YouTube / LockheedMartinVideos
YouTube / LockheedMartinVideos

How to Launch a Massive Ship Sideways off the Dock

YouTube / LockheedMartinVideos
YouTube / LockheedMartinVideos

On October 18, 2014, the USS Detroit (LCS-7) was launched was launched into the Menominee River in Wisconsin. This Navy ship is over 375 feet long, and the surprising thing is the way it was put into the water—by sliding it sideways off the dock and relying on its buoyancy (plus apparently some guide cables) to keep it from capsizing. Although it's probably not news to people who dig boats, for me, this was a really surprising video!

This is just 45 seconds, and it's pretty intense. According to The Kid Should See This, side launches are typical for this kind of vessel.

Here's a slightly less impressive way from another angle:

If you're curious what this ship is, Lockheed Martin has an intense promo video:

(Via The Kid Should See This and S Munro on Twitter.)

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Science History Image, Alamy
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The World War II Veterans Who Took Aim at the KKK
Science History Image, Alamy
Science History Image, Alamy

It’s unusual for a man to see his name scrawled on a coffin, but Robert Hicks couldn’t say he was surprised. As a black man living in the segregated city of Bogalusa, Louisiana in 1965, Hicks had been subjected to threats of violence on a consistent basis. He was also a vocal supporter of equal rights, and very publicly demanded that black workers at his local mill be granted similar promotion opportunities as their white co-workers. He earned even more hostility by endorsing the grassroots Congress of Racial Equality (CORE) organization.

The coffin bearing Hicks's name and the adjacent burning cross were evidence that the Ku Klux Klan was growing increasingly irate. It was going to get worse. Recently, Hicks had invited two white CORE workers to stay at his house while they were in Bogalusa. The Klan was alternating between spectacle and bomb threats directed at his home. The police were no help; they refused to stand against the Klan, even if it meant ignoring the Civil Rights Act of 1964.

Despite the lack of law enforcement, Hicks and the CORE employees were still protected. Every night, a small band of armed guards patrolled his property, keeping an eye out for suspicious activity. The squad was acting as an intermediary in the event the Klan decided to make good on their threats. While these were locals protecting their neighbors, they’d soon join a much larger organization, a group that supported the values of civil rights leader Martin Luther King, Jr., but didn’t subscribe to his nonviolent philosophy. They would become part of the Deacons for Defense and Justice, who were prepared to use any means necessary to protect their fellow activists.

“We will never go on the offense,” Bogalusa Deacon leader Charles Sims later said. “But if the Klan or anybody else comes in here to hit us, I guarantee they will get hit back.”

 
 

Although racial tensions were pervasive throughout the country in the 1960s, some of the most charged animosity to be found anywhere was in the deep South. The Klan had a strong foothold in Louisiana, so much so that their activity was being normalized in areas like Bogalusa. Klan gatherings were publicized over public radio; half of the cars flew tiny rebel flags. Of the town’s 23,000 residents, 9000 were men and women of color who endured malevolent opposition to their very existence.

Protestors and leaders alike advocated for peaceful demonstrations. Violence, Martin Luther King Jr. advised, would only be met with more violence. The Deacons disagreed.

A midnight meeting of the American white supremicist movement, the Ku Klux Klan
Topical Press Agency/Getty Images

The Deacons for Defense and Justice traced its history to July 1964 in nearby Jonesboro, Louisiana, when Earnest “Chilly Willy” Thomas and Frederick Kirkpatrick started a defense group to protect CORE workers and unarmed protestors from Klan violence. (The name may have come from the deacons of church, who were typically charged with taking care of business.) The group was made up primarily of World War II and Korean War veterans who had grown tired of seeing black Americans physically abused, threatened, and killed for asserting their civil rights. War had erased any apprehension over taking up firearms or meeting force with force.

