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Note: Harry John Jr. began his career as a vari-type operator for Oxhead Corporation. Later he was variously a warehouseman, milkman, vari-typist for New York Shipbuilding, and a junior draftsman.
In 1943 he was inducted into the military and assigned to the Air Corps where he became an instrument draftsman. In 1945 he was placed on inactive duty and assumed civilian status. The next year he was temporarily assigned to NASA's Ames Aero Lab. This led to a permanent assignment at Ames spanning a period of 26 years during which time he went form Section Head of Illustratrion to Branch Chief of Graphics and Exhibits, winning the NASA Exceptional Service Medal in 1971.
Harry was manager of the NASA exhibit at the Seattle World's Fair in 1962. Here he met President Richard Nixon. He also was the designer of San Francisco's KKGO's Science in Action program for Harlod Vrey's "The Universe," the University of California's "Engineering," and NASA's " Supersonics."
Harry retired from government service in 1973 to the Bay Area in California where he now resides. Career highlights include: a close association with the inventor of the swept-wing concept for sonic and supersonic aircraft, R.T. Jones; a personal friend and co-worker, Harvey Allen, inventor of the blunt-body concept for re-entry as well as the laminalr-flow airfoil which allowed the P-51 fighter to reach Berlin to protect American Bombers.
Navy Kids cherish memories of "Life at Gitmo"
By Harry J. DeVoto, Jr
The white uniform marked the grownup as a Chief Boatswains Mate of the US Navy. He was home for lunch with time enough to follow his two exuberant young sons crunching noisily along a gravel path leading to the edge of a sheer bluff. The two boy's, only seventeen months separating their six and seventh birthdays, were bounding ahead in the joy of having their Dad in tow. They were eager to share a secret they were saving for just such a day. At the base of the bluff, the immensity of Guantanamo Bay lapped a narrow strip of white sand. The threesome arrived quickly at the head of a makeshift stairway that led down to a pier built of salvaged crate material. It right-angled outward from the base of the bluff over a clear-as-glass sixty foot expanse of the shallows. The boys nimbly scrambled down a score of roughly crafted steps, ignoring the hand rail their Dad used to ease his way to the boarded deck of the pier. The boys halted there admonishing their father to step quietly and to follow as they edged their way toward the pier's broadened end. A flicker of boyhood excitement wakened in the father's chest as he joined in the game. The younger lad reached the very end of the pier and signaled the two to halt where they stood. Then, gesturing with hand and body to indicate that Dad must watch the water immediately around the pier's end. Their secret was about to be revealed as the two boys excitedly began to jump about on the timbered deck. Their father's expectant gaze quickly swung to one of immediate shock. Just below the gentle surface of the crystal water, a silvery 3-ft torpedo-like shape streaked out free of the pier's shadow; so quickly that the officer could only gasp as the figure fled to deep water.
"My god! That was a barracuda!", the man shouted looking toward the trail of the disappearing fish. "Is that what you wanted to show me?", he queried as he turned to look at the boys almost fearing that they might know what that fleeting shape might be. Now, the boy's excitement quickly dimmed as they sensed deep concern in their Dad's question. Their answers came in a hurried mixture of admissions and newer questions that disclosed they did not know more than that it was a big fish that seemed to them to live beneath the cover provided by their pier. The circumstances on the pier now immediately became one of an admonishing father and very attentive sons. His would bounce on the end to launch a cannonball entry into the water and then swim shouting and laughing to climb a nearby ladder and run back to the diving board and repeat the sport.
The boys believed that the big fish had a nest beneath the pier because when they sneaked out to where she lay near the bottom, she was quiet and nearly motionless. They marveled at her silver body, the long jutting lower jaw and the luminous eyes. There was no fear in their hearts since she seemed so gentle and so fair as to allow them their sport on a daily basis. Once the fish had departed they no longer paid any notice to where she might be. So now there would be no swimming but there were other things to do around the large yard that surrounded their quarters. Today, they would seek some solace by going to the kitchen where they knew the Jamaican cook would prepare a treat; sugar spread on a thickly buttered slice of white bread.
