[When Otto sent this story to me
several years ago, he did not wish to have his name revealed, in spite of my
objections—I thought,
and still do, that his accomplishments during his life should be credited. Out
of respect for him, however, his name has not been revealed until recently when
Otto Crossed the Bar.]
Don Gardner
Otto Freytag
I
was born in Germany and came to America twice, once legally and once illegally.
My mother and
father divorced when I was 1½ and dad later remarried a wealthy German widow
(he knew how to pick ‘em). Since I knew only my stepmother as a mother, I
always called her mom.
My father, a para-legal (amtsgerichtsekretar), secretary to a police or county court), was a reserve
officer in the German army. In 1913-14 the war drums were beating, so the three
of us, my father, mother, and I, went to Brazil in early 1914 to scout the
country with a view toward establishing a millinery business, since quite a
large number of German immigrants were living there. On the way back to Germany
from Rio de Janeiro on a British ship, the SS
Araquaya, World War I began and the British instead took us to the
Isle of Wight, where we were interned.
In those
days, being interned meant living in a hotel or with a British family. As soon
as we were settled, my father took most of our money and his papers and went
“over the wall,” going to the harbor area, where he stowed away on an American
ship bound for New York City. Later my mom and I were moved to London and lived
with an elderly British couple in their home.
Dad shoveled
coal for a fireman who befriended him, brought him chow, and took care of him.
Another sailor sold dad an extra set of seaman’s papers. When the ship arrived
in New York, dad waited a few days, then walked calmly off the ship, flashed
his seaman’s papers at the gate and went uptown, where he got a job as a waiter
in a German restaurant on 3rd Avenue. Dad sent money back to London,
where my mother and I had been moved. After accumulating enough money, the British
let her buy passageway to America. I would like to comment here that while
interned, the British people treated us very well.
In the
meantime, my father made friends with another German, and when my mother and I
arrived at Ellis Island in 1914, this friend told Immigration that my mother
was his sister and I was his nephew. In those days it was easy. America wasn’t
at war with Germany at that time, and as we had “family” in the U.S., there
were no problems gaining entrance.
The first American thing I remember was someone giving me a
penny Tootsie Roll. I can still remember how wonderful it was.
My mother was able to go into the
millinery business in New York. She had a smattering of English, but the
majority of the owners were Jewish and could speak German. Mother made very
good money for those days. After the war, she wanted to return to Germany,
where she had been a famous milliner, to recover her various properties and
visit her mother and brother. In pre-war money, mom had an overall value in
property of over a quarter of a million marks. My father first, then my mother
and I, returned to Germany, along with my sister who was an American by birth.
In no time at all the post-war government paid her in almost worthless marks,
which, due to post-war inflation, was enough money to buy a pound of butter.
Mother packed up and returned to America, then my father, sister, and I in
1923. This time I came in legally with a passport and a visa (I still have it).
When I was 13, and had a year in public school, I was sent
to Upsala College and Academy in East Orange, New Jersey. That was a ball! With
no one to tell me what to do, I fouled up so bad that school authorities wrote
dad he would have to arrange outside lodging because I was a disruption in the
dormitory. A girl I knew had a brother who came home for Christmas 1925 in
uniform. I thought he was in the Navy, but he corrected me: “No, I’m in the
Coast Guard”.
I asked what that was. He said the Coast Guard “chased
rumrunners and rescued people.”
“That’s for me,” I said.
In January 1926, I was at Base One in Atlantic City ready to
ship in. I told the recruiters I was 21, was born in New York City, and my
parents were deceased. The truth of the matter is that I was born in Hamburg,
Germany, both parents were alive, and I was 15½-years-old! I looked older than
my age, but I was lucky to enlist. Fifteen ex-Navy WW I destroyers had been
turned over to the Coast Guard, 200 75-foot patrol boats, and 20 125-foot
patrol Cutters were built and added to the fleet, all needing crews—they took
anyone.
