My sister delivered a box to me this evening. Inside was something that I thought I disappeared forever--a practice bomb from a WWII bombing range in the Puget Sound.
I recovered the artifact almost 20 years ago (man, I'm getting old) during my first "real" diving trip in the San Juan Islands up in the Sound. My buddy, Scott Short, my instructor, John Hasbrook, and his friend Lars Olsen drove a Zodiac out to this upcropping of rocks somewhere near Orca Island (we called it "White Rocks") that was populated by seals (or maybe they were perch, I have such a hard time determining what is a perch and what is a seal
) and seagulls. We parked the Zodiac in a small channel between the rocks, and dropped into the water. The water was crystal clear, and I can still remember how the light played across the bottom as we descended. We poked around under the kelp and found some rusty looking rocks. A few gentle blows from an abalone iron (ok, so we were poaching abalone, too--different dive) dislodged the corrosion and revealed the iron surface of a practice bomb.
The bombs were about ten inches long, fat at one end, and tapering to the fin end. The head had a round hole in it about the size of a shotgun shell. I was told that a small smoke charge with a concussion cap was placed inside the hole so that the bomb would leave a puff of smoke when it struck the target (or the ground). The bombs we recovered were near misses, as the rocks had apparently been used for target practice. We also found a slug from, we believed, a .50 caliber wing gun.
The other piece of history in the box brought a tear to my eye. It was my grandfather's aviator survival vest he wore on missions during WWII. He flew bombers and transports in the Pacific Theater. Unfortunately, I never met him, for he died as a result of a plane crash (crash didn't kill him, pneumonia arising from the extensive burns he suffered did).
I recovered the artifact almost 20 years ago (man, I'm getting old) during my first "real" diving trip in the San Juan Islands up in the Sound. My buddy, Scott Short, my instructor, John Hasbrook, and his friend Lars Olsen drove a Zodiac out to this upcropping of rocks somewhere near Orca Island (we called it "White Rocks") that was populated by seals (or maybe they were perch, I have such a hard time determining what is a perch and what is a seal
) and seagulls. We parked the Zodiac in a small channel between the rocks, and dropped into the water. The water was crystal clear, and I can still remember how the light played across the bottom as we descended. We poked around under the kelp and found some rusty looking rocks. A few gentle blows from an abalone iron (ok, so we were poaching abalone, too--different dive) dislodged the corrosion and revealed the iron surface of a practice bomb.The bombs were about ten inches long, fat at one end, and tapering to the fin end. The head had a round hole in it about the size of a shotgun shell. I was told that a small smoke charge with a concussion cap was placed inside the hole so that the bomb would leave a puff of smoke when it struck the target (or the ground). The bombs we recovered were near misses, as the rocks had apparently been used for target practice. We also found a slug from, we believed, a .50 caliber wing gun.
The other piece of history in the box brought a tear to my eye. It was my grandfather's aviator survival vest he wore on missions during WWII. He flew bombers and transports in the Pacific Theater. Unfortunately, I never met him, for he died as a result of a plane crash (crash didn't kill him, pneumonia arising from the extensive burns he suffered did).