The movement migrated to Bogalusa when the Deacons first heard that Hicks was being targeted. Following the bomb threats, they sat down and talked with Hicks, and convinced him that having a local chapter would be of benefit to an area so heavily oppressed by Klan influence. Hicks co-founded the chapter along with a Bogalusa local named Charles Sims.

While all of the men received publicity for their efforts, it was Sims who captivated the media. Described as “grizzled” and with the sullen attitude of someone resigned to dispensing violence when necessary, Sims became something of a reluctant spokesperson for the Deacons. Jet magazine called him the man “most feared by whites in Louisiana.” Asked if he’d ever been arrested for battery, Sims estimated he had—about 20 times. “Battery with what?” reporters asked. Sims just held up his fists.

 
 

Sims had little patience for King’s pacifism. “Martin Luther King and me have never seen eye to eye,” he told the Associated Press in July 1965. “He has never been to Bogalusa. If we didn’t have the Deacons here there is no telling how many killings there would have been.”

Indeed, King had never visited Bogalusa. He vowed never to appear where there was a concentration of Deacons because he disagreed with their methodology. To Sims’s thinking, however, there was no choice but to take up arms. The Klan harassed protestors, threw logs in front of motorcades, and shot through the windows of the homes of minorities, all of it largely undisturbed by police intervention.

Dr Martin Luther King at the Alabama civil rights march which he led on March 25, 1965
William Lovelace, Express/Getty Images

What the Klan didn’t account for was the willingness of the Deacons to escalate the conflict. During one public gathering, a white man harassing black attendees was shot three times in the chest by a Deacon carrying a pistol; it was reportedly the first time lethal force had been used by black civil rights supporters in the modern era. (The man survived.) At night, when black residents might be subject to harassment and assault, Deacons toting weapons acted like an impromptu neighborhood watch. Rather than risk getting into a gunfight, the Klan scattered. The window shootings ceased. Despite having only 15 or so members in Bogalusa, the Deacons carried themselves like a small army.

Because they couldn't cover the entire town with numbers, Sims and his fellow Deacons often relied on intercepting police or Klan calls to pinpoint trouble. When a black physician was having problems driving into town, Sims and his men piled into a car and met him at a gas station. Approaching three white men who were following the doctor, Sims addressed the one nearest to him: "Partner, if you want to keep living you better go back, because if you come any closer to this car, I'm going to kill all three of you." The doctor proceeded down the road without incident.

“If you were black, you couldn’t walk the streets,” Jackie Hicks, Robert’s wife, told a reporter in 2014. “If a group of whites saw you, they would jump on you. But if the Deacons were around, they wouldn’t mess with you.”

Rather than become a war zone, Bogalusa’s tensions simmered just below the surface, with one side waiting for the other to make a move.

 
 

The presence of the Deacons in Bogalusa did not go unnoticed by the FBI. Alarmed by the idea of a full-blown race war being played out with two armed parties, the Bureau kept a close watch on Sims, Hicks, and the other Deacons. Occasionally, some would go on the offensive, like the time a number of Deacons fired into the windows of the home of Herrod Morris, a reverend who had criticized the black community. Fearing the conflict would become combustible, the federal government invoked Reconstruction-era laws to force police to protect civil rights workers. It was the first time such laws had been referenced in modern times. In raising the stakes, the Deacons had forced lawmakers to back the Civil Rights Act with substantial action.

With law enforcement slowly embracing responsibility and more militant groups like the Black Panthers taking up headlines, the Deacons—which had grown to around two dozen chapters in the South, including Mississippi and Alabama—were largely dissolved by 1968 and rarely mentioned in historical accounts thereafter. Some historians have theorized it was because their eye-for-an-eye approach didn’t fit the nonviolent narrative of the civil rights movement. Yet their legacy was largely one of deterrence. Adversaries didn’t act on violent impulses, for fear of retaliation.

