. He and surfman
Bearse launched the dory and, in a strong westerly wind, rowing in the
trough of the sea which is the most difficult course to row in a heavy
sea, they went back to Monomoy Beach. They landed below the station
just before dark. I am telling you this part of the story to show you
the tremendous energy of those men and I tell you men and women, too
we’ll have to cease our dissipation, we’ll have to turn our backs to
the sparkling highballs, we’ll have to cease our late suppers and late
hours if we intend to match the physical energy of those men of iron.
That very afternoon, not the next day or the third day, but that very
afternoon with those mothers somewhere, someplace in some land, still
standing in the doorway, still waiting, still hoping, still longing
for those promised letters that never, never came--that very afternoon
those young fellows were buried over in South Harwich Cemetery, on
the west side of the Cemetery something like ten feet in from the
west fence. They were buried in boxes, common pine boxes, no caskets,
no services, nothing but a simple prayer. At the head of each one of
those graves was placed a marble marker. They are there today, almost
concealed in the grass. They were placed there to protect, preserve,
and perpetuate the identity of those graves. For over sixty years the
remains of those young fellows, some mother’s boys, have been resting
there almost in the shadow of the church, unknown and unnamed, the
victims of the back side of Monomoy Beach, once branded the “Graveyard
of the Atlantic” because of episodes like this.
CHAPTER IV
Now we’ll go back to 1902. Time had passed on. William F. Tuttle,
captain of the old Monomoy Lifesaving Station had passed away, and
Marshall N. Eldredge of South Chatham was now the keeper. In 1902
halfway down from Chatham to Point Rip stood the old Monomoy Lifesaving
Station. Four miles from the Chatham Station, four miles from Point
Rip, where it stands today discarded and deserted. There it stands
today amid the sand dunes and the hollows, a grim reminder of the
tragedy of Monomoy Beach. In 1915 the Life Saving Service was absorbed
by the Coast Guard and today if a young fellow wishes to become a
coastguardsman even though he has never been out over the surf in an
open boat, he sends in an application. Then there is the physical
and mental examination and if he obtains the required percentage,
everything else favorable, he is accepted. Then there is a brand new
uniform. But in 1902, the captains of those stations had the privilege
of selecting their own crew, and listen to me, they picked the very
best, men who had been down to the sea in ships, men who had served
their time on the Grand Banks, on Quero, and on George’s stormy shoal,
men who had been called out of their bunks in the dead of night, men
who had crawled aloft ratline by ratline during dark stormy nights and
smothered topsails, men who had weathered the gales of winter on the
Atlantic sea board. With due respect to the coast guardsmen of today,
they are nice fellows, their duties are altogether different, they look
fine in their new uniforms, but those men whose only uniform was their
oil cloths and boots, flannel shirts and khaki pants, those men who had
been down to the sea in ships, those men who had been over the surf in
open boats, as surfmen, were the very best the world produced. In 1902
the old Monomoy Lifesaving Station was manned with that caliber of men.
It was the duty of a lifesaver to patrol the beach, protect property,
and save lives. Their watch started at sunrise and ended at sunset.
From sunset until eight o’clock was what was called the “dog watch”.
Then the regular watch began. Two men were called out of their beds,
they dressed, went out down to the surf half-mile away and separated.
One went north and the other, south. The man who went north went until
he met the surfman from the Chatham Station. They exchanged checks,
told a few stories, discussed the news of the day, and then started
back. The one who went south went down to Point Rip four miles away
where there was a little shanty. In that shanty was a board seat and,
hanging on the wall, was a telephone connected to the station. Nailed
to the side of the wall was a chain and a key. He punched his time
clock with the key that was nailed to the wall and started back. The
two men met below the station at twelve o’clock. They went in, called
two more men who dressed, went out down to the surf and separated. One
went north and the other, south. So the watch continued.
Now the tragedy develops. It was on the fifteenth day of March,
1902. A tow was coming down over the shoals, a tug boat and two
barges. The outer barge was called the “Wadena”, the inner barge, the
“Fitzpatrick”. Coming down over the shoals in the fog and mist, the
captain misjudged his position just a little and was too far in. The
tide running in swept the barges onto Shovelful Shoal and they grounded
hard and fast. To clear up the situation and untangle the mess, the
tug boat signalled the “Wadena” to let go her hawser. After a time the
“Fitzpatrick” was floated, towed off into the channel in deeper water,
anchored to await further orders. Because the tug boat could be of no
assistance to the “Wadena” hard and fast on the shoal, because of shoal
water and treacherous tides, she steamed away to Hyannis to report to
the owners and underwriters. Because of that report, the next day, the
sixteenth, a Mr. Mack--William H. Mack, the agent and part owner of
those barges arrived at Monomoy Station and requested Captain Eldredge
to put him aboard the “Wadena”, Captain Eldredge and his crew launched
their lifeboat, took him aboard, went down on the inside, on the bay
side, out around Point Rip, across the channel, and put him aboard his
barge. They came back, secured the lifeboat, went up to the station,
and established a watch, and the time wore on. As time wore on Captain
Eldredge sensed there was bad weather coming. Remember in those days,
they had no radio to give them advanced information about the weather,
they had to judge for themselves. Captain Eldredge judged there was bad
weather coming and he was concerned because he felt responsible for
those men aboard the barge without protection. So, in the afternoon, he
mustered his crew, launched the lifeboat once more, went down on the
inside around Point Rip, across the channel, went alongside the barge,
climbed aboard, went down into the cabin and talked with Mr. Mack. He
advised him about the weather and urged him and the crew to come ashore
and stay at the station until better weather. But Mr. Mack replied,
“No, I refuse to desert my barge. It is nice and warm down here in the
cabin, we have plenty to eat, and plenty to drink. She is laying very
quietly here on the shoal and we will stay aboard.” After a while,
Captain Eldredge and his men went back. They loaded the lifeboat on the
gears, shoved her into the boat-house, closed the door, went up to the
station, and re-established their watch, waiting for night.
