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Our Blue Water Navy

Two United States naval vessels have carried the name South Dakota across the oceans. A third USS South Dakota will launch in 2018, and it should prove a worthy successor. The Virginia-class vessel is a nuclear-powered fast attack submarine, 377 feet long, and will carry a crew of 130 in comfortable, if slightly cramped style.

Lt. Gov. Matt Michels toured General Dynamics’ Electric Boat shipyard in Connecticut, where South Dakota is under construction, in October. While there he met with yard officials and the sub’s future commanding officer, and was able to tour the recently completed USS Illinois, her sister ship.

Virginia-class boats are built to carry torpedoes and Tomahawk cruise missiles, and can also disembark and support Navy SEAL teams for covert operations. They are high tech in everything from their navigation systems to the heads (bathrooms), but their most distinguishing feature is what they don’t have: a propeller. They use a water jet propulsion system that makes them significantly quieter than their predecessors.

The first USS South Dakota was an armored cruiser, launched in 1908 from the Union Iron Works in San Francisco. It served with the Pacific Fleet, patrolling off the west coast and as part of the navy’s Asiatic Squadron, until the outbreak of World War I. During the war it escorted troop ships across the Atlantic, and when peace returned it carried some of those same soldiers back home.

The second USS South Dakota, built by the New York Shipbuilding Corporation, was the lead ship of a class of fast, powerful battleships that were revolutionary designs for the day. It was commissioned in early 1942, just in time to join the war in the Pacific against Japan. She and her crew served with distinction in numerous battles, though not always with credit: because of security concerns, the ship was identified as Battleship X in newspaper reports.

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The Spoils and Sorrows of War

The banner that Bill and Gigi Hickey discovered in her late mother’s home is 12 feet in length and is believed to have once hung vertically at a Nazi headquarters.

Editor’s note: Our friends at the Wessington Springs True Dakotan kindly allowed us to share this story from their July 21, 2015 edition with our readers.

While digging through her late mother’s Wessington Springs home, Gigi Hickey came across a shocking piece of World War II history. Hickey discovered a black, 105mm Howitzer canister tucked away in the dark corners of a trunk stowed in the attic of her mother, Georgia Henrichsen. What she found upon opening the canister’s lid was an unsettling prize of war that hadn’t seen the light of day for nearly 70 years.

“When I first opened the canister and saw the crumpled red fabric, an eerie feeling came over me,” Hickey recalled.”It definitely raised my heartbeat.”

During a previous examination inside the same trunk about a year after her mother’s death in 2007, Hickey discovered a billfold once used by Henrichsen’s first husband, Maurice Clifton”Pete” Henrichsen Jr. He had died during World War II, killed in Luxembourg on Jan. 16, 1945, during the Battle of the Bulge. Georgia Henrichsen later married Pete’s brother, George Henrichsen, who himself had served in WWII and been a prisoner of war, and they named their only son Maurice Clifton.

More than a billfold was stored in the trunk, however. While going through the trunk a second time, several years after the first inspection, Hickey found the sinister-looking canister in its farthest corner. When she opened it up, she discovered a wad of red fabric that, when unfolded, turned out to be a 12-foot-long Nazi banner brandished with a black swastika — complete with 84 American soldiers’ signatures.

Hickey, who lives in Wayzata, Minnesota, thinks the banner once hung at a Nazi headquarters and was taken from a village liberated by members of the Cannon Company 358th Infantry in January 1945 during the Battle of the Bulge. She guesses that Pete Henrichsen’s fellow soldiers most likely ripped down the banner, which has torn corners, from where it had been hanging, signed it and sent it to his widow as a tribute to his bravery.

“I believe the banner was likely a ‘spoil of war’ from a village liberated by the 358th Infantry, an unconventional sympathy card for my mother,” Hickey said.”My guess is Pete’s Cannon Company signed the banner and sent it to his widow as a tribute to their fallen comrade.”