Hicks went on to fight racial injustice in other ways: He sued the paper mill where he worked for bypassing black employees, and became a supervisor there in 1971. He also sued the police for harassing civil rights protestors, and got an injunction enforced by the U.S. Justice Department. The Hicks home, which at one time had been guarded by the community, now sits recognized on the National Register of Historic Places.

In 2013, Robert's son, Charles Hicks, told The Washington Post that both his father and the Deacons were to be commended. "Growing up, we had a lot of admiration for the Deacons," he said. "Their philosophy was, 'It’s better to die on your feet than live on your knees.'"

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"Go For Broke": The Story Behind the Most Decorated Military Unit in U.S. History
US Army Signal Corps, Wikimedia Commons // Public Domain
US Army Signal Corps, Wikimedia Commons // Public Domain

In 2011’s Captain America: The First Avenger, Captain Steve Rogers single-handedly frees captured Allied soldiers from a Nazi base. "What, are we taking everybody?" one soldier asks, referring to another soldier who appears to be Japanese. "I’m from Fresno," the soldier retorts.

The scene was a hat tip to the 442nd Regimental Combat Team, an all-Japanese-American regiment that, during World War II, became the most decorated unit in U.S. history—a distinction it still holds. Members of the 442nd earned 21 Medals of Honor, 52 Distinguished Service Crosses, five Presidential Unit Citations in just one month, and 9486 Purple Hearts, along with thousands of other honors, during the regiment’s two active years in World War II. Yet when asked about their distinguished service, most of them said they were simply doing their duty.

ONE PUKA PUKA AND THE 442ND

In the months following the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor in December 1941, more than 110,000 Japanese-Americans from the West Coast and Arizona were interned under Executive Order 9066; about two-thirds were U.S. citizens. Americans of Japanese ancestry were also reclassified as “enemy aliens” and were no longer allowed to join the military. Despite the fact that Japanese-Americans had served in the military for decades, many already-enlisted troops were discharged from service. The government even seized items like cameras or radios from Japanese-Americans, in case they might use them to spy.

Although some protested these measures, others sent letters and telegrams to President Franklin Roosevelt and Secretary of War Henry Stimson arguing that Japanese-Americans, even the second generation known as the Nisei, were not to be trusted because they were "fanatically devoted to [their] country of origin and emperor," as one California woman wrote. Several cities, 16 California counties, a variety of social clubs, and even some members of Congress registered similar concerns. Some congressmen even called to exchange Japanese-American citizens for Americans held prisoner by Japan.

The Nisei troops, as they were often known, wanted the opportunity to prove that their loyalty was to the United States—not Japan. Many of these soldiers had witnessed the attack on Pearl Harbor and the aftermath, and they wanted to support their country in any way they could.

Just weeks after Washington gave the military ban order, a group of ROTC students released from the Hawaiian Territorial Guard decided that even if they couldn’t serve as soldiers, they still wanted to help. They gained the approval of regional commander General Delos Emmons to form the Varsity Victory Volunteers, a labor support battalion that included more than 160 students and other individuals of Japanese descent. In early 1942, the group began building roads, fences, and military bases under the supervision of the Army Corps of Engineers.

“Hawaii is our home; the United States is our country,” the youths wrote in a letter to Emmons volunteering their services. “We know but one loyalty and that is to the Stars and Stripes.”

But the Varsity Victory Volunteers were just the beginning. At the time of the Pearl Harbor attack, the Hawaii National Guard also included more than 1400 Nisei members—about half its total. The Nisei troops were ordered to turn in their weapons and ammunition and segregated from their fellow soldiers. Concerned about the Nisei's potential response if Hawaii was again attacked by Japan, military leaders sent them to the mainland, and eventually to Camp McCoy in Wisconsin. There they formed the 100th Infantry Battalion (Separate), with the separate referring to the fact that they were initially an orphan unit without a larger regiment. They were also known as the One Puka Puka (Puka is Hawaiian for "hole," as in zero).