But in the late afternoon the watch reported to Captain Eldredge that
there was a dory going out of Powder Hole, now Powder Hole is a small
boat harbor down on the inside of Monomoy Beach. So the watch reported
that there was a dory going out of Powder Hole with one occupant. Since
it was their duty to know what was going on they watched this dory as
it went out around Point Rip. It headed off in the direction of the
“Fitzpatrick” anchored off in the channel. It went way off alongside
the barge. They saw the man climb up over the rail and disappear down
in the cabin. Now the question was “Who was the man?” It wasn’t any of
the crew of the “Fitzpatrick” who had been ashore--that was impossible
because they didn’t understand the tide rips and the surf, and besides
they had no dory. Now, who was that man? Just before dark it was seen
that the men had hoisted the dory up to the davit, indicating that
he was going to stay all night. The man of mystery! Why did the man
of mystery leave the Powder Hole? Why did he leave a warm fire and
row out in the face of an incoming gale to spend the night aboard the
“Fitzpatrick”? The man of mystery! But, don’t lose sight of the man
of mystery. He proved to be a hero in the tragedy which is about to
transpire.
That was the picture at sunset that night, the “Wadena” hard and fast
on Shovelful Shoal with Mr. Mack and four men aboard. The “Fitzpatrick”
anchored off in the channel with her crew and the man of mystery
aboard. Darkness settled down over Monomoy Beach and, as predicted by
Captain Eldredge the storm came on. It was a southeast gale with rain.
The seas rolled in from that tremendous expanse and pounded upon the
shore. The surfmen went their distance, down to Point Rip, punched
their time clocks, and back.
CHAPTER V
One of the rules of the service was that at daybreak the morning watch
should go up into the lookout and see if anything had transpired during
the night that hadn’t been seen. The next morning, the morning of the
seventeenth, this was the fatal day, the watch reported to Captain
Eldredge that he couldn’t see the “Wadena”. In fact he couldn’t see the
end of his beat. It was another one of the rules that if you couldn’t
see the end of your beat because of thick weather, it was your duty
to dress up, sailors called it dressing up when they put on their oil
clothes and boots, and go down until you could see. So the watch was
preparing to go when Captain Eldredge changed his mind for some reason
or other and said to the watch, “Never mind. You stay where you are.
I’ll dress up and go and see how it looks down at Point Rip.” He put on
his oil clothes, boots, and sou’wester. He went down to the surf and
headed south for Point Rip four miles away. The lookout watched him as
he went and after a while he slowly disappeared in the mist. Before
Captain Eldredge was promoted captain of the old Monomoy Lifesaving
Station he had been a surfman for twelve years, for twelve years he
had patrolled the beach, night and day, in all kinds of weather. But
this morning as he went down, this morning as he disappeared in the
mist, he was taking his last walk. He was walking his last mile. In
an hour and three-quarters he arrived at the little shanty but he
couldn’t see. So he went way down to the end of the beach, climbed up
on a sand dune, and looked off. At first he couldn’t see, but after
a while, there came a rift in the mist. Then he saw. There was the
“Wadena” still hard and fast on the shoal, the rift widened and then
he saw, there in her rigging was the American Flag, union down, a
signal of mutiny or distress. In every great tragedy, in every great
disaster, there are men sitting at home beside the fire who offer
criticism. Men criticized Captain Eldredge because he went out at that
particular time when the tide was running to the windward kicking
up a nasty treacherous sea, but we must remember that there wasn’t
a cowardly cell in the make-up of Captain Eldredge. If anything, he
was too courageous. There was the American Flag, union down. To him,
it was “go” rather than be branded a coward forever or impeached for
insubordination. The American flag union down, he had no alternative,
it was go even though he knew he was going down into the valley of the
shadow of death, he hesitated not a minute. He hastened over to the
shanty, called the station, got the number one man on the wire who
happened to be Seth Linwood Ellis of Harwichport. He said, “Ellis,
the “Wadena” has her colors in the rigging. We are going off. Launch
the small boat, come down on the inside. I will walk over across and
you can pick me up.” Men have criticized Captain Eldredge because he
ordered the small boat. At that time the old Monomoy Station had but
two lifeboats. One, called the small boat which was kept down in the
boat house on the inside just above the high water-mark. The other
was called the large boat built right up to date at that time. They
kept her in the boat house connected with the station, something like
a half-mile from the water. Captain Eldredge knew that it would be a
tremendous task to launch the big boat, haul her down over the sand
dunes down in the hollows and through the sand, especially when they
were short-handed. So, influenced by the American Flag union down, to
save time he ordered the small boat. Seth Linwood Ellis, obeying the
orders of his superior, launched the small boat. They went down on
the inside and as they went down, they saw Captain Eldredge standing
way out on the beach. They went in as close as they could and Captain
Eldredge waded out, climbed aboard, and took the steering oar. Seth
Linwood Ellis took the after thwart, shipped his oar, and they were
ready to proceed. But before they proceed let’s look at the boat. This
was a lapstreak boat. Suppose you live in a clap-boarded house, turn it
upside down, throw in about ten or fifteen feet of water, and jump in
and try to save yourself, by clinging to those clapboards with a half
inch margin, three inch space, and half inch margin. When that boat
was bottom up, the only thing they had to cling to was those half-inch
margins.