It probably didn’t bring the grieving widow much solace, her daughter said. Because the banner was stuffed inside the canister and hidden deep inside a trunk, Hickey thinks her mother wanted to stow it away and forget the painful piece of history.

Gigi Hickey holds the 105 mm Howitzer canister that housed the Nazi banner for nearly 70 years.

“I’m certain the soldiers intended this as an honor, but I doubt my mother felt much solace from their gift,” Hickey said.”Seeing the names of the 84 men who survived would serve only as a reminder of her deep loss. She never talked about it. I believe she stuffed the banner back into the canister where it remained unseen and in the dark for 68 years. “

Once the shock of her discovery wore off, Hickey decided to try and connect with the 84 men who signed the banner in hopes of learning more about its mysterious past. Some of the signatures included a hometown, so she began her research on the Internet, searching for death notices, obituaries or any links to the 84 names written on the banner.

To date, Hickey has not yet connected with a living World War II veteran who signed the banner but has successfully contacted the families of 11 soldiers whose signatures are on the banner. Hickey said the families have been emotional and touched when hearing the new information about their loved ones.

Hickey and her mother traveled to the American cemetery in Belgium twice to visit Pete Henrichsen’s grave. Hickey’s brother, Maurice, who lives near Atlanta, has been there three times and has driven the battle route taken by the 358th Infantry in January 1945.

Georgia Henrichsen served as a teacher, county superintendent and elementary principal in Wessington Springs for 43 years. She died May 28, 2007.

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Cecil Harris Honored in Aberdeen

In our May/June issue, we wrote about young Aberdeen sculptor Ben Victor’s latest project: a 9-foot bronze of Cresbard native and World War II naval flying ace Cecil Harris. More than 200 people gathered on the Northern State University campus in Aberdeen over the weekend to officially dedicate the statue outside Spafford Hall.

Harris had gone largely unrecognized for his heroics until friends and family began spreading his story in recent years. In 2010, an 80-mile stretch of South Dakota Highway 20 through Potter and Faulk counties was designated as the Cecil Harris Memorial Highway. There has also been a push to have the Congressional Medal of Honor awarded to Harris posthumously, but when it appeared unlikely to happen, efforts turned to raising funds for the statue.

Harris was born in Cresbard in 1914. He was a student at Northern when he joined the Navy before the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor in December 1941. His most memorable mission came on Oct. 12, 1944, when he shot down four enemy aircraft and saved two of his Fighting Squadron 18 teammates at Formosa. His heroics earned him the Silver Star. On two more occasions he shot down four enemy planes without taking a bullet. By Nov. 25 he had accumulated a total of 24 and a new nickname: Speedball.

Though he wasn’t the highest-ranking pilot aboard the USS Intrepid, Harris’ shipmates always looked to him for leadership.”With all due respect to our senior leadership, it was Harris who build our squadron into the deadly efficient fighting force that it was,” says Harold Thune of Murdo, who served with Harris during the final two years of the war.”As a pilot, I believe he was without peer.”

At the dedication on Saturday, retired Navy captain and pilot Ken Schroeder explained how Harris saved his entire squadron of 20 pilots by leading them through darkness and thick fog to the Intrepid.”He located the Intrepid, almost hitting its superstructure, landed safely, and then asked the captain to call the squad in,” Schroeder said.”He saved 17 aircraft and 20 pilots that day.”

By the end of the war, Harris was the second highest Navy scoring ace. He received numerous honors in his long military career, including the Navy Cross, Silver Star, Distinguished Flying Cross and the Air Medal.

Harris returned to Cresbard after the war and lived quietly as a teacher and high school principal. He returned to active duty during the Korean War and became a career Navy officer, serving 27 years before retiring in 1967. He died in 1981 in Washington, D.C., and is buried at Arlington National Cemetery.

