VERO BEACH, Fla. – Six decades after World War II, PT-305 doesn't look so good now, as the World War II Museum prepares to totally restore the motor torpedo boat that was built by Higgins Industries in New Orleans in 1943.
But C. Ross Littig remembers a sleek, fast, dangerous sea shark that was heavily armed during World War II with torpedoes and depth charges.
"We had two .50 caliber guns up in back of the bridge, we had a 37 millimeter on the bow, we had a 40 millimeter on the stern, and then we had .30 calibers scattered around,” said Littig, PT-305’s retired executive officer.
During the war, Littig was a 23-year-old Navy Lieutenant Junior Grade who volunteered for dangerous PT boat duty, serving in Hawaii before being transferred to the Mediterranean as executive officer, the second in command aboard PT-305. PT boats could reach speeds of 50 miles per hour.
"It was just like a pleasure cruise in good weather. In bad weather, depending on which course you were on, you'd get water over the bow, and water over the bow where you were up there next to the wheel, you'd get soaked all the time,” he said.
They patrolled, usually at night along the French and Italian coasts, seeking enemy shipping, and let Resistance fighters ashore know that the Allies were fighting to liberate their countries.
"Occasionally we would fire torpedoes at the seawall, just to let the partisans, or the Resistance people know we were there, that they had help,” he said.
Littig saved the PT-305's log book, the cover of which is still marked 'secret,' which reminds crew members to have life-jackets, flak-jackets and helmets ready for each mission. It recorded the attack on an enemy ship that began just after midnight.
PTs 305 and 307 were patrolling together, and chased down what turned out to be a Mas Boat, an Italian P-T boat, crewed by Germans. As the Mas boat began firing, PT-305 had to charge right into the stream of gunfire.
"We just followed the tracers in. There were tracers in their bullets, so we could see where they were coming from. After the tracers we saw, then they started dropping depth charges in our way to discourage us from chasing after them," Littig said.
“I was on the phone with the 40 millimeter gunner and told him ‘Hey Red, a little higher, you're going too low.’"
During an interview, Littig pulled out the pistol he carried during the war, saying he even used it in the battle.
"I said everything else aboard is firing there, I'm going to take a shot. I took one shot at the Mas boat. It's the only time it has ever been fired."
It was over in minutes, as PT-305 delivered the decisive blow.
"The lead boat went by and put some fire into them, and we came along, and really blasted with that 40 millimeter, and set the boat afire, and eventually it sunk,” he said.
But when not on patrol, there were fun times to be enjoyed, as they were stationed at the resort of Cannes on the French Riviera. Many of his pictures show Ross and his friends relaxing in a spectacular setting.
"It was where Aly Khan and Rita Hayworth were married, years later. That was our officers' club. It belonged to a French actress, and it was turned over to the Navy."
And the night the war ended, there was joy.
"They started conga lines, and they just danced through the streets, singing ‘Fini La Guerre, Fini La Guerre.’"
Six decades after his service in the Mediterranean, Ross Littig now lives on the other side of the Atlantic, in Vero Beach, Florida. Now he is a typical neighbor, but then he played a role in extraordinary times when America needed his help to fight for freedom.
When asked what he thinks of the National World War II Museum's project to restore the PT-305, Littig responded, "Oh, I think that's great, but it's going to be a hell of a job."
He was amazed at how badly the once proud craft had deteriorated.
"Oh, I said what happened to this beautiful boat, and it was beautiful."
Littig still lives next to the Atlantic. The waters are calm now, but for a retired warrior, they still carry deep memories.
"The whole country was behind this thing in ‘41, ‘42 to ‘45. So I'd say it was a feeling of pride when I look back," Littig said.