Who was in the boat at the time? We may as well know because their
names are engraved on the granite monument down by Chatham Light. That
monument is going to be there a long time and when we read those names
we want to know what it was all about. There was Arthur W. Rogers of
North Harwich. A typical Cape Codder, he stood six feet tall, weighed
185, was married, and had one child. There was Valentine D. Nickerson.
He was a twin, he had a twin brother by the name of Charlie. He stood
six feet tall, weighed 185, and was hard and wiry. He lived at the
junction of Main Street and Great Western Road in the depot section in
a house now occupied by the family of Joseph Munroe. He had a wife and
four girls. Osborne F. Chase. He was a short thick-set man. He had been
a surfman a long time, he was very capable and dependable. He lived
at the corner of South and Main Streets in the depot section a short
distance from Valentine D. Nickerson. He had a wife and three girls.
Next Elijah Kendrick, the youngest of them all, was born and brought
up on Gorham Road in South Harwich in a house now owned by Edward
N. Johnson. At the time of the disaster he lived in Harwich Center
opposite the ball-park. The house has been moved away. He was married
and had a boy and girl. Then there was Edgar C. Small of Harwich
Center. The counterpart of Valentine Nickerson, hard and wiry, he was
born and brought up on the Harwich-Chatham Road in a house now owned by
a man by the name of Harry Young. He had a wife, son and daughter. Seth
Linwood Ellis who lived on Freeman Street in Harwichport, stood six
feet, weighed 190, and had a wife and son. In his younger days he was
noted for his dogged determination, physical stamina and perserverance.
He was the only surfman who went down to Point Rip the night of the
Portland Blizzard and returned.
CHAPTER VI
The first watch down that night from eight to twelve was Osborne F.
Chase. At eight o’clock he stepped out into that raging, smothering
storm and disappeared. At twelve o’clock he hadn’t returned.
The watch from twelve to four was Seth Linwood Ellis. Captain Tuttle
called him out. He put on his oil clothes, boots and sou’wester,
strapped his time clock on his back and stepped out into the storm.
That night part of the beach was flooded, so he walked up in the center
of the beach. He went down in the darkness and the storm guided by the
tremendous roar of the surf, and in the utter darkness he missed the
little shanty. He heard the surf roaring all around him so he knew he
was down on the end of the beach. He went back a little way, found
the shanty, punched his time clock, and started back. The wind was
blowing from sixty to eighty miles an hour with a smothering, blinding
snow storm and it was so dark that it was impossible to see a thing.
After a while he ran into something, looking up he saw the glimmer of
a light, it was the old Monomoy Lighthouse. He ran into the broad-side
of the old Monomoy Lighthouse and didn’t see it. He edged out by it
and started up in the teeth of the wind, following the roar of the
surf. Unless you have been there you cannot imagine the tremendous
sickening roar of the surf combined with the shrieking of the wind in
a storm like the “Portland Blizzard.” When the roar became deafening,
Ellis would edge inland. When the roar deadened, he would edge back. So
he worked his way up the beach. Many years before surfmen complained
that in stormy thick weather they had trouble finding the station and
sometimes went by it. So they took some weir poles, dug them down in
the sand about ten or twelve feet apart extending from the station
down to the high water mark. This made a land mark, but even then men
sometimes would go between the poles and not see them. Coming up the
beach that night, Ellis ran into one of these poles, followed them
up to the station, and went in. Captain Tuttle took off the face of
his time clock and looked at it. It proved that he had been down to
Point Rip, punched his time, and returned one hour late. That was Seth
Linwood Ellis. Osborne Chase never returned until well after daylight.
He got lost--lost all sense of direction and wandered around the beach
all night with out finding the little shanty that had the key to his
time clock nailed to the wall. In the summer of 1887 Seth Linwood Ellis
sailed out of Gloucester with Captain Hanson Joyce, mackerel seining.
For the first time Captain Joyce went in a steamer instead of a sailing
vessel as was the custom in those days. He carried two seine boats
and two crews. He appointed Ellis captain of one boat, and he himself
took the other. One morning about five miles off Highland Light they
sighted a school of fish. Captain Joyce sent Ellis out after them in
his boat. He saw the fish, jockeyed into position, and gave the order
to go ahead and start throwing. In those days whenever a seineboat went
out for a school of fish it was always trailed by a dory. When they
started throwing the seine the dory would pick up the end and wait
until the boat came around, then pass the end to the boat, making a
complete circle. The captain stood in the extreme end of the boat on
a raised platform, steering with an oar. Captain Ellis was a powerful
man. Circling the school of fish that morning he gave an extra hard
pull on the oar and it broke. He fell over backward, splash, into the
sea. The men in the boat stopped rowing, intending to back and pick
him up. He came to the surface, shook the water out of his face, and
shouted “Don’t stop, go on around the fish, never mind me.” The men
obeyed, the seine boat circled the fish the dory passed the end to the
boat, then went back about half a mile and picked him up. Even today we
don’t understand how he kept afloat with a pair of rubber boots and oil
petticoat on. But that was Seth Linwood Ellis. Don’t lose sight of Seth
Linwood Ellis in the struggle that is about to follow.