Some wonder if Harris would welcome the attention. There’s a story that says when Harris came home from World War II, a large crowd gathered at the train station in Cresbard to greet him. The train pulled in and left again with no sign of Harris. Apparently he had sneaked out the other side and went to the local pool hall for a beer. Nevertheless, Ben Victor’s statue seems a fitting tribute to a World War II hero that few South Dakotans know anything about.

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Unknown No More

Jack Thurman remembers the photograph as if it were taken yesterday. He was standing on the slope of Mount Suribachi on the Japanese island of Iwo Jima. It was the 25th or 26th of February, 1945. American forces were in the heat of a battle with the Japanese for control of the small island about 650 miles south of Tokyo. As a member of the United States Marine Corps’ 5th Division, 27th Regiment, Thurman had volunteered to help the 28th Regiment secure the mountain. They had been on Iwo Jima since the 19th. They were making progress.

On the 23rd a group of Marines made it to the top of Mount Suribachi and hoisted an American flag. A few days later, Associated Press photographer Joe Rosenthal gathered those soldiers again for another photo around the flag. One of them noticed Thurman standing a few yards down the mountain and invited him up. After the photo was taken, the soldiers returned to the fight and Rosenthal left with another good war picture. In this one the soldiers were jubilant. Some held their helmets in the air. Others raised their guns. Rosenthal was able to identify everyone except one man — Thurman.

For more than 55 years, the smiling young Marine standing on the far left side of the photo was identified only as”unknown.” But his name is no longer a mystery. After years of silence, Thurman identified himself as the only unknown soldier in that image from Iwo Jima.

Thurman, the oldest of 15 children, grew up on a dairy farm outside of Mitchell. He remembers”a lot of hard work,” milking cows and farming with a team of horses (Thurman’s father finally bought a tractor in 1939). He rode a horse to country school before enrolling at Notre Dame School in Mitchell.

When the United States entered World War II in December 1941, thousands of young men across the country clamored to join the military. Thurman was no different. When he was 17, he told his family he wanted to enlist, but his father wouldn’t sign the necessary paperwork, saying he needed him on the farm. So Thurman waited until Sept. 27, 1943, his 18th birthday. He walked into the recruiter’s office in Mitchell and joined the Marine Corps.

“As I looked over my right shoulder, I saw that flag going up…it was the most beautiful thing I ever saw in my life.”

After training at Fort Snelling, Minn., and San Diego, Thurman became a member of Carlson’s Raiders in the South Pacific. In early 1945, Thurman found himself on a ship heading west from Hawaii. Only after a few days at sea did the Marines find out they were headed for Iwo Jima. As they approached the island they saw nearly constant gun flashes along the horizon.”We were all thinking to ourselves, ‘How can anything survive on that island with that kind of an attack?'” Thurman recalled.

On Feb. 19 the 5th Division’s 26th, 27th and 28th regiments landed on the southern coast of Iwo Jima. Thurman remembers chills running down his spine as he stepped over dead Japanese soldiers lying on the black sands of Iwo Jima’s beach.”We didn’t know what to expect,” he says.

The 28th Regiment was assigned to take Mount Suribachi, an inactive volcano on the southern tip of the island. The 26th and Thurman’s 27th Regiment were to take an airstrip that sat just a few hundred yards northeast of Mount Suribachi. The Marines set to work, firing on foxholes and rooting out Japanese soldiers, many of whom were hidden within 11 miles of tunnels.

While Thurman and other members of his regiment fought the Japanese on the ground, the 28th Regiment started its slow ascent up Mount Suribachi. On Feb. 21 the men had nearly surrounded the base of the mountain and started to climb. At a little after 10 a.m., on the morning of the 23rd, as Thurman was fighting in the middle of the airstrip, a soldier noticed activity on the mountaintop. Marines had reached the summit and were raising a flag.”As I looked over my right shoulder, I saw that flag going up,” Thurman said.”It was the most beautiful thing I ever saw in my life. The ocean breeze hit it and the flag itself unfurled. It was just a beautiful thing up there. And there were a few of us who had some tears in our eyes, because we lost a lot of men between the 19th of February and the 23rd of February. We lost a lot of men, so we weren’t ashamed to shed a tear.”