The house they called home was simple tropic bungalow circled with a wide screened porch totally open to view the whole of the great bay. It's location on the Corinaso Point bluff commanded an arc from Fisherman's Point across the water to the salt flats of Hicacal Beach and east to Deer Point. The eastern side of the structure housed a large pantry across a small open porch forming the basic kitchen area. The entire dwelling was set on short wooden piers providing a crawl space beneath the structure. These wood posts stood constant guard duty during the warm nights in Guantanmo denying entry and keeping the endless roving bands of land crabs earthbound.
The family pet, "Nina", a nondescript little animal of black and brown splotches and a pair of upright ears much too large for such a small dog, always slept on the pantry porch clear of the clatter and exasperation of too many night creatures. She had long since lost interest in chasing the madding crowd of single-clawed wanderers. This connecting porch also sheltered a couple of stalks of bananas, always one ripening and one green on standby. They were bought locally for ten cents a stalk as well as a basket of grapefruit, available from local Cuban sources always graced one corner. An untold free supply of papayas was always available for gathering just outside the house. Dad kept a goat in a small pen to the rear of the compound. I think that it supplied some milk and occasionally one was butchered to be replaced by a new "pet". Real milk was never available in Gitmo so my infant brother was raised on powdered milk, "Klim", imported from Stateside.
The interior of our quarters was a marvelous example of what could be accomplished via "midnight requisitions."
Their construction consisted of yards of canvas stretched across upright wood grids outlining and defining the several rooms. The makeshift walls stiffened by many coats of glossy battleship grey.
The residence occupied the high ground between the Lighthouse Pier and the "Receiving Ship" barracks. Whether or not this site was set aside for such habitation by ranking non-coms such as Chief Boatswains Mate, Harry DeVoto is matter for some research.
The head of the family made Chief Boatswains Mate when Captain C. M. Tozer, Commandant, US Naval Station, Guantanamo, signed the Oath of Office appointing DeVoto a Chief Boatswain. It was dated 10 December 1924.
The Chief's family: his wife Lillian and three sons, Harry Jr, Daniel and infant John; the following year departed the States from NOB, Norfolk on a WWI reparations-won German transport, renamed the U.S.S. Kittery.
The Kittery was later to be the last remaining coal-burning ship in the Navy and always wore a big "E" on the forward stack since she was alone in the field for efficient handling of that fuel! This navy transport navigated Gitmo's supply route on a routine basis, leaving NOB and going directly to Guantanamo to off-load dependants, new personnel and supplies. Then it was on to Cape Haitian and Port o Prince. The latter ports were more like a cruise ship route on the return to NOB where, while anchored in these ports, native kids paddled out to the ship in all sorts of skiffs and home-built craft to stand off the ship and eagerly dive for coins tossed from railside.
In these ports, on the family's return to the States, the two boys tried to deceive the divers by wrapping buttons in foil salvaged from cigarette packages and tossing them overboard. It never worked and most such attempts were met with fists angrily directed at the two young culprits.
Dependant kids were allowed some recreation while at sea. A small collection of trikes, tossing rings and the like were available during the few days journey. One sport, invented by trike riders, was to take a position as far forward on the main deck, face the stern and choose a particularly discreet bow wave, and race it sternward fast enough to create the illusion that the water was standing still and only the boat moving beneath the fiercely peddled trike wheels.
The route of Kittery was purposely close to Cape Hatteras when sailing to and from NOB. The climate of the cape area never permitted easy passage. It was so, of course on the Boatswain's family return voyage to the states.