CHAPTER VII
Then there was Isaac T. Foy of South Chatham. He was of average height
and was that handsome that the women called him the “Handsome Surfman.”
He was married, but had no children. Before Isaac T. Foy, I was a surf
man on the old Monomoy Lifesaving Station. One disagreeable stormy
day off on the shoals assisting a stranded schooner, I was severely
injured almost fatally. For over two years I fought against that
thing called death, and at last I won. It was one of the rules of the
service that whenever you were disabled, you were kept on the roll
for a year. At the end of the year, if you didn’t come forward with
the required physical percentage, you were dropped from the service.
So I was dropped from the service. Of all the men who applied for the
position they selected Isaac T. Foy. Without a doubt--without a doubt
if it had not been for that injury I had received, I would have been
with those men in the boat that morning, and Isaac T. Foy would have
been elsewhere. Do you believe in luck? Do you believe in fate? Do you
believe in an unseen power that controls the destiny of every human
being like you and I? We have the right to believe as we will but over
forty-one years have passed along since that fatal day and here I stand
telling you the story. But where, oh where is Isaac Thomas Foy. Pay
attention to this tragedy as it develops and see the end--the tragic
end of the man who took my place and carried on.
Then there was Captain Marshall N. Eldredge of South Chatham. A giant
in stature, standing over six feet tall, weighing two hundred and
twenty pounds, hard as nails, he was the toughest surfman who ever
patrolled Monomoy Beach. He was so tough that he went barefooted in the
cold sand until the first of December. In the early spring and fall,
he wouldn’t wear oil clothes but said that he would rather be wet than
bother with them at all. He had a wife and three children. Those were
the men in the boat that morning.
They were all ready. Captain Eldredge gave the orders to go ahead. It
was the 1st of a southeast storm the tide was running to the windward
kicking up a nasty treacherous sea. They went around the point and
headed into the rips. Some of the rips they went around; the smaller
ones they went through. So they worked themselves along slowly but
surely. At last they arrived at the barge safely. They threw the
painter aboard, and it was made fast. Captain Eldredge saw Mr. Mack
standing on deck. He hailed them and said, “Mr. Mack, you’ve got your
colors in the rigging. What’s the trouble?” Mr. Mack said, “We had an
awful night last night. The wind blew and those seas rolled in, and we
pounded and thumped on the bottom until we thought we were going to
pieces. We were afraid and still are and we want to go ashore.” Captain
Eldredge replied, “That’s all right, but we’re not coming aboard. It’s
too rough. Throw a rope over the side and lower yourselves down.” So
they came down, one by one, and the captain placed them in the bottom
of the boat in a safe place. He put three of them on the platform at
his feet, the other he put on the thwarts outside the oarsmen. They
pumped out the boat and everything was ready. Captain Eldredge gave
the order, “Cast Off.” There was no-one aboard to cast off so Osborne
F. Chase, the bowman, cut the painter and as he did her bow fell off,
a sea came rolling around the lee quarter, caught the boat under her
bilge, and shoved her ahead. As she went out from under the lee of the
“Wadena” the tide caught her under the weather bow and she drifted
off in the trough of the sea. Before the men could get control of
their oars, a sea broke over in the bottom of the boat. Those men from
the barge, the very men they were trying to save, if they had only
known--why one of the first lessons you are taught when you go out over
the surf in an open boat in a rough sea is to sit down, the lower the
better, and no matter what happens, if a sea breaks over and wets your
feet, take your medicine but sit still. But when that sea broke over
and wet their feet they all jumped up, interfered with the oarsmen,
and then they couldn’t row. The boat drifted off into a rip, another
sea broke over, and filled her half full. Then all was confusion. She
drifted into another rip, another sea broke over her, another, and
still another. Down she went, turned over, and came up floating bottom
up. Every man struggling in the sea. Captain Mack and his men never
had a chance. In five minutes they all were engulfed by the seas,
except one. One young boy, a colored fellow, was clinging to the bow
of the boat. He was so afraid that he turned yellow, and the whites
of his eyes bulged right out of his head. A sea came rushing along,
broke over him, and washed him off. He gave a terrible scream, threw
up both hands, and went down to join his companions who had gone a few
minutes before. Now the surfmen--every man for himself, no orders, no
discipline, every man struggling and fighting for a position on the
bottom of that up-turned boat. At first they all got a hold. Osborne
F. Chase was clinging on the bow where the young colored fellow had
just been washed off. A sea came breaking and tearing along, it caught
him in its grasp, he lost his hold and drifted away, the first to go.
Captain Eldredge, weighing two hundred and twenty pounds, weighted down
with his oil clothes and boots, was fighting amidships. He was grabbing
and clutching at those lapstreaks. A sea broke over, caught him in the
face and chest, and washed him off. He grabbed again but he was short
and went drifting off in those rushing, roaring rips. The next, Elijah
Kendricks, if anyone had told me that the crew of the Monomoy Station
would be lost with the exception of one and asked me who the one would
be I would have said without any hesitation, “Elijah Kendricks”. He
was an athlete from the word go he excelled in all sports, in running,
jumping, baseball, skating and swimming. He was a regular water-dog
in his day, but was rendered helpless by the carelessness of another.
