Minden World War II veteran honored for service
ENLARGE
It's been 66 years since 88-year-old Minden resident Milt Croall was honorably discharged from the U.S. Coast Guard.
Reviewing an article he wrote last fall for The Quarterdeck Log, a journal for Coast Guard combat veterans, it's apparent that memories of his service in the Pacific Theater of World War II are still vivid in his mind — kamikazes screaming through the sky, beaches enveloped in mortar fire, fallen comrades and enemies floating in the tropic shallows.
“Our LCVP was one of the boats selected for the gruesome task of transporting the bodies,” Croall wrote of a battle in the Marshall Islands. “Two Marines with a stretcher and a Catholic chaplain were charged with the handling of the dead, with the chaplain collecting the dog tags — truly the saddest day of the war for me.”
Despite being in the middle of world-changing events, Croall counts May 8, 2012, as one of his most memorable days.
On that day he joined 62 veterans, 49 from World War II, on a prestigious honor flight that took him from central Missouri to the war memorials of Washington, D.C.
“This was one of the most memorable, thrilling and emotional days of my life,” Croall said.
In a way, the event brought closure to a journey that started in October 1942, when Croall, then 17, enlisted in the Coast Guard.
Originally from Santa Clara, Calif., Croall wrote that when the recruiting officer asked him why he'd chosen the Coast Guard, he replied that he “liked the ocean better than mud.”
“He then asked why not the Navy? My reply was I liked small ships better than large ones,” Croall recalled.
Having worked two summers in a cannery, Croall was cited for mechanical experience and sent to Hemphill Diesel School in Queens, N.Y. He graduated as a motor machinist mate, second class, also known as a motormac, and soon returned to Alameda, Calif., where he patrolled the San Francisco Bay in a 48-cabin cruiser.
Shortly after deciding to marry his high school sweetheart, Phyllis Roll, the motormac was shipped to the East Coast to train for war. By the end of 1943, he was aboard the USS Cambria motoring through the Panama Canal, one of several ships heading to Hawaii.
“The Navy men griped that they had to go to war aboard a Coast Guard ship,” Croall remembered.
He was later transferred to the USS Arthur Middleton, recently returned from Tarawa, and assigned motormac to a landing craft for vehicles and personnel, also known as a Higgins boat.
In February of 1944, Croall set course for the Marshall Islands. His first experience in combat was landing troops on Engebi Island amid mortaring and machine gun fire. It was the next landing on Parry Island, in the same atoll, where Croall was tasked with transporting fallen comrades to an adjacent island to be buried.
“On the way back to Pearl Harbor, one Japanese prisoner died as well as one Marine, and both were buried at sea,” he wrote.
After brief repairs and an outbreak of dysentery, the USS Middleton joined the task force assembling for Saipan.
“The D-Day at Saipan saw two separate attack groups — ours being diversionary, however. After a smoke screen was laid down, all our boats made a right turn and joined one group hitting the beach,” Croall said.
When the Middleton suddenly pulled anchor due to the quickly approaching Japanese fleet, Croall stayed behind in a 36-foot Higgins boat with three others. For nine days, the sailors lived off K rations and drinkable water from the shore.
“At night we would anchor out on the coral reef as the beach was not yet secured, as one boat crew sadly found out,” Croall said. “Each evening we were visited by ‘Machine Gun Charlie,' flying just too high for our 30-caliber machine guns to reach.”
On July 20, 1944, Croall finally married his sweetheart during a 48-hour liberty in California. By September, however, he was heading for the Philippines under the direction of Admiral Chester Nimitz and General Douglas MacArthur.
“During the initial landings I watched a single Japanese torpedo plane make it through all the flak and hit the cruiser Honolulu,” Croall wrote. “The next day, there were more air raids as we were still unloading ships. An Australian cruiser took a bomb. I witnessed General MacArthur and his staff wading ashore. There were dead Japanese floating in the water.”
Croall made several trips back and forth between New Guinea and the Philippines, transferring personnel and holding practice landings. Between sudden attacks of Japanese bombers, there were moments of calm respite, surreal in contrast.
