The Haiti Victory Gas Attack, 1945 By Robert Balcomb ©2005

The Haiti Victory was part of a large fleet of fast Victory cargo ships built by Henry Kaiser for the war against Japan in the Pacific. It had a Merchant Marine crew, including the Captain, for running the ship; and a Navy crew, including a Lieutenant, for the communications and protection. Protection consisted of a 3-inch gun on the bow, a 5-inch-gun on the stern, and 20-millimeter guns on the bridge and boat deck. Communications consisted of two Radiomen and two Signalmen. I was a Signalman.

At sea, Navy regulations required Navy personnel to stand sea watch, two men on the stern and bow guns and one at the 25mm guns, each station having sound-powered phones with a headset and a mouthpiece, all connected together and to the bridge. When one pressed a button on the mouthpiece and spoke, all the other men wearing a phone could hear him. Lookouts were to scan the sea around them and report anything suspicious. The sea watch changed every four hours, around the clock.

Also, every day at sunrise and at sunset, Navy crew General Quarters took place to keep an extra watch for possible enemy action coming from “out of the sun,” making them much harder to see. GQ involved every Navy man. The Officer and I always stood GQ on the bridge, me having a phone ready to report to the Lieutenant any reported problems.

I also had to stand regular sea watch. One night, on the port bridge 20mm station, I heard the bow lookout report a strong odor, resembling some kind of gas and was growing stronger. We all discussed the possibility that it was maybe a gas attack, but reasoned that we were alone in the middle of the Pacific, steaming at 18 knots, with nothing in sight between us and the horizon. But the bow guy grew more excited. Suddenly he screamed, “Joe just passed—he’s crumpled up—should be passed out . . . .” Then I, too, smelled it, as did the other bridge lookout. We all agreed that we should do something, and fast. Then the bow phone went dead.

I ran to the General alarm button and pressed it, sounding Battle Stations throughout the ship. Within minutes, all hands were at their respective battle stations, all guns manned. The Lieutenant came to the bridge, demanding what was going on. I had to tell him we were under a gas attack. Usually a man of quick action (in civilian life a New Mexico State Police Officer), for a merest second he just stood there and stared at me. Then he growled, slowly, “Repeat, please.” I repeated, swallowing, “We seem to be under a gas attack, Sir. Both the bow lookouts are unconscious! I smelled it, too. And the other bridge lookout smelled it.”

With quiet control he asked, “Why didn’t you report it to me first?”

“Sir, we all felt there wasn’t time,” I said.

At that moment, the bow lookout groggily reported that they both were OK, that the odor had come from an open can of metal cleaner one of them had unknowingly kicked over.

The Man secured Battle Stations, turned on his heel, and grumbled back to his stateroom. He never said anything about it to me afterward, presuming that forthwith he would be advised of any problem before any alarms were sounded.

I have no idea whether this affair went into Navy records, but somehow I wish it had—we would be the only U S Navy ship in the Pacific war to have suffered a gas attack.

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