Marine Corps photographer Lou Lowery captured the first flag raising. A few hours later, another group of Marines reached the top of the mountain with a larger flag. As they took the smaller one down and hoisted the bigger flag into place, Rosenthal snapped a picture. The image, which was given the title”Raising the Flag on Iwo Jima,” won a Pulitzer Prize and became one of the most reproduced photos of the war.

Thurman was a bit hesitant days later when that soldier from the 28th Regiment invited him into Rosenthal’s group photo.”I said, ‘Well I’m 27th Regiment.’ And he said, ‘That makes no difference. You’re still one of us.’ Well, that sounded pretty good to me,” Thurman said,”so I went up.”

Thurman is standing directly behind Ira Hayes, one of the six men immortalized in Rosenthal’s flag-raising photo. John Bradley, Franklin Sousey and Mike Strank–three other soldiers from the flag raising–are also in the photo. As the only man who was not a member of the 28th Regiment, Thurman became the only unidentified soldier.

Many of the men standing alongside Thurman, including Sousley and Strank, were killed days later as the Japanese continued their attempt to hold Iwo Jima. The fighting continued until American forces finally secured the island on March 26, 1945. Thurman left Iwo Jima that same day.

In a few months the war was over. Thurman came back to the United States and bounced around the West Coast looking for work before coming back to South Dakota. He had a number of jobs in Mitchell, Aberdeen and Rapid City before he and his wife, Carol, headed for San Diego. It was there that he was introduced to drafting and embarked upon a career in architecture. He finally settled down in Boulder, Colo., where he designed many of the buildings on the University of Colorado campus.

After years of silence, Thurman identified himself as the only unknown soldier in that image of Iwo Jima.

For more than 30 years after the war Thurman remained silent about what he had experienced.”I just didn’t particularly care to talk about it,” he said.”It was hard for me to hold back my emotions when I got into the real messy part.” In the late 1970s, though, Thurman was invited to speak at a Denver-area Kiwanis Club. Since then he has been open about his war experiences and has written a book detailing his military career.

The country was re-introduced to Iwo Jima in 2000 with the publication of Flags of Our Fathers. Written by John Bradley’s son James, the book chronicles the lives of the six men who raised the flag on Iwo Jima. The picture of those men from the 28th Regiment, plus an unknown Marine, gathered on Mount Suribachi is included in a section of photographs from the battle.

After the book came out, Thurman’s family members and friends were sure they knew the unidentified soldier.”People in the family were calling me asking ‘Isn’t that you in that picture?'” By saying yes, Thurman finally ended a half-century of mystery.

In 2006 Clint Eastwood turned Flags of Our Fathers into a movie. Thurman saw the film in Denver with a host of other Iwo Jima veterans. Shortly before Christmas that year, Thurman met Lt. Keith Wells, the platoon leader whose men were charged with putting the flag on Mount Suribachi.

“So you’re the guy in that picture?” Wells asked.

“Yes, sir,” Thurman said.

“We’ve been wondering who in the hell that guy is,” Wells said.”We could not figure out who he was. We’ve got a name for everybody but that one.”

“Well,” Thurman answered, with a laugh,”I’m the lone ranger.”

Editor’s Note: This story is revised from the March/April 2008 issue of South Dakota Magazine. To order a back issue or to subscribe, call 800-456-5117.


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Joe Foss Remembered

For a 9-year-old newspaper boy in Pierre, balancing 50 to 100 papers on a bike was a challenge. One day in 1956 I hit a rut and crashed into the pavement. Newspapers scattered across the highway. With a badly skinned knee and embarrassed, I saw a black limousine coming straight at me. I scrambled to get out of harm’s way as the car screeched to a halt.

