James Wren, a 92-year-old veteran, visited the USS Kidd as part of a national reunion of the crew of the World War II vessel the USS Fremont. Photos by Chelsea Caldwell
James Wren’s hearing is mostly gone, but his eyes are as sharp and steady as they were more than 70 years ago when they cut through the darkness and two miles of beach on Saipan to spot Japanese soldiers perched high on the ridge.
In a secluded corner of the first floor of Baton Rouge’s Marriott, the 92-year-old leans on the armrest of a couch, the five stars on his cap proudly displayed, and tells his story.
To sensationalize would be a disservice to a man who chose to relive his memories only in private, like a man of faith taking a moment for quiet prayer and reflection. The facts are these: He served on two ships, the USS Dorothea L. Dix and the USS Fremont. He stormed the beaches in Gela, Italy, and again on the islands of Peleliu, Saipan, Leyte and Iwo Jima. He watched the flags go up on Iwo Jima. He was stranded for 10 days in Saipan. He pulled a soldier’s body from bloody waters with his own hands and still regrets not checking the man’s dog tags for a name to reach out to the family.
He remembers one incident clearly, when he was in the first wave on the beaches of Sicily. Though the battle isn’t as famed as Normandy, Wren and his comrades were dive-bombed all day by the “same damn Germans” as the soldiers of Normandy were.
“The Germans had [an armored infantry support gun] they called a ‘Stupa,’ and it screams as it comes down. You’ve probably heard it in the movies. It hollers when it comes down like a siren, and that makes people run,” Wren says. “It also tells on them. I heard them screaming, and I looked and whirled the boat to the left, hard. The bomb came down and hit close enough to splatter water in the boat. Well, it didn’t go off. As I was fixing to get up, it was flipping up in the air like a damned old watermelon, coming back down the second time. And it didn’t go off the second time. Bless their heart, it’s probably still in the damn sand now. But all I’m saying is, that’s when I decided that I had an angel with me.”
Though Wren was with the USS Dorothea L. Dix in the European wing of the war, he did most of his fighting with the USS Fremont in the Pacific. It’s the Fremont that has brought Wren and his wife, Shirley, whom he married shortly after the war, to Baton Rouge today from their home near Nashville.
Each year a different veteran of the Fremont organizes a reunion, each time in a different part of the country. They’ve visited landmarks across the U.S., from Niagara Falls to the USS Kidd, catching up and reminiscing on their service together.
But as time passes, the Fremont crew is dwindling.
The crew and family of the USS Fremont, led by veteran Tony Tedesco (middle left), gather on the deck of the Kidd for a memorial ceremony for brothers in arms who have died since their last reunion.
Resting on the table they’ve gathered around in a Marriott conference room is a thick binder filled with photographs and newspaper clippings—many of them obituaries—tucked respectfully into plastic sleeves for posterity. Fremont veteran and reunion organizer Tony Tedesco lays a hand on the sacred book, and his voice breaks as he explains that the men will visit the USS Kidd later in the weekend for a memorial service honoring the brothers they’ve lost since the last reunion.
It’s an appropriate place for a memorial, as the USS Kidd herself bears her name in memory of Rear Admiral Isaac C. Kidd, the highest ranking officer to lose his life in the infamous attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941.
In 1943, the USS Kidd launched from a shipyard in New Jersey, and it sailed in World War II and the Korean War until being decommissioned in 1964.
Now the Kidd sits in the Mississippi River, a commanding presence bearing its original appearance from WWII—the only surviving WWII destroyer not to be modernized over time. Maybe it’s this classic look that’s so comforting to veterans like the Fremont crew, a reminder that after all this time, some things still haven’t changed. Since its docking in 1982, the ship has served as a WWII veteran memorial as well as a place of remembrance for military and civilians alike.
USS Kidd executive director and veteran Alex Juan understands the personal significance of the vessel for servicemen and women. Like Wren, she enlisted at age 18 and never looked back. Juan got out 17 years later in 2013 and took over operations at the Kidd, a job she’s found as fulfilling as much of her service.
“The Kidd means so many things, and that’s why it’s hard to grasp one word to describe it. It’s become this beacon for vets,” Juan says. “It’s a place of remembrance, and it’s a place of honor, and it’s also a place to bring military families together and to educate the public. It’s kind of a beacon of hope for all of downtown.”
For vets like Wren, the memories can be difficult to revisit. Since the war, Wren has built a family and an accounting firm with a 750-person payroll, but he still remembers red-stained water and the feel of gun oil between his fingers.
“Don’t get me wrong. Most of the time, it doesn’t bother me. You keep it down here,” Wren says, pushing downward toward the bottom of his chest with one hand. “When someone asks me to talk about it, you have to bring all that back up. But it’s important to remember.”
Each Veteran’s Day and Memorial Day, Juan makes a point to invite Gold Star families—families who have lost a loved one in the line of duty—to share their stories. While these ceremonies are always poignant, they’re tempered by the sound of visiting children running down the halls of the ship, learning about its history.
On the last day of their reunion, Wren, Tedesco and the rest of the remaining Fremont crew board the USS Kidd. Together they pay tribute to their fallen brothers, but even as the solemn notes of “Taps” echo over the Mississippi River, there’s a reverent sense of hope in the men and women who are still here to honor them.
Reunions like the Fremont’s at the USS Kidd provide a place for the women and men who have carried their experience in the firefight home with them to pay tribute, but also to heal. To look forward, like Wren did after the war, and like many veterans do every day.
“Every day,” Wren says, “I wake up so happy to be alive.”
