Over the weekend we observed Veterans’ Day here in the States and took time to remember the service and sacrifice of all those who have worn the uniform. Our own Dave Garroway was no exception, so let’s take a few moments to honor his service.
When the United States entered World War II, Garroway expected he’d get a summons to service. A few months after Pearl Harbor, that arrived. He was ordered to Cambridge, Massachusetts for Navy officer training, which he completed in early July. When that was done, he waited around for orders to a unit. A month later, he was ordered to Alameda, California, where he would join the crew of a ship.
Garroway couldn’t wait to go to war. The name of the ship he was assigned to – USS Devastator – no doubt helped fuel the images in his head of combat glory, the fantasies he harbored as he traveled across the continent. But his initial hopes were dashed when he arrived at the shipyard in Alameda, only to find that his ship – a minesweeper – was only two weeks into being constructed. With the war going on without him, Garroway grew bored waiting around with little to do. Before long, he requested to be put to work helping build the ship, buying a set of tools and safety gear and even joining the shipbuilders’ union.
After the ship was launched, it was towed upriver and moored to a pier while the last tasks were completed. Garroway reported aboard one day. Within a few minutes, he didn’t feel so well. Moments later, he was heaving over the side of the ship. Even though the ship was securely moored, just the tiniest sensation of being afloat was enough to make him violently seasick. Things only got worse when Devastator went out to sea for the first time. As his crewmates gazed up at the Golden Gate Bridge looming over them, Garroway was again in agony. Every day at sea was misery, with the young communications officer unable to do his job. The captain tried to encourage him. “It’s all in your head,” the skipper said, and Garroway hoped he’d find his sea legs in time.
The day finally came when Devastator would leave California bound for Pearl Harbor. Any hopes Garroway had of conquering his seasickness were soon dashed. Soon he was unable to stand a watch, vomiting so much and so hard that he spat up blood from torn stomach tissue, so weak he could hardly stand. He was soon after excused from further watches so he could stay in his bunk, where he slept as much as he could and counted the hours until Pearl Harbor was in sight.
At Pearl Harbor, Garroway was taken off the ship and hospitalized, and after six weeks of recovery was reassigned to the officers’ pool. It happened that the officer in charge of the pool was someone he had befriended at Cambridge. From a list of available jobs Garroway selected a post that put him in charge of a yeoman and stenography school. He didn’t know what that meant, exactly, but it would keep him from having to go to sea.
As it happened, the new assignment was an easy one for him, and left him plenty of time for other things. When the night life bored him, he sought other challenges. On a hunch, he stopped by radio station KGO, NBC’s Honolulu affiliate, and asked if they needed any announcing help. The station’s program manager, desperate for good personnel, hired him on the spot. It was during that time that Garroway, given a 9 p.m. slot and told to fill it the best way he knew how, began to build his own unique style, talking to “one and a half people” between records, taking listeners on imaginary strolls through towns back on the mainland. Homesick personnel ate this up and soon Garroway had a following.
When the war ended in 1945, Garroway returned home, his life changed in ways large and small and unexpected. And while not everything he returned to was happy, the war had, in its way, been an influence on the stardom he was about to build. And had it not been for a little minesweeper and a case of acute seasickness, the world might never have known the smooth, eccentric charm that was Dave Garroway’s trademark.