JAMES MARVIN MITCHELL

by Norval P. Caples

I never once thought J. Marvin Mitchell was destined to become a preacher. The indicators were in place from the very first--thoughtful, well mannered, and possessed of a good voice, Marvin was a natural. He was also married and a father, not matching my image of a young seminarian preparing to enter the ministry.
                        Marvin fit right in as a member of our watch group, spending at least 8 hours daily with us for many months, on the alert and ready for hostile action within seconds. Without being given to loud speech or forceful mannerisms, Marvin was able to draw others toward him, and he still does.
                        Over the months, during long tedious hours on watch, Marvin and I learned much about each other's background, and one day he showed me a picture of his wife, Rosemary. Practically all sailors showed their wives' or sweethearts' pictures, but his billfold sized photo took me by surprise. Here was Marvin in dungarees and a wrinkled chambray work shirt showing me a picture of a stunning lady wearing a stylish knee length skirt, matching jacket, and a long sleeved white blouse, with a 1940s hairdo, looking like a movie magazine starlet. Sitting up now and taking more notice of Marvin, his credibility increased from then on.
                        There were seven sailors in our watch group manning the two 20-millimeter guns, three men for each gun as well as a communications man wearing a phone headset and relaying orders to us directly from the captain's "talker" on the bridge. Things could become confused and chaotic very quickly, and then, cool, precise orders weren't always forthcoming. At such times I remember Mitchell best. Amid the din, smoke, and confusion of critical situations, Mitchell would be wherever he was most needed in servicing our anti­aircraft battery.
                        The two guns in our battery could each fire 60 times in 8 seconds, and if planes were coming straight in, holding the trigger back and the gun barrel steady, keeping those tracer lines arching toward the target, was the only way to play it. Mitchell moved quickly and with great efficiency. I can still see the look of grim determination on his face as he went about his business.
                        The sea was glassy smooth one twilight night, and we were close inshore at Okinawa, surrounded by hundreds of warships and armed landing craft, all our own, with but a few hundred yards spacing between each vessel. Suddenly our watch group became aware of blue and yellow lights dancing over the sea's surface and veering off in crazy directions--some bounced true and skipped over the water in a straight line, headed directly at us.
                        Suddenly we were hit by a 40-millimeter shell which exploded against the metal shield around one of our own 40-millimeter gun mounts, not more than 16 feet away from us and setting off more explosions from ammunition that had been stored there at the ready. The telephone talker in charge of our group was hit by flying shell fragments, and suddenly chaos reigned. But not for long. A medic was there instantly to treat our wounded men, and damage control specialists rapidly put out the fire and the affected area was quickly restored to battle ready condition. Here again, Mitchell was in the thick of things, only inches away from being wounded by the same exploding shell fragments that had wounded out gun captain, Mitchell remained cool, took over the phone headset, and we were back in business.
                        One of our own L.C.I. type (landing craft infantry) ships had somehow mistaken the Wiley for an enemy vessel and had opened up on us. Fortunately the shelling ceased before more serious injuries occurred, and structural damage to our ship was but slight.
                        At war's end, the Wiley crew began to split up and for 45 years rived amid fading memories of youth and adventure aboard the stalwart warship until Bill Zinzow placed a small classified notice in the American Legion magazine announcing plans for an upcoming Henry A. Wiley ship's reunion.
                        Within days, things started to happen. Long separated comrades in arms discovered an unseen bond held them together still, and all inequalities of rank and subsequent station in life could be set aside while we reached again, in the twilight of our lives, for that something truly magical -- the exultation felt upon realizing, "Hey, these are my guys. I am one of them." 

N.P.C.'9S