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Thomas' enlistment a tale of an orphan, adventures, joy of 'cease fire'
When Ted Thomas, of Schell City, turned 19 years old in 1951, he was "tired of milking cows" and rode his horse to Nevada and enlisted in the Navy.
By signing his name on the dotted line, he earned himself a trip around the world and memories never to be forgotten.
He was sent to San Diego, Calif., for 11 weeks of basic training.
When he enlisted, he was told he could join the Seabees, who did construction work. He never saw a bulldozer the entire time. He had 22 months of more intensive training at Tacoma, Wash. His training consisted of "maintenance all the time on a moth ball fleet."
While in Tacoma in 1951, his dad was seriously injured in an accident. A friend gave him money to get home on, but encountered problems getting there because the entire central part of the United States was suffering a severe flood.
After some harrowing experiences including an emergency landing of a two-engine plane in Kansas because one of the engines quit, and lots of detours, he was able to finally able to complete his visit home.
Next he was loaded aboard the U.S.S. Point Cruz, a small war aircraft carrier, and the high seas. Being a youth from land-bound Missouri, Thomas' horizon was about to get widened. Half of the crew aboard had never been to sea and when the hurricane hit off the Washington coast, their complexions verified it. For three days they were tossed up, down, and side-ways by the wind and the sea. A few managed in moments of desperation to drag their way up out of the compartment or "vomit alley" as the chaplain dubbed it, to gaze with glazed eyes at the sea for a moment before tumbling back below to the rack. The storm tore off all the life rafts and they lost radio contact. They could hear radio traffic, but couldn't send any out. They got their "sea legs" in a hurry, if somewhat rudely.
Soon they steamed into Hakodate, Japan.
Thomas remembers it as the most foul-smelling place he had ever been in his life. Fish canneries and hot weather combined to cause the place to reek. The odor permeated the ship at night. They were served fish for dinner once, but most weren't hungry for fish.
The actions became a kaleidoscope of memories as Thomas related a time the USS Point Cruz, which was the biggest ship that could go through the Suez Canal, ran aground because the captain didn't have time to wait on a pilot. He had to take the time then.
When asked about the size of the ship compared to today, it was like comparing a small tin can to a gallon jug. A lot of time was spent in supplying fuel to other ships during submarine warfare. With both ships bobbing like tin cans in the sea, it became quite an operation.
In Korea, he only went on land once. "The land stunk. Three hours later, I was back on board the ship and never wanted to go any more." An event which happened while Thomas was on board the U.S.S. Point Cruz was one in which he was proud to tale part.
The story was even made into a movie, "1,000 Men and a Baby." When the chaplain, Lt. Edward O. Riley, went ashore in Inchon Harbor, he found a white baby among some 400 undernourished, half-alive Korean orphans. The baby was the only white child in the place. There were white or half-white orphans in Japanese orphanages, but this was unheard of in Korea. The head of the orphanage related that a GI orderly in the sick bay of the huge Army Service Command Post outside Inchon kicked a bundle of newspapers on the floor and discovered that a baby about a month old was inside. He had rushed it to the orphanage as fast as he could, but there were doubts it would survive. It survived, but was a pitiful emaciated baby boy, covered with an ugly rash over his undernourished body.
Captain Hayard ordered Father Riley to go back to the orphanage. "Do not come back to this ship without the baby," was his command. Finally, after much cutting of red tape and breaking every regulation in the book, the baby came on board the ship and the whole crew became "surrogate fathers."
The ship's doctor, Lt. Hugh C. Keenam of Spokane, Wash., from the hospital ship U.S. Consolation, who had examined the baby for visa purpose, wanted him for himself because he reminded him of one of the four babies he and his wife had lost to miscarriages. Father Riley was delighted that the baby would have a real home.
Somewhere along the way, he was christened George Ascom Keenan -- George because he was called that in the orphanage and Ascom for Army Supply Command, the type of post in which his strange life began. Bulletins apprised the crew of the baby's improving condition and daily there was a public-address announcement about him. The baby quickly goo-gooed his way into the hearts of the hardened swabbies. Ship's carpenters built a crib out of a wooden bomb crate. They cut bed sheets into diapers and fashioned homemade toys.
Hundreds of guys volunteered to look after the baby. They fed him milk from bottles and sung lullabies to get him to sleep. They even hung the baby's washed diapers out to dry on the yardarms -- giving new meaning to the term "poop deck."
In due time, Father Riley sailed to Seattle, bearing perhaps the strangest Christmas gift that ever a man on duty overseas had sent home to his wife in the States. A letter from her husband had informed Mrs. Keenan what to expect. Her arms slipped easily around her new baby as she said, "Father, what a beautiful child."
In an article in a 1997 newspaper, the then 44-year-old man who had been the orphan gave thanks to his 1,000 devoted dads. He was quoted "I'm sure I would've died if it wasn't for them. They gave me a good life. God bless America -- and God bless American sailors." But the war continued and there were other duties besides babysitting for the sailors. The ship was pulled through the Panama Canal by big diesel engines that were called "camels."
South Korean soldiers who were wounded were taken to France. When the allied troops from India were flown into Inchon Harbor there were six helicopters going 24 hours a day, landing on and off the ships. It was a difficult and dangerous time.
In 1953, they left for Sasebo, Japan, fully loaded with bombs and ready to bomb, but got word the war had ended and to cease fire. "There was a boat load of "Happy Boys!"
His last six months were spent on the hospital ship, USS Haven AH12. "This was the worst duty I had because I was boiler tender and this was an OLD, OLD converted boiler in terrible condition. I got into an argument with a Lieutenant because he tried to tell me that there was oil running through the pipes. I told him they were color coded and that was water. Finally he conceded and we got on with our work without me getting sent above for discipline even though I was right. It was really screwed up. It was air-conditioned, which was the only good thing about it."
Thomas last night of service he pulled shore duty on the pike in Long Beach, Calif. This was a big and wild carnival and he was trying to keep peace with a Navy nightstick! "It was a long night."
He was discharged from active service in Long Beach on Feb. 20, 1955, with the rank of Third Class even though he had passed the test for Second Class. Rank promotion had been frozen. He had planned to buy a motorcycle and take his time getting home. Instead, he bought a plane ticket!
What did Ted Thomas do when he returned home? He milked cows! Later, he married Norma Jean Goble and they had four children. In March of 1983, he went to work for the Vernon County Sheriff's office. Ted was a deputy until June 1991, when he was elected sheriff to fill out an unexpired term. He was re-elected sheriff in 1992 and retired Dec. 31, 1996.
Author's note: Thomas worked as a maintenance supply person which gave vital support to all who were on defense for our freedom. Everyone who works to preserve our liberty is important.