In 1929-30 my wife and I were at Misquamicot Beach, Rhode
Island, one Sunday when a fellow started hollering for help. I quickly swam out
and told him to hang on while I tried to bring him in. He said, “No, here!” and
he hauled up a girl he was trying to bring in. I swam back with her to the
beach, got a group of people together and performed Shaffer Prone Pressure on
her (the accepted method of resuscitation of the day). In about five minutes we
had her breathing again. A man who said he was a doctor took her away in an
ambulance. My wife is my only witness—there is no record of this rescue in my
record, but I never thought any more about it except the feeling of relief when
the girl started kicking.
In
1937-38, the USCGC INGHAM made the
Bering Sea Patrol and docked at Dutch Harbor, Unalaska. Across the harbor about
500 yards was Navy Radio Station NPR. One night about 7 PM I just came out of
the shower and had my pants on when General Quarters was sounded and someone on
the bow yelled, “man overboard!”
I looked down and saw a kid hollering for help. I was about
ready to jump when a Gunners Mate 1st class made a seat on a line
and lowered me down. What made it so tricky was that a williwah had blown up
and the wind sometimes got up to 60-70 mph; waves were coming in pretty high.
When I was lowered down to the water, I saw that this “kid” was a woman. I
asked her to hold on, but she said “Here!” Then she brought up a man who was
unconscious, and with his mouth wide-open, water was splashing in. I put him
between my legs and put my arms around the woman. It was too much of a load to
lift all, so someone hollered that they would come around from the other side
of the dock with the motor sailer. Waves were bouncing us up and down, but
after more than a few minutes the boat arrived. It took some maneuvering
because of the wind, but Piezek, the coxswain, got the man aboard first, then
the woman. When they got me aboard ship I was ice cold and beat it to the
shower. The cold water felt hot, and while in the shower the doctor came down
and poured two ounces of brandy for me. I can still taste it. Then a hand
reached in and handed me a pint of bourbon. It seems our boys had rescued the
skiff and it’s cargo.
We kept both in our sick bay overnight and their clothes
went through our laundry and drier. The next day Mr. and Mrs. Inks thanked me.
Here comes the fun. At the radio station they were having a
big party. The couple we pulled aboard the
INGHAM,
plus a Radioman who was pulled out of the water by the crew of a 165-footer,
had rowed from the radio station in a small skiff to the liquor store and
bought 13 pints of bourbon. On the return trip the williwah hit and swamped the
boat.
The Chief Yeoman told me I was getting a royal screwing—he
was in the wardroom taking notes when this came out: There would be no report
of a rescue on my record, no commendation, no nothing. Why? Because our skipper
was at the party and an investigation would bring this out, which would put him
in a bad light.
Now I had rescued three people and had nil to show for it on
my record, but I did not complain or do anything—the skipper was a
heavy-drinking Irishman named Michael J. Ryan, now deceased. CDR. Ryan was
later transferred from the INGHAM to
Chief of Staff, 13th Coast Guard District; a month later I was also
transferred to Seattle, where I worked in the communications center, a shore
job with $1.95 a day extra for living expenses.
When the first Chiefs exam in nine years came along in early
1941, I took it, but was so excited that I fouled up royally. Believe it or
not, the next month came and another exam. I “made the hat” this time and feel
I know who may have pulled the strings.
I had a month of mid-watches where traffic was light and we
could BS with the Navy and Army operators on the telegraph—I had to learn to
become a landline telegrapher for this. The Radioman on watch was the only
person in the District Office at night; if a distress or other alerts broke
that involved local units, the on watch Radioman called the Chief of Staff at
home to report the details, who in return would tell the Radioman what to do.
Sometimes when I called, he would be so drunk I couldn’t make out what he was
saying. I would hear his daughter or wife tell him he could call later.
I knew what should be done and would order an 83-footer from
one place or maybe a unit from another to converge on the scene of trouble.
Sure enough, an hour later he would call and ask how the case was going and I
would tell him I had done what he had ordered, giving him details regarding the
patrol boats and Cutters. He would say, “OK, let me know whatever else comes
up.” I never told him what I had done, always what he had ordered. As a result
I wound up with good marks and made permanent Chief.