“Once, while on free time, we pulled up to this beautiful, snow-white, sandy beach thickly lined with coconut palms,” Croall remembered. “We were looking for pretty shells when, upon looking up, we saw all these natives standing, holding spears, beetle nut-dyed hair and teeth filed to points. Needless to say we scrambled pretty damn quick into our boat and left.”
At Lingayen, Croall guided Higgins boats through a maze of unexploded rockets.
“Resistance was light thankfully, and later in the day when all was secured, Filipino people came to us,” he said. “The women wanted soap, the men cigarettes, and the children candy, paying with Japanese invasion money.”
On D-Day at Okinawa, April 1, 1945, Croall remembered that, “Kamikazes filled the sky — some hitting their targets, and many crashing into the sea.”
“One crashed just off our stern. The fifth day we left for Saipan, completely unloaded, passing a task force of our battleships and cruisers,” he said. “The sea was rough, and being empty, the ship really tossed about.”
Okinawa was the last battle Croall saw.
“Most of us had nearly two years overseas and expected to be transferred right away, but only those with over two years were listed to go stateside,” he said. “My wife, Phyllis, and several other wives wrote to the Coast Guard commandant in Washington, D.C., and soon all with 18 months or more were sent ashore.”
The couple finally had their honeymoon, although food and gas were still being rationed as everyone awaited the end of the war. With a wife and seven battle stars, Croall was discharged from service on Oct. 6, 1945.
“The Middleton was eventually transferred to the Navy and used to bring our troops back home,” he said. “It was eventually placed in the mothball fleet and years later scuttled.”
More than six decades later, Croall was called upon again to leave his home and travel across the country, this time as a decorated war hero.
His daughter Charlotte Beuselinck had filled out the necessary application and made travel arrangements, with help from son-in-law Paul Beuselinck, and son Bob Croall.
On May 8, the aged motormac joined 49 veterans of World War II, 13 of the Korean War, and 47 caregivers on the Central Missouri Honor Flight. The group had a police escort to St. Louis, where they boarded a plane for Baltimore.
“The veterans were allowed to leave their shoes on,” Croall said. “We did, however, get a pat-down.”
In Maryland, people were lined up inside the airport to greet the heroes, waving flags, clapping and shaking hands. The veterans then boarded two buses and were escorted by police to the World War II Memorial in Washington, D.C.
Although he saw other memorials and the Arlington National Cemetery, Croall was hit especially hard by the tribute to World War II. He stood in front of the stone pillar representing Nevada's contribution to the fight.
“It was very somber to see the wall with all the stars on it — each star's worth 100 people who passed away,” he said. “They had a memorial to the landing crafts, the men who were charging the beach, and I was having those thoughts and feelings of what happened so long ago. I guess it was a reward in a way. It made me feel that those three years of my life were not wasted, but put to good use.”
Flying back to St. Louis later that evening, the veterans got a surprise mail call.
“Unknown to us, our families and friends were asked to write us a note,” Croall said. “Thanks to my daughter Charlotte, with help from my son Bob, I received 18 letters. I was astonished and grateful.”
Back in Missouri, the group was escorted not only by police, but by 523 motorcycles.
“The bikers would pass by single file, revving engines,” Croall said. “Along the way we passed two bonfires with people waving flags to us. The police had closed the on-ramps, so we did not slow or stop at intersections. More city police were there to help, all donating their time.”
Arriving at their hotel at about 2 a.m., Croall said he couldn't believe the throngs of people waiting for them.
“When I got off the bus and in my wheelchair, I was pushed by one of the bikers, leathers and all,” he said. “The crowd was clapping and cheering. I saw Charlotte and Phyllis in front of the crowd.”
Besides thanking his family, Croall thanked Steve and Sharon Paulsell, who organize the event each year, and the schools, companies and other organizations who make donations to fund the flights.
“What do you say? I told them in a note of thanks that I had heartfelt gratitude,” he said. “It was so outgoing and gracious — a wonderful thing. I never dreamed I would have the opportunity.”