The 100th Infantry Battalion receiving grenade training
The 100th Infantry Battalion receiving grenade training.
U.S. Army Photo, Wikimedia Commons // Public Domain

One Puka Puka quickly distinguished themselves during their training, and after watching the “triple-Vs” and the 100th in action, the War Department pushed President Roosevelt to change his stance on Japanese-American military service. He did so in early 1943, and the Army soon asked for 4500 Japanese-American volunteers. They got an overwhelming 10,000, mostly from Hawaii. Nearly 1200 volunteered from internment camps.

“I talked to my father, and he said, ‘Well, you’re an American citizen, so if they want you to join the Army, it’s your duty,’” veteran Stanley Matsumura said in Peter Wakamatsu’s documentary Four-Four-Two: F Company at War. He and his friends did just that.

“I was 19 and living in Yoder, Wyoming when I first heard the news of Pearl Harbor,” Hashime Saito wrote to Dear Abby in December 1980. “I canceled my plans to enter the university and immediately enlisted in the U.S. Army.”

At his brother’s wedding at Poston Relocation Center, Technical Sergeant Abe Ohama told friends and family, “All of us can't stay in the camps until the end of the war. Some of us have to go to the front.”

The volunteers became the 442nd Regimental Combat Team.

BANZAI!

At first, the 442nd wasn’t particularly welcome in Europe. When Army Chief of Staff General George Marshall offered the regiment to General Dwight Eisenhower to fight in France, the latter turned him down with a polite, “No, thank you.” Instead, they found a home with General Mark Clark in the Fifth Army, fighting in Italy.

The 100th finished training and went first, initially joining the 34th Infantry Division, one of the divisions that made up the Fifth Army. They soon earned their reputation in blood. Whether out of a desire to prove their loyalty or just a gung-ho spirit, the Nisei soldiers went after military objectives with a single-minded ferocity.

They entered combat in Italy on September 29, 1943, and soon saw fighting in the southern part of the country. The battalion fought in Salerno and the Volturno river, where the soldiers surprised their fellow American troops with their first banzai charge. (In Japanese tradition, a banzai charge is a last-ditch, often suicidal attack, and the exclamation is a traditional battle cry.) According to the Go For Broke National Education Center, named for the regiment's motto, the banzai charge occurred after a sergeant heard that one of the most respected officers in the battalion had been either wounded or captured: "Many of the soldiers of the 100th had known each other since they were children. Their dedication to one another was such that they never left a man behind, even in death." The sergeant turned out to have heard mistakenly, but the impression of dedication on their fellow soldiers remained.

Yet the 100th truly earned their reputations at the Battle of Monte Cassino. General Clark called the battle “the most grueling, the most harrowing, and in one aspect perhaps the most tragic, of any phase of the war in Italy.” Fighting began in blizzard conditions in the middle of January 1944, and the goal was to take the Gustav Line, a defensive line the Axis forces had created along the natural mountainous landscape of the area that blocked the Allies from Rome.

The battle to take the high ground was long and bloody for everyone involved, and the 100th was no exception. In fact, it was at Monte Cassino that they gained the nickname “The Purple Heart Battalion.” The Monte Cassino Abbey, atop one of the mountains, overlooked an open field with little cover for troops and provided Nazi soldiers and artillery a place to entrench themselves. From behind walls, they fired at any Allied troops who dared to rush the mountain.

On the night of January 24, the 100th’s A and C Companies crossed the dangerous field, checking for tripwires and maneuvering over freezing, flooded irrigation ditches before finding cover behind a wall. When B Company moved to join them after sunrise, only 14 of the 187 men made it to the wall, according to the Go For Broke center.

The company was ordered into reserve—kept away from the action and allowed to rest—but joined the fighting again on February 8. They made good progress and held a key hill for four days but retreated again when the 34th Division was unable to keep up with their pace. Finally, after Allied air reinforcements bombed the ancient abbey into ruin on February 15, the 100th sent wave after wave up the mountain, losing 200 more men before they were relieved.