On the clearest and sunniest of days during that voyage, the Kittery in her frequent jousts with Hatteras, provided the passengers with a wild roller-coaster ride. Often lifting her bow free of an on-coming giant swell only to pound her bottom onto the next wave's trough with a clanging, shuddering thud. On that watch, not a single adult traveler showed in the dining salon. Only the children found the desire to eat even though the ship reeked of the sharply sickening smell of cabin-bound barffing.
Because Chief Boatswain's DeVoto's duty was the charge of the Receiving Barracks, he had the use of the No. 4 Launch, coxswained by a young sailor named, "Conway". No 4 Launch was the "school bus" for the two DeVoto boys. It was necessary for them to cross Corinaso Cove to somewhere near Paola Point where the lone school of the base was located in the more developed part of Gitmo's Navy complex. One room housed all of the school's few elementary grades.
The noon boat trip back in No. 4 to Corinaso Point was always the most welcome after each brief exposure to the Navy Base school system.
My family lived in Guantanamo for almost sixteen months. As a child of just seven years it was a wonderful adventure and an enduring memory.
My mother had given birth to my youngest brother in a house on 27th Street in the all-navy town of Norfolk, Va just a few months prior to our embarking on the USS Kittery. My father preceded our sea voyage on the Kittery by at least a year to begin his tour of duty. During that period of separation he constructed the stairway and the fishing pier that became our principal recreation. The materials were largely obtained by whatever means a resourceful boatswains mate might scrounge to suit his purpose.
Among the many varied pursuits that we enjoyed during that priceless period was the lobster catch. The Langusta were plentiful in the reaches of Guantanamo Bay and particularly off the end of our Dad-built pier.
Mother would prepare a big pot of boiling water with a touch of vinegar and white wine added and the "men" of the family, minus the infant son, would repair to the end of the pier armed with strips of flannel, some sardine oil, an 8-ft frog gig, ordinary fish line wound on bobbins and a few lead sinkers. Because this sport was always conducted at night, a flashlight was required for the coup de' grace in the capture of the clawless lobster.
Fixing the sinkers and a flannel strip soaked in sardine oil to the end of the line, it would be tossed overboard and allowed to settle to the bottom. Resting on the sandy bottom the sardine oil was sure to lure a victim almost immediately.
The expectant line tender would gently tug on the line, moving it as little as possible and if the drag appeared to be heavier then it was sure to have a spiny lobster in tow.
The line tender signaled the flashlight crewman to ready the flashlight. Retrieving the line, gentler still until it was almost perpendicular to the bottom, the flashlight was turned on and aimed down the line to reveal the creature nibbling on the flannel.
Without hesitation, my Dad would jab the gig into the lobsters fore-end and matter-of-factly bring the thing to hand to be disengaged. One of us would hurry it up the stairway to Mother and the waiting pot.
In that manner, four or five lobsters would later grace a table covered with paper and we would feast on lobster that was the equal of any good-sized Maine product.
Dad had acquired a sailboat and it was moored between our pier and the Lighthouse Dock. It was a "Half-Rater" type that was modeled after the big "J" boats that raced in the America's Cup at the time. A hatch forward of the cockpit housed the jib sheets and it was first choice always scrambled for between the two brothers when sailing with their father. I think that Dad was a member of the local sailing club that often competed with Fleet boats when in the harbor. Being anchored just off our pier, the slap/slap beat that was generated by the gentle chop of Guantanamo Bay against the long undercut of the sloping bow was always a part of the nightly lullaby that welcomed play-wearied sleep time.
An incident involving a Leoning bi-plane amphibian, apparently adrift, is worth mentioning. During our regular aquatic play, we noticed that this interesting hybrid of an airplane was drifting, with cockpits clearly unmanned, toward our pier. With eager imaginations soaring we began to believe that it would soon become "our" airplane by right of salvage. What greater gift could come to young adventurous boys than a real live airplane that was by now nearly in reach. Our shouts of encouragement for the drifting airplane to come closer must have aroused a sleeping crew chief who now stood up in the cockpit. Seeing that he would soon be flanked by the Lighthouse Pier, our Half-rater and the Dad-built pier he went over the cockpit combing with crank in hand to a spot aft of the engine and began cranking. Then as the engine coughed to life, he waved a farewell and taxied off across the bay. For a week thereafter my brother and I replayed that scene hundreds of times constantly looking for a happier ending making the airplane our very own. It was possibly the only disappointing event of our life in Gitmo.