During
World War II, my cousin, Carl Kretzschmar, was in the North Atlantic on a
German submarine while I was on convoy and escort duty there. It would have
been interesting had we met as POW’s, one way or the other. I’ve wondered often
what it would have been like to depth charge his submarine, or if his sub had
torpedoed my ship. My answer: I am an American, and if fighting Germans meant
killing them, I would not hesitate. My father and mother were upset about World
War II but had no use for Hitler. They were proud that I was in the service
and, of course, hoped nothing would happen to me.
Carl was
captured by the British during a land attack on a submarine base in France and
was interned in Britain. I sent him a package with coffee and cigarettes, and
when I met him in 1976, he told me he swapped the cigarettes for Scotch whiskey
with the British soldiers. As late as 1948 I was sending clothing and other
items to various relatives in Germany, mostly cousins and an aunt. A cousin wrote
back asking if he could do anything for me; I told him the last town my birth
mother lived in and ask if he could help her in any way. Germany has a system
where as soon as you move into or out of a town you register with the police;
in that way they can keep track of you as long as the files are alive. My birth
mother was in the Russian zone, but my cousin said he could get a pass and look
her up if possible to do so.
Later he
wrote that he had found her, that I had some half-sisters and -brothers, but my
birth mother was OK and said she did not need help—we should let sleeping dogs
lie.
On June 1946, while serving in the 7th CG
District, all temporary officers were called to the district office and were
busted back to our permanent enlisted rate “for the convenience of the
government” and discharged. The following day I received travel, leave status,
and reenlistment allowance, and to my surprise was re-appointed as Warrant
Officer. I found out that I was the only person in the 7th CG
District that was re-appointed to WO. From a broad broken stripe to a narrow
broken stripe, I was directed to return to Jupiter, Fla. as the Commanding
Officer of a Direction Finding Station. My boss, LT McAdam, was busted back at
the same time but not re-appointed. He said, “Now I’ll work for you.” No
problem—he had been an excellent boss, and now stayed on duty as a Chief
Radioman.
Somewhere back at Headquarters I felt that someone on the
reviewing boards spoke up for me, so I never felt cheated. I had come into the
Coast Guard as a dumb Seaman and retired at age 45 as a commissioned warrant
officer. No medals, but I was satisfied with my career.
I
made WO and CWO twice. The first time at the new radio station at Meadowdale,
Washington (NMW) on 4 September 1943, to rank from 20 August 1943, and made CWO
November 1944 on the USCGC TAMPA. At
that time there were no officer grades called W-1 through W-4
I made permanent WO September 1948 at CG Radio Station (NMJ)
at Ketchikan, Alaska, then was later transferred to CG Headquarters in
Washington, DC. Now begins the so-called joker.
Headquarters is billet structured. If there was a billet
open, they filled it. In the meantime the Career Compensation Act (we called it
the Career Complication Act) set Warrants up as W-1 (WO), W-2 through W-4 as
CWO. After a year, a WO is moved to CWO (W-2). Lo and behold, I have my year in
and no movement to W-2. Reason: no billet! What does personnel do? They paid me
as a W-2. At the time I thought it was a real Irish promotion—no rank, but I
got the pay. In due time someone retired, so I made temporary W-2.
In June 1954 I made permanent W-2 at Westport Radio, but the
joker was that time as W-1 being paid as W-2 did not count toward W-2! When it
looked like I would not retire as W-4 because of this foul up, the
communications officer at Headquarters put me up for LTJG; I was on the list
when I retired because there was no billet for me.
After WW II was over, I had some clout as a CWO and went to
personnel at Headquarters in person to change my place and date of birth. Not a
growl was heard from anyone. My personnel records were changed in 15 minutes.
When
I read back over this story, I don’t consider it too well—it sounds like this
guy was one big BS artist. My story is true, however.
One last thing: I think the Good Lord had some fun with me,
sending me all over the world and having me start one place and wind up at
another.