Their commander, Major Casper Clough Jr., told a correspondent with The New York Times that they were the best soldiers he’d ever seen. “They are showing the rest of the people they are just as good citizens as the next John Doughboy,” he said.

General Mark Clark fastens citation streamers on 100th battalion flags for outstanding performance of duties in the Mediterranean theater
General Mark Clark fastens citation streamers on 100th battalion flags for outstanding performance of duties in the Mediterranean theater.
Hulton Archive/Getty Images

Because of the battalion’s heavy casualties—the 100th had lost about 800 of its 1300 soldiers since arriving in Europe, more than 200 over just four days at Monte Cassino—other Allied forces took over at Monte Cassino. The 100th regrouped to receive reinforcements, then fought their way over 40 miles from Anzio, Italy, north to Rome, where they were soon joined by the rest of the 442nd and officially attached to the regiment.

By May 1944, when the 442nd’s Second and Third Battalions sailed for Europe, the 100th had racked up a stunning three Distinguished Service Crosses, 21 Bronze Stars, 36 Silver Stars, and 900 Purple Hearts. The Second and Third Battalions quickly showed they were determined to not only uphold the reputation of Nisei soldiers in Europe, but to add to it.

COMBINING THEIR EFFORTS

When the three battalions met outside of Rome to capture the small town of Belvedere, the Second and Third Battalions volunteered to lead the fighting, allowing the 100th to stay in reserve—but One Puka Puka wouldn't be held back. The 442nd destroyed the German troops, took the town, and captured a huge number of enemy weapons. They even decimated an entire SS battalion alone, losing only four of their own men.

By then, French commanders were asking the regiment to join the fighting in the Vosges Mountains in eastern France, near the border with Germany. The 442nd fought in Bruyeres and Belmont, but perhaps their most famous campaign was the rescue of the 141st Infantry Regiment’s First Battalion—known as the Lost Battalion.

A 442nd squad leader looks for German movements in a French valley
A 442nd squad leader looks for German movements in a French valley
U.S. Army, Wikimedia Commons // Public Domain

During fighting in the Vosges Mountains, the 141st’s First Battalion had been cut off from the rest of the Allied Forces and nearly 300 men from Texas were trapped by 6000 German troops.

On little rest and with a shortage of men, the 442nd answered the call to rescue their Texan brothers. The mountainous terrain was made more difficult by the icy weather of October 1944, and the 442nd had to travel on soggy dirt trails and fight through German roadblocks to reach the trapped men.

The 442nd’s Second Battalion won a hill from the Germans and took prisoners, but while it helped break the German line, it wasn’t enough to free the trapped men. The Lost Battalion—which had gone without food for several days—beat off five waves of German attackers. The Third Battalion tried to fight from the outside, but got no closer to reaching the Texan troops.

Seeing no other choice, the 442nd decided to “go for broke” straight up the middle in another banzai charge. One of the leaders of the charge, Private Barney Hajiro, single-handedly took down two German machine gun nests. After six days of fighting, the Nisei managed to break through to the lost Texans.

Whether they were still trying to prove themselves or not, the 442nd did just that in the rescue. The Milwaukee Journal summed up the shifting opinion about “Our Heroic Nisei” on November 8, 1944, just days after the campaign:

“At the last minute, relief troops got through. Who were they? Japanese Americans of the famous 442nd regiment—the outfit that had already blazed its way to glory in the toughest spots in Italy. What the relieved Yank soldiers think of their Nisei buddies is best expressed by one grateful private who said: ‘Boy, they are real Americans!’”

For their valor, Governor John Connally made all the surviving members of the 442nd “honorary Texans” in 1963.

The 442nd continued to fight in major battles in France and Italy through the end of the war, often on the front lines. They guarded 12 miles of the French border in what became known as the Champagne campaign, and joined other American forces in liberating the Dachau concentration camps in April 1945.