Reviewing an article he wrote last fall for The Quarterdeck Log, a journal for Coast Guard combat veterans, it's apparent that memories of his service in the Pacific Theater of World War II are still vivid in his mind — kamikazes screaming through the sky, beaches enveloped in mortar fire, fallen comrades and enemies floating in the tropic shallows.
“Our LCVP was one of the boats selected for the gruesome task of transporting the bodies,” Croall wrote of a battle in the Marshall Islands. “Two Marines with a stretcher and a Catholic chaplain were charged with the handling of the dead, with the chaplain collecting the dog tags — truly the saddest day of the war for me.”
Despite being in the middle of world-changing events, Croall counts May 8, 2012, as one of his most memorable days.
On that day he joined 62 veterans, 49 from World War II, on a prestigious honor flight that took him from central Missouri to the war memorials of Washington, D.C.
“This was one of the most memorable, thrilling and emotional days of my life,” Croall said.
In a way, the event brought closure to a journey that started in October 1942, when Croall, then 17, enlisted in the Coast Guard.
Originally from Santa Clara, Calif., Croall wrote that when the recruiting officer asked him why he'd chosen the Coast Guard, he replied that he “liked the ocean better than mud.”
“He then asked why not the Navy? My reply was I liked small ships better than large ones,” Croall recalled.
Having worked two summers in a cannery, Croall was cited for mechanical experience and sent to Hemphill Diesel School in Queens, N.Y. He graduated as a motor machinist mate, second class, also known as a motormac, and soon returned to Alameda, Calif., where he patrolled the San Francisco Bay in a 48-cabin cruiser.
Shortly after deciding to marry his high school sweetheart, Phyllis Roll, the motormac was shipped to the East Coast to train for war. By the end of 1943, he was aboard the USS Cambria motoring through the Panama Canal, one of several ships heading to Hawaii.
“The Navy men griped that they had to go to war aboard a Coast Guard ship,” Croall remembered.
He was later transferred to the USS Arthur Middleton, recently returned from Tarawa, and assigned motormac to a landing craft for vehicles and personnel, also known as a Higgins boat.
In February of 1944, Croall set course for the Marshall Islands. His first experience in combat was landing troops on Engebi Island amid mortaring and machine gun fire. It was the next landing on Parry Island, in the same atoll, where Croall was tasked with transporting fallen comrades to an adjacent island to be buried.
“On the way back to Pearl Harbor, one Japanese prisoner died as well as one Marine, and both were buried at sea,” he wrote.
After brief repairs and an outbreak of dysentery, the USS Middleton joined the task force assembling for Saipan.
“The D-Day at Saipan saw two separate attack groups — ours being diversionary, however. After a smoke screen was laid down, all our boats made a right turn and joined one group hitting the beach,” Croall said.
When the Middleton suddenly pulled anchor due to the quickly approaching Japanese fleet, Croall stayed behind in a 36-foot Higgins boat with three others. For nine days, the sailors lived off K rations and drinkable water from the shore.
“At night we would anchor out on the coral reef as the beach was not yet secured, as one boat crew sadly found out,” Croall said. “Each evening we were visited by ‘Machine Gun Charlie,' flying just too high for our 30-caliber machine guns to reach.”
On July 20, 1944, Croall finally married his sweetheart during a 48-hour liberty in California. By September, however, he was heading for the Philippines under the direction of Admiral Chester Nimitz and General Douglas MacArthur.
“During the initial landings I watched a single Japanese torpedo plane make it through all the flak and hit the cruiser Honolulu,” Croall wrote. “The next day, there were more air raids as we were still unloading ships. An Australian cruiser took a bomb. I witnessed General MacArthur and his staff wading ashore. There were dead Japanese floating in the water.”
Croall made several trips back and forth between New Guinea and the Philippines, transferring personnel and holding practice landings. Between sudden attacks of Japanese bombers, there were moments of calm respite, surreal in contrast.
