When we returned to Pearl Harbor a short time later, our operating schedule took on a predictable pattern. We would get under way on Monday morning, proceed to a designated area, conduct assigned operations until Friday evening, and return to Pearl Harbor on Saturday morning. Sometimes we went in company with our division mates the Lang, the Wilson, and the Stack. We conducted individual ship exercises (ISE) for a couple of days—air and surface gunnery shoots, ship-handling tests, man overboard drills, and damage control exercises. After a full program of ISE, we spent the next several days operating with the division as a tactical unit. Steaming in column three hundred yards apart (often at