The No 4 launch, belonging to the Receiving Ship with Conway at the helm, on an almost weekly basis would ferry the family to Caimanera. It was a great time to troll our crude homemade boats off the side of the launch as we journeyed to the Cuban village. Most often we went to Caimanera on the nights that the Navy Band played in the town square. The people would promenade around the square as the band played. The young girls would walk in groups in one direction while the young men would stand and watch them go by or more often, always walk in the opposite direction. After we had returned to Norfolk my Mother purchased a Victrolla. Whenever this early record music was played, my youngest brother no longer an infant but as a toddler, would promenade around the living room, Caimanera style, responsive to the music yet always in the boy direction.
On one occasion, we took the rickety train out of Boqueron to visit a sugar cane processing plant. As many of the Cuban kids in that area did, we found short lengths of the tough cane to chew while following the guide through the mill. At another time, my Dad took us, by the same clattering little narrow gauge train to a distillery where Barcardi Rum was produced. The syrupy odor of sugar cane under processing quickly sickened me. I could not understand how anyone could drink that stuff.
Among the best of the off-base trips that Dad arranged was the short voyage to Santiago de Cuba. The trip began at one of the Navy docks in Gitmo where a Navy mine sweeper with steam up awaited our boarding. The most remembered part was the overnights in the hotel in town. Airy light curtains decorated the doorway leading to a lacy New Orleans type iron-railed balcony. The curtains seemed always in motion responding to the slow rotations of a ceiling fan that moved air around the room. Somehow the shapes they formed were not the imagined monsters small boys tend to see in darkened bedrooms, rather it was one of pleasant vistas of the town square seen hazily through the curtains. A second cruise on the mine sweeper took the family to Port o' Prince where Blackbeards Castle was explored. This experience created a lasting interest in Pirates with Blackbeard being my all-time favorite scoundrel.
At the time, we were not aware that during our period of stay in
25/'26, Cuba sustained the worst drought in it's history. My memory is that it just never rained in Cuba and for young boys blessed with endless sunshine, homemade pongee shorts, a "diving board", clear sea water, great fishing, a near daily ride in No. 4 and a school that only operated two to three hours daily; it was pure heaven. Besides we had practically unlimited access to all parts of the outlying areas of the Base. My Dad's duty as Receiving Ship boss provided us access to the use of the Receiving Ship dump truck for these excursions. It would be available when off-duty, clean as only the Navy can clean things and fitted with some wooden benches in the cargo space, the open cab with Dad at the wheel would carry us to the Marquez Ranch or to Windward Point or just a Sunday ride. I believe that Dad ate more radishes straight out of the ground at the Ranch while shopping than mother took home. Any Windward Point trip was special when the Fleet was in. It usually featured target practice for the big guns of the battleships. The heavy detonations emanating from the big ships long after the smoke discharge and the sky-ripping sound of heavy shells enroute to target-toting barges was a spine tingling introduction to these higher level mechanics of sight and sound for two young boys.