When that boat left the shore that morning, laying on her thwarts was
a sail. It was a mutton leg sail used in times of emergency. When the
wind was fair the men would sail instead of row. It was a rule that
the sail should be lashed to the thwart. Someone neglected his duty
because that sail came floating out from under the boat, right up under
Kendricks. He struggled and kicked to free himself but his feet became
tangled up in the halyards and main sheets. With this added weight,
he couldn’t hold on. He grabbed and clutched at those lapstreaks but
his fingers slipped. He sensed his doom, threw himself over on the
mast and boom, floated away and was never seen again. Now five men
left, five men still fighting and struggling for their lives, five
men still clutching and clawing at those lapstreaks. She drifted into
another rip this was the largest of them all. It was on the shoalest
part of Shovelful Shoal. That morning on Shovelful Shoal the seas were
breaking and pounding, hissing and foaming, roaring and crossing, a
combination of sand and water, five men still clinging on, Arthur W.
Rogers, Valentine D. Nickerson, Edgar C. Small, Seth Linwood Ellis and
Isaac T. Foy--five men fighting for their lives--she drifted into this
rip and was completely submerged. What happened nobody knows. It was
a fearful tragedy, an unseen drama. When she drifted out on the other
side in a smoother sea there were only two left. Isaac T. Foy wasn’t
there. Isaac T. Foy perished in those breaking, pounding seas on the
shoalest part of Shovelful Shoal. When she drifted out on the other
side in a smoother sea there was only two left. Arthur W. Rogers was
clinging to the bow of that boat waterlogged and exhausted. He was that
exhausted he could hardly raise his arms. Seth Linwood was lying across
the bottom clinging on with the grip of death. She drifted into another
rip a sea came swashing along and washed Arthur W. Rogers amidships
he grabbed and clutched at those lapstreaks but couldn’t hold. A sea
washed him still further, he sensed his doom, with a supreme effort
he threw himself upon the bottom of that boat and grabbed again, his
fingers slipped a sea washed him off. He sank, a few bubbles and he was
gone forever.
Now Seth Linwood Ellis alone on the bottom of that boat fighting for
his life. His dogged determination, physical stamina, and perserverance
had just begun to assert themselves. All the others had perished, but
he had commenced to fight. He kicked off his rubber boots, he tore off
his oil clothes, his jacket vest and trousers, intending as a last
resort to swim for the shore. Then he was washed up on the crest of a
sea and looking over saw the “Fitzpatrick” and going down over her side
was a dory; sitting on the thwart of that dory was a man, then Ellis
remembered;--the man of mystery.
CHAPTER VIII
Aboard the “Fitzpatrick” that morning the Captain and the man of
mystery were down in the cabin, talking and smoking. The man of mystery
seemed to be nervous and fidgety, something unusual for him. He would
walk the floor, then sit down, then he would walk again. At last he
went up on deck and looked around, as he did he saw an object floating
in the rips. He took the spyglasses and looked to make sure. Then he
said to the captain who was standing near, “In those rips is a boat
bottom up and clinging to the bottom is a man. Launch my dory.” The
captain said, “No. Your dory wouldn’t live in those rushing rips.” He
was a sailor, not a surfman and didn’t understand the possibilities
of a thirteen foot dory when handled by an expert. He looked around.
The man of mystery had gone. He ran across the deck to his dory jumped
up on the rail and said to some of the crew standing around, “Lower
away.” They “lowered away” until the dory hit the water. He unhooked
the tackles, shipped his oars and started out in the direction of the
object. Going in the direction of the object took him almost in the
trough of the sea. As he went under the lee of the “Fitzpatrick” he
took the whole force of those seas. He looked up and there was a sea
forming and hissing, ready to break. He turned, took in the bow, and
went over safely. Off again in the direction of the object, another
sea rising and breaking, he turned, took it on the bow, and goes
over safely. And so on and on closer and closer, slowly but surely.
In the meantime, Ellis, on the bottom of the boat, was taking awful
punishment. The seas were breaking and pounding down upon him with
tremendous force. They would wash him off this side, he would crawl
back, they would wash him off the other side, he would crawl right
back. With dogged determination, physical stamina and perserverance,
he clung to the bottom of that boat like a spider to a wall. He went
up on the crest of another sea and looked for the dory. This time the
man of mystery had worked the dory way up to the windward. He didn’t
intend to lose that man on the bottom of the boat. This time he came
running down on the crest of a sea. When you are running on a crest of
a sea like that it is suicide to try to stop or try to turn this way
or that. Let the sea have her, but keep her steady. For remember that
every sea at last spends itself. So this time he came running down
on the crest of a sea and went right by within four or five feet. It
was an anxious minute for Ellis. But, as he went by, Ellis recognized
him, it was Elmer Mayo of Chatham, an expert surfman, one of the very
best. The sea at last spent itself and in the lull that followed, Mayo
backed right back up to the boat. Ellis grabbed hold of the gunwale,
hauled himself over, slid to the bottom of the dory, and they started
for shore. Another fight, another struggle with the seas, seas that
were running and breaking mountain high, seas that lifted them like a
cork to their foamy crest. Seas, running seas that took them in their
grasp and carried them ahead like frightened deer until they fell back
into the trough of another. Ahead of them the surf was still pounding,
and breaking and roaring upon the shore. At last they arrived at the
surf. Mayo looked along for an opening, but those seas were still
running in from an expanse of three thousand miles, still breaking and
roaring upon the strand in an unbroken line. What a position, what a
spot--two human beings being in an open dory in those rushing, raging
seas. They jockeyed for position waiting for the right sea--the third
sea. When seas are running like that, there are always two large ones
and then a smaller one. The third sea is always smaller than the two
which precede it. God made it so and surfmen since time immemorial have
taken advantage of the third sea. So Mayo was jockeying for position
waiting for the third sea. At last it came hissing, foaming and
roaring. They were in proper position. With a roar, it broke directly
under their stem and taking them in its grasp carried them ahead up,
up onto the beach. Mayo jumped out and held the dory. The sea receded.