“Once, while on free time, we pulled up to this beautiful, snow-white, sandy beach thickly lined with coconut palms,” Croall remembered. “We were looking for pretty shells when, upon looking up, we saw all these natives standing, holding spears, beetle nut-dyed hair and teeth filed to points. Needless to say we scrambled pretty damn quick into our boat and left.”
At Lingayen, Croall guided Higgins boats through a maze of unexploded rockets.
“Resistance was light thankfully, and later in the day when all was secured, Filipino people came to us,” he said. “The women wanted soap, the men cigarettes, and the children candy, paying with Japanese invasion money.”
On D-Day at Okinawa, April 1, 1945, Croall remembered that, “Kamikazes filled the sky — some hitting their targets, and many crashing into the sea.”
“One crashed just off our stern. The fifth day we left for Saipan, completely unloaded, passing a task force of our battleships and cruisers,” he said. “The sea was rough, and being empty, the ship really tossed about.”
Okinawa was the last battle Croall saw.
“Most of us had nearly two years overseas and expected to be transferred right away, but only those with over two years were listed to go stateside,” he said. “My wife, Phyllis, and several other wives wrote to the Coast Guard commandant in Washington, D.C., and soon all with 18 months or more were sent ashore.”
The couple finally had their honeymoon, although food and gas were still being rationed as everyone awaited the end of the war. With a wife and seven battle stars, Croall was discharged from service on Oct. 6, 1945.
“The Middleton was eventually transferred to the Navy and used to bring our troops back home,” he said. “It was eventually placed in the mothball fleet and years later scuttled.”
More than six decades later, Croall was called upon again to leave his home and travel across the country, this time as a decorated war hero.
His daughter Charlotte Beuselinck had filled out the necessary application and made travel arrangements, with help from son-in-law Paul Beuselinck, and son Bob Croall.
On May 8, the aged motormac joined 49 veterans of World War II, 13 of the Korean War, and 47 caregivers on the Central Missouri Honor Flight. The group had a police escort to St. Louis, where they boarded a plane for Baltimore.
“The veterans were allowed to leave their shoes on,” Croall said. “We did, however, get a pat-down.”
In Maryland, people were lined up inside the airport to greet the heroes, waving flags, clapping and shaking hands. The veterans then boarded two buses and were escorted by police to the World War II Memorial in Washington, D.C.
Although he saw other memorials and the Arlington National Cemetery, Croall was hit especially hard by the tribute to World War II. He stood in front of the stone pillar representing Nevada's contribution to the fight.
“It was very somber to see the wall with all the stars on it — each star's worth 100 people who passed away,” he said. “They had a memorial to the landing crafts, the men who were charging the beach, and I was having those thoughts and feelings of what happened so long ago. I guess it was a reward in a way. It made me feel that those three years of my life were not wasted, but put to good use.”
Flying back to St. Louis later that evening, the veterans got a surprise mail call.
“Unknown to us, our families and friends were asked to write us a note,” Croall said. “Thanks to my daughter Charlotte, with help from my son Bob, I received 18 letters. I was astonished and grateful.”
Back in Missouri, the group was escorted not only by police, but by 523 motorcycles.
“The bikers would pass by single file, revving engines,” Croall said. “Along the way we passed two bonfires with people waving flags to us. The police had closed the on-ramps, so we did not slow or stop at intersections. More city police were there to help, all donating their time.”
Arriving at their hotel at about 2 a.m., Croall said he couldn't believe the throngs of people waiting for them.
“When I got off the bus and in my wheelchair, I was pushed by one of the bikers, leathers and all,” he said. “The crowd was clapping and cheering. I saw Charlotte and Phyllis in front of the crowd.”
Besides thanking his family, Croall thanked Steve and Sharon Paulsell, who organize the event each year, and the schools, companies and other organizations who make donations to fund the flights.
“What do you say? I told them in a note of thanks that I had heartfelt gratitude,” he said. “It was so outgoing and gracious — a wonderful thing. I never dreamed I would have the opportunity.”
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