When the Atlantic and Pacific fleets visited, the huge harbor teemed with activity. Launches scurried about, metal topped gigs with all the finery of canvas scrimshaw, hauled the brass to and fro and all this hustle was a treat at night with signal lights flashing capping the already enlivened atmosphere. At Fleet time the greyhound-like four-stack destroyers were more numerous then during routine months at Gitmo. What today would be ancient sea-going warships, the fleets at anchor boasted some with protruding underwater ram-like prows or two stack cruisers with gun ports at main deck level while other wire-cage mast battle wagons turned lazily on their buoy lines. The ship parades in and out of the harbor were only an eye stopping sight slightly above that of our nation's fleets at anchor. Often, one of Dad's former shipmates would invite us to take dinner aboard a visiting battleship or cruiser. I always marveled at the heft of the silverware and loved the different smells encountered in making our way onboard thence into the various spaces of the big ships. The nature of the bond my father formed with his shipmates in his years of service that I saw so often in growing up I finally perceive today in it's fullest expression: the enormous professional and human regard his peers had for Dad.
I thank my Father for the gift of Gitmo. I even thank him for the time he had my brother and I put in the "Brig". Whatever infraction of Navy brat rules that we committed I no longer recall. However, with seemingly serious intent he had a Marine Sergeant officially lock us up in a Brig cell in the basement of the Receiving Ship. I'm certain the detention was not longer than ten or fifteen minutes because at the outset the reality was all too cutting however we got the message clearly. Our behavior was exemplary after that scare. To have those priceless months on the Navy Base in Guantanomo as a carefree youngster was a rare privilege and I am forever grateful to a Navy Dad who worked hard to have his family share that duty with him.
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The sun rose on the life of Harry John DeVoto, born April 11, 1918 in S. Norfolk, VA. The Sun set on his life January 2, 2003 in San Ramon, Calif., relinquishing his life to lung cancer. (His physical body succumbed to this disease, but not his spirit.)
He was 84 Years old and led a full and vibrant life. He excelled in many sports; Basketball, Tennis, Golf, Sailing, Scuba Diving, Jogging, Cycling and Skiing. He had a zest for life and was interested in a great many things, always active in a variety of projects. Harry was a man held in high esteem by his family and peers alike. He was admired and appreciated and will be so greatly missed by all those who shared his life and knew him.
Harry was recruited to work for NACA at Langley Field, VA., while in the Army Air Force and was transferred to NACA-Ames Aeronautical Laboratory at Moffett Field, CA which later became NASA-Ames Research Center. He retired in 1972. His later years were spent joyfully, filled with traveling, sometimes abroad, golfing and, with his wife, enjoyed their beloved train collection.
He is survived and will be sorely missed by his loving wife, Shirley DeVoto, of 410 Canyon Woods Pl., # E., San Ramon, Calif. 94583. He is also leaving his two children; his son, Daniel Harry DeVoto, and wife Molly DeVoto of Pleasanton, Calif. and his daughter, Donna May DeVoto of Tracy, Calif. One of his two brothers, Daniel S. DeVoto of Pittman, New Jersey predeceased him, May 19, 2002 at the age of 83 years. His younger brother, John Edwin DeVoto, is a resident of Wilmington, DE. He is survived by 4 Grandchildren; Alissa DeVoto, Pleasanton, CA., John Lombard, Ft. Benning, GA., Dianne Lombard, Denver, CO., Michelle Deangelo, Denton, Texas; Six Great-Grandchildren; Terry, Kirstin & Josh Deangelo, and Ashley, Kayla and Tristin Lombard. His body is to be cremated by the Neptune Society. There will be an Open House to Celebrate his life held at the home of his son at 2541 Via Espada Pleasanton, Ca., January 11, 2003. All who knew Harry will smile in remembrance of him as they hear the echo of him saying his familiar "Over and Out". Emailed by Shirly DeVoto (2nd Wife) on 1-3-02 to Michelle DeAngelo,et al.
From a letter in the possession of Michelle DeAngelo:
United STates of the Department of the Interior In reply refer to:
Bureau of Indian Affairs Probate 350
Great Lakes Agency
Ashland, Wisconsin - 54806
Was a volunteer fireman at one time according to his daughter, Donna. This was stated in a statement she wrote concerning the fire that destroyed her apartment in Union City, CA, 6-30-88 MLD 6-5-14
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