Thousands of the regiment’s men were killed or wounded in the war, including future Hawaii Senator Daniel Inouye, who was nearly killed in two separate incidents—once, when a bullet to his chest was stopped only by two silver dollars, and again when he nearly bled out in battle refusing to leave his men behind.

CAPTURING HEARTS AND MINDS

Back on the home front, the 442nd’s reputation helped to build bridges between Americans of Japanese ancestry and their fellow citizens. Army officials authorized more widespread publicity for the 442nd—provided it wouldn’t give away key military intelligence. By then, war correspondents on the front were already eager to share stories about the Nisei troops.

Lieutenant Edward Chasse relayed the bewilderment of German troops captured by the 100th to the Associated Press. In a story published by the Oakland Tribune on February 17, 1944, Chasse said, “We got some prisoners and they didn’t know what was happening. They wondered if the Axis had turned against them.”

Writing for The New York Times and San Francisco Chronicle, C.L. Sulzberger described an interaction between a captured German officer and an American interpreter after the prisoner saw members of the Nisei regiment. “Said the German to an interpreter, ‘But they look Japanese; it can’t be.’ Said the interpreter, ‘Sure, didn’t you know they were on our side? Or do you believe this stuff Goebbels puts out?’”

Members of the 442nd who sacrificed their lives on the front became some of the human faces of the war—such as Pfc. Sadao Munemori, who was posthumously awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor.

The Glendale, California, native was killed on April 5, 1945 when he and his fellow soldiers were pinned down by enemy fire. He attacked enemy gun nests alone so his comrades could escape; he nearly made it out himself, but threw himself onto a grenade just feet from safety to save his fellow soldiers.

But while the Nisei soldiers of the 442nd came home to praise and gratitude from some Americans, others were unwilling to look beyond their heritage.

As interned Japanese-Americans and Nisei veterans were returning to their West Coast homes in the spring of 1945, the War Department began receiving reports of what it deemed terrorist attacks against them.

“In the most recent instances reported to Washington, cars have driven by Nisei homes at a high rate of speed and the occupants have fired into the house,” one newspaper reported. “In one case, the homeowner was a returned veteran. With him was a Nisei friend in uniform on furlough.” Fortunately, they were not injured.

Some attacks were more subtle. A Veterans of Foreign Wars post in Spokane, Washington, drew attention after it denied membership to Private Richard Naito. His former commanding officer, Virgil Miller, sent an angry complaint to the post, arguing that "When supposedly reputable organizations such as yours violate the principles and ideals for which we fight, these young Japanese Americans are not the only ones to wonder about our war aims." Corporal George Gelberg, representing a group of veterans stationed at nearby Geiger Field, wrote a letter to the editor of the Spokesman-Review, saying, “The men wished it to be understood that an attack on any minority group in our country strengthens the hands of the Fascist enemies who have been beaten on the military field.” Other Nisei veterans organized a campaign to apply to the post, and when news of the rejection reached the national VFW organization, they issued an apology and stated that Japanese-American veterans were welcome to join.

President Barack Obama and guests after signing a bill to grant the Congressional Gold Medal to the 442nd Regiment and 100th Battalion
President Barack Obama and guests after signing a bill to grant the Congressional Gold Medal to the 442nd Regiment and 100th Battalion.
White House, Wikimedia Commons // Public Domain

In 2011, nearly 70 years after Japanese-American citizens were interned and briefly banned from military service, the 442nd was honored for its members’ sacrifices. Congress awarded the veterans of the 442nd, the 100th Infantry Battalion, and the Military Intelligence Service, which performed intelligence work against the Japanese military, with Congressional Gold Medals—the highest civilian award Congress can bestow.

During the ceremony when the awards were delivered, Representative Adam Schiff of California, who co-sponsored the bill honoring the veterans, said: "These American heroes did defend our freedoms and our ideals ... even when these ideals were denied them at home."

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