A man in a suit stepped out of the limousine and began picking up newspapers. I didn’t know he had been a fighter pilot in World War II or that he scored 26 personal aerial victories against the Japanese. I didn’t know he had been shot down over the Pacific or had received the Bronze Star, the Silver Star, the Purple Heart and the Congressional Medal of Honor.

I didn’t know that in 1941, he was the Officer of the Day, in charge of base security at Pensacola, when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. He rode around its perimeter defending against Japanese invaders on the only transportation available…a bicycle.

Was this on his mind as he saw me take a spill in the middle of the airport highway? When he said,”Let me help pick up your papers,” I was in awe. Without fanfare, Joe Foss, the governor with a state to manage and a plane to catch, took a few minutes to help a kid with a skinned knee.

Editor’s Note: This story appeared in the July/August 2008 issue of South Dakota Magazine. To order a copy or to subscribe, call 800-456-5117. The author, Dave Beckwith, was a retired California pastor who grew up in Pierre. His story later appeared in the book Chicken Soup for the Republican’s Soul.

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Lippman was Lemmon’s Hero

South Dakota has produced some amazing veterans. Jean Mehegan, founder of Medary Acres greenhouse in Brookings, survived the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. Don Smith (Belle Fourche) was a member of Doolittle’s Raiders, who launched the first retaliatory attack against Japan after the surprise Hawaiian bombing. Walter Herrig, who taught in SDSU’s Army ROTC program, was a prisoner of war for much of the conflict. He was on the island of Corregidor when the Japanese captured it in 1942. Clarence Wolf Guts was a Lakota code talker.

Recently I learned about Gordon Joseph Lippman of Lemmon. Lippman was one of 54,000 American servicemen and women who fought in World War II, Korea and Vietnam. He enlisted following his junior year at Lemmon High School, and it didn’t take long for others to realize he had incredible courage and battlefield instincts. He was credited with saving his patrol against German resistance in southern France. As a member of the 517th Parachute Infantry Regiment, he was wounded at the Battle of the Bulge.

Lippman was a battalion operations officer during the Korean War, where he was again wounded near Do Chung in April 1951. Lippman was leading his men across the Hantan River in darkness when an enemy outpost spotted them. Lippman and his troops came under fire in the middle of the water, but he rallied them and led a charge that destroyed the outpost. Then he reorganized and led his men toward their objective: a hill whose perimeter was ringed with enemy gunners. Only a single platoon made it under heavy fire. Lippman, realizing his soldiers faced annihilation against overwhelming odds, created a diversion. For 45 minutes, armed with a pistol and grenades, he darted within yards of the enemy, drawing their fire so his soldiers could gain a better position and take the hill. He earned the Distinguished Service Cross, the Army’s second highest military decoration, awarded for bravery.

A soldier might think himself lucky to emerge from one war alive. Surviving two could be considered miraculous. Sadly, Lippman didn’t survive a third. He was sent to Vietnam in September 1965, where he served as the executive officer of the Third Brigade, First Infantry Division. Four months later, Viet Cong snipers infiltrated his camp near Lai Khe. Lippman died from small arms fire while trying to personally locate them.

His sister Marlys was fortunate enough to spend a week with Gordon at his home in Washington, D.C., in May 1965. She remembered he spent evenings working on his master’s degree at Georgetown University, which he earned shortly before his deployment.”My last memory was that I had sent him for Christmas 1965 a fruitcake plus other edibles and a felt bookmark which I made for him per his request [to] ‘only send very small things that can travel with me.’ In February, two months after he was killed, the package was returned to me with DECEASED written on it — with a very spoiled fruitcake. I wept. It was so little, and he didn’t even receive it.”

South Dakotans should be proud of Gordon Lippman and veterans like him. They possess courage the rest of us only imagine we have. Days like Veterans Day or Memorial Day are fine times to honor them, but they should be remembered the other 363 days as well.