It's sort of odd--it's a story I've heard all my life, and since Gwynne is gone maybe myself or my brother can only tell it from his perspective (per our memories).
I guess I should introduce myself first. Currently, I work for the Department of State (US). I served in the Army. Unlike my father (who flew planes), I jumped out of them.
My father and Wendell Pruitt were returning from an escort when they came out of a fog bank and the destroyer was in front of them. They were in deep--they couldn't go over the boat and expose their bellies. They couldn't bank around the boat and expose their bellies. They were also low on fuel, which is why they were flying low. Their best chance was to open up and try to cause confusion on deck and then run like hell. They opened up, and Dad's gun camera (I've seen the film) shows his tracers hitting the water, walking up the side of the boat, and then going in an open hatch--which he thought was strange since boats under attack were supposed to secure all openings. The rounds went in the hatch, and the ship blew up. He always said his first thought was that he had to get around/over the explosion.
It is a fair guess to say that he hit the magazine--unless there was something else more unstable on the vessel.
An odd aftermath--after his military service, my father was also one of the first African-American officers in the Oakland Police Department (1947-1970), during which time he worked his way through three degrees in social criminology. His first job after retiring from OPD was designing a security program/patrol/operation for the projects in downtown St. Louis, Missouri--one of which was named Pruitt/Igoe. As many know, there was an extended debate about whether it was Wendell or Gwynne who got the destroyer, which was only settled after viewing the film from the gun cameras.
My father was able to carve out three separate existences in his life--a pilot in service to his country, a police officer who served the community that he loved, and a college professor who was one of the best social criminologists of his time. He was a great athlete--loved baseball, and could do everything but hit (Batted left, threw left). He was a revered human being. He would not let enlisted men salute him in garrison overseas--he never thought himself that different. In Oakland, he was there during the Black Panther years--but the Panthers had declared him a "no touch". Many of them had participated in the Police Athletic League in Oakland and had been coached by him--they knew him to be a straight-up good guy. In his years teaching at Howard University, he helped many of his students get into the Justice Department.
He was a good man, a great father...and the best friend I could ever have.
The Destroyer was a part of him--just didn't define him.
Scot Peirson
23 July 2007