Seth Linwood Ellis stepped out onto the cold sand, barefooted. Nothing
on but his underclothes. There he stood, Seth Linwood Ellis the lone
survivor of the Monomoy Disaster. He told me many times that he grew
to manhood an absolute teetotaler, never using tobacco in any form.
With those temperate habits and an outdoor life, he built up a physical
constitution which produced for him a physical superiority that won
for him that day the battle with the seas, when all others perished.
He then and there became noted the country over as the lone survivor
of the Monomoy Disaster. In time he was promoted captain of the old
Monomoy Lifesaving Station, and sometime later the United States
Congress recognized his victory over the sea and presented him with a
Congressional Medal.
So it is--those men who were lost and the one who was saved are
simply samples of the men who, in former days, were the backbones and
stability of Cape Cod--Cape Cod which has always played an honorable
part in the history of the state of Massachusetts. When Massachusetts
derived her sustenance from the ocean, Cape Cod produced her quota of
the men who went down to the sea in ships. At one time she was the very
womb: the very cradle of fishermen and sailors, the best the world
produced. She gave to the sea her best blood, the energy of her youth,
and the counsel of her old. The salt waves of the sea have been the
shroud, and the surges of the sea the funeral knell of many of her
brave men. But now all is changed. In the bays, the harbors, and the
inlets where once the ships, the brigs, the barks, the schooners, and
the sloops swung proudly at anchor, the waves now ripple in silence and
sadness.
Thus ends the chapter of the “Tragedy of Monomoy Beach, or the
Graveyard of the Atlantic.”
FINIS
_For God And Country_
The story of The Monomoy Disaster must impress all readers with the
sturdy character of the men who went down to the sea in ships in former
days, when Cape Cod was a haven of sea Captains and rugged men of the
sea.
As we dedicate this book to these men of steel we present as a closing
tribute, the defenders of American freedom and liberty of the present
day. The following men and women of Chatham and Harwich are now serving
the colors in the various branches of the armed forces and the Honor
Roll is complete as of August 1, 1943. We salute each and every one and
may God grant them a safe return.
=CHATHAM HONOR ROLL=
Allison, Clarence E.
Allison, Ralph J.
Allison, Robert F.
Atwood, Wallace G.
Baker, Cyrus F.
Baker, Edward M.
Baker, Winsor C.
Bassett, Benjamin H.
Bassett, Herbert E.
Bassett, Ivan E.
Bassett, Ralph M., Jr.
Bassett, R. Stanwood
Bearse, Frederick H.
Bladen, Charles K.
Bladen, J. Lawrence
Bladen, Walter C.
Bloomer, Harvey W.
Brent, Arthur T.
Brown, Elinor
Brown, Robert H.
Brown, Robert Scott[1]
Buck, Robert C.
Buck, William E.
Buckley, Daniel L.
Buckley, Robert W.
Coombs, Kimball H.
Corrigan, Thomas J.
Courtnell, Paul W. A.
Cowan, John M.
Crosbie, James K.
Dean, Robert J.
deBettencourt, Nelson
Deer, Wendell H.
Devlin, Frederick A. 3rd
Doane, Oscar W., Jr.
Doane, Wilmer B.
Dubis, Oliver
Durkee, Alfred L.
Edwards, Melville B.
Eldredge, Eleanore F.
Eldredge, Harold C.
Eldredge, Harrison R.
Eldredge, Kenneth F.
Eldredge, Leo
Eldredge, Lester F.
Eldredge, Sullie N.
Eldridge, John A.
Eldridge, Richard A.
Eldridge, Robert E.
Eldridge, Shirley A.
Eldridge, Wilbur S.
Eldridge, Willard A.
Ennis, Gresham, Jr.
Ennis, Thomas
Enos, Lawrence F.
Erb, Harry N.
Farrenkoph, Leo G.
Farris, Robert C.
Farris, William H.
Fiebelkorn, Otto A.
Fiebelkorn, Walter C.
Forgeron, Harry
Freedman, Samuel S.
Freethy, Everett W.
Gilbert, William J.
Gilchrist, Norman S.
Gleason, Ralph F.
Glendon, Richard J., Jr.
Gleason, James F.
Goodspeed, Prince E.
Gould, Alton L.
Gould, Chester G.
Griffin, Wayne A.
Guild, Margaret E.
Gustavus, George T.
Gustavus, Roy
Hallett, George F.
Hammond, Francis E.
Harding, Edmund F.
Harding, Everett G.
Harding, George K.
Harding, Maurice H.
Healy, James M.
Healy, Joseph A.
Henderson, Irving C.
Herron, Andrew G.
Herron, George R.
Hewit, Helen G.
Hewit, Norton M.
Hewit, Rodham
Hibbard, George K.
Hogg, Theodore B. Jr.
Hopkins, Edward Walter
Hopkins, Henry P.
Hopkins, Hilliard E., Jr.
Horne, Charles W.
Horne, Donald S.
Horn, John B.
Howes, David Elmer
Howes, Edward G.
Hutchings, Earl
James, Howard W.
James, Roland W.
Jerauld, James W.
Johnson, Robert E.
Johnson, Russell M.
Jones, Robert H.
Karr, Paul W.
Kelley, John W.
Kelley, Joseph C., Jr.
Kelsey, Richard C.
Kendrick, Leo E.
Kidder, Edwin H.
Krenn, Adolph J., Jr.
Lake, George E. Jr.
Lane, Charles A., Jr.
Larkin, Elroy M.
LeFave, Stanley J.
Long, Herbert L.
Lorraine, William R.
Love, Eugene V.
Love, Merrill F. V.
Love, Walter V.
Loveland, Theodore S.
MacLean, George S.
Madsen, Eric
Marquit, George E.
Martel, Leo V.
Masaschi, Frank
Matheson, Robert C.
Matteson, Robert N. S.
McDonald, Harold J.
McGinn, John J., Jr.
Meyer, Russell A.
Newcomb, Alvin E.
Nickerson, David K.
Nickerson, Edmund J.
Nickerson, Harold L.
Nickerson, John H.
Nickerson, Joseph A., Jr.
Nickerson, Joseph W.
Nickerson, Lyman W.
Nickerson, Philip G.
Nickerson, Ralph H.
Nickerson, Raymon W.
Nickerson, Weston, Jr.
Nickerson, Willard H., Jr.
Northup, Tharold C.
O’Brien, James A.
Oliver, Nathaniel W.
Peterson, Magnus B.
Pierce, Warren A.
Reynolds, Richard P.
Raymond, Richard A.
Ragan, Ross O.
Robbins, Victor E.
Roberts, Paul B.
Robinson, Forrest D.
Rogers, Donald C.
Rogers, Eli F., Jr.
Rogers, George V.
Rogers, William H.
Rollins, Benjamin F.
Rollins, Franklin D.
Ruggles, Stanley E., Jr.
Saley, Earl D.
Sampson, Elmer B., Jr.
Satcher, Samuel L., Jr.
Sears, Cletus C.
Sears, William B.
Shaw, Lincoln G.
Sherwood, Leslie F., Jr.
Sibley, Henry B.
Simmons, Harold N.
Slavin, Richard W.
Slavin, Thomas, Jr.
Small, Robert F.
Snow, Edwin H.
Speight, John LeRoy
Speight, Joseph C.
Speight, LeRoy C.
Speight, Robert W.
Steadman, Robert C.
Strickland, Lloyd A.
Swan, Robert C.
Sylva, Edward
Sylva, Edward S.
Sylva, Richard R.
Taylor, Edwin W.
Thurston, George C.
Tripp, Edwin E.
Tucker, Edward A.
Tucker, William G.
Turner, Walter W.
Valliere, J. Leon
Wight, Frederick S.
Worthing, Louis B.
Wright, Alvin H.
Young, Albert F.
Young, Orick D.
Young, Donald R.
Young, Walter C.
Weinz, William E.
Wheldon, Frederick E.
Whilly, Arthur G.
Wholly, Arthur T.
=In Merchant Marine=
Buckley, John E.
Dill, Reuben T. H.
Dudley, Walter E.
Hammond, Walter I.
Kendrick, Lewis B.
Lewis, Norman
Lewis, Raymond W.
Matteson, Kenneth N.
Sherman, J. Walter
Speight, Carl W.
Swenney, Chester
[Illustration]
=HARWICH HONOR ROLL=
Allen, Guy
Almedia, J. Peter
Almeida, Januario
Antone, Charles
Appleton, Phillip
Armstrong, Robert
Arsenault, Oscar
Baker, Channing N., Jr.
Baker, Joseph
Barber, Sydney
Barrett, Bradford L., Jr.
Barrett, Donald
Barrows, Frank
Bassett, Allen
Bassett, Arthur H. L.
Bassett, Benjamin
Bassett, Donald
Bassett, Howard
Bassett, Wallace
Bates, Bernard
Bates, Donald
Bates, Robert
Bee, Norwood
Borden, Perry A., Jr.
Borden, Robert
Bradford, Herbert
Buck, Dudley, Jr.
Buck, Lawrence, Jr.
Cahoon, Arthur S., Jr.
Cahoon Joseph A., Jr.
Cahoon Orville
Cahoon, Oscar
Cashen, Ralph H., Jr.
Cashen, Ralph W., Jr.
Cashen, Warner B.
Celano, Joe
Chase, Albert K., Jr.
Chase, Courtney
Chase, Earl
Chase, Ray
Chase, Richard
Chase, Roscoe, Jr.
Chipman, Edward
Chipman, Harold
Clark, Franklin
Coulson, Arthur
Coulson, Wallace
Crabe, Raymond
Crabe, Thomas
Crabe, William
Crowell, Fred
Crowell, Frederick W., Jr.
Cummings, Ernest
Cummings, J. David, Jr.
Cummings, Robert
Cunningham, William
Curtis, Robert
DaLuze, Walter
Davis, David
DeMello, Peter
Dickerson, William
Doane, Arthur P., Jr.
Doane, Edwin
Doane, George
Doane, Linwood
Downey, William F.
Doyle, William
Duffie, Harold
Dugan, David
Egan, Thomas
Ellis, Arthur, Jr.
Ellis, Calvin
Ellis, Charles
Ellis, Edward
Ellis, Everett H.
Ellis, John A.
Ellis, LeRoy
Ellis, Malcolm
Ellis, Robert
Eldredge, Alvin
Eldredge, Frederick S.
Eldredge, Harold F.
Eldredge, Maurice M.
Eldredge, Walter A.
Eldredge, Watson B., Jr.[2]
Eldredge, Webster U., Jr.
Farham, Eric
Farr, Frances
Farr, Maurice G.
Fennell, Daniel
Fernandes, Joseph
Fernandez, John Stanley
Fiebelkorn, Otto
Fletcher, Russell
Fosdick, Fred
Fosdick, Oliver
Frost, Leo
Galvin, Edwin
Galvin, Joseph
Gardner, Emerson
Gardner, Irving
Goldman, Morris
Gomes, Henry I.
Gomes, Jesse
Gomes, Leslie
Gonsalves, Frank
Gonsalves, Fred
Grant, Edwin K., Sr.
Grant, George L.
Grayson, Raymond
Hall, Alan
Hall, Albert J.
Hall, Charles A.
Hall, Donald Eugene
Hall, Marcus B.
Hall, Emulous, E., Jr.
Hall, Priscilla
Hall, Roland
Hall, William Russell
Hartig, Charles Stewart
Hill, Priscilla Hall
Homer, Lorin L.
Hopkins, Hillard, Jr.
Hunt, Warren
Hunter, Lawrence A.
Hunter, Francis T.
Ingraham, David
Johnson, Richard
Joy, Gerald F.
Joy, Stanley R.
Kanis, Harry
Keen, William
Kendrick, Edward A.
Kershaw, William, 3rd
Lake, Ernest C.
Larkin, Daniel J., Jr.
Larkin, Francis B.
Larkin, James R.
Larkin, Marguerite
Lawley, Barbara
Lawley, George, Jr.
Lee, Derek A.
Lee, George
Lee, Humphrey A.
Lee, LeRoy
Lee, Rigby A.
Lee, William D.
Lombard, Charles J.
Lombard, Frank
Lombard, Joseph, Jr.
Long, Ralph
MacIntosh, Malcolm
Matthews, Kendrick
McBreen, Andrew
McCommick, Harry
McKenney, Dana
McKenney, Leland
McKinney, William
McRae, Wallace
Megathlin, Robert H.
Miller, William A.
Moody, Sidney B.
Nichols, Carmi
Nichols, Charles
Nichols, Francis
Nickerson, Clifton L.
Nickerson, David
Nickerson, Edmund
Nickerson, Hugh
Nickerson, Joseph, Jr.
Nickerson, Raymon
Nye, Roswell, Jr.
Nunes, Anthony S.
Nunes, Howard J.
Nunes, John
Nunes, John J., Jr.
Nunes, Norman
Oles, Eugene
Orton, Edwin H.
Orton, William R., Jr.
Ostby, G. Norman, Jr.
Paine, Robert[3]
Palm, Howard
Palm, Leo J.
Pena, Eugene
Pena, Louis
Pena, Manuel C.
Pena, Rufus
Perry, Joseph C., Jr.
Peters, Clarence C.
Pratt, Charles S.
Radway, Albert
Ramsey, Curtis
Raneo, John
Raneo, Wallace
Redding, Jay D.
Reynolds, Minot
Reynolds, Thelma
Robbins, Lawrence F.
Robinson, Wayne
Roderick, Bernard
Roderick, Edmund
Roderick, Edwin
Roderick, John P.
Roderick, Lester
Roderick, Moses P.
Rogers, Palmer A.
Rose, Henry
Rose, John, Jr.
Rose, Joseph
Rose, Nathaniel
Rose, Paul J.
Rose, Raymond
Rose, Raymond M.
Rose, Snow
Ryder, Almond, Jr.
Ryder, Mervin E.
Ryder, Roland
Sabin, Donald
Sabin, Howard
Saley, Ralph
Schlosser, Alois A.
Scott, Quinton
Siebenmann, Marshall, Jr.
Silva, John I.
Sisson, Randolph A.
Small, Earl L.
Small, Lawrence E.
Small, Robert
Small, Rodman
Sorenson, Carl
Speakman, Horace B.
Speakman, Ray
Stalker, Donald
Stetson, Russell W., Jr.
Storer, Orville
St. Our, Fred
Straughn, Norman
Symmes, Richard M.
Symmes, William A.
Taylor, John J.
Thayer, John
Thayer, Robert
Thompson, Biddle, Jr.
Thompson, Edric S.
Turney, James G.
Vagenas, William
White, John A.
Whitehead, Walter, Jr.
Whiteley, Robert A.
Whiteley, Walter Vernon
Whittemore, Earl
Williams, John Roger
Williams, William
Willson, Harold, Jr.
Winston, Eugene H., Jr.
Winston, Robert
Young, Donald
Youngren, Leo
[Footnote 1: missing in action]
[Footnote 2: dead]
[Footnote 3: missing in action]
* * * * *
Transcribers Notes: Typographical errors have been silently corrected.
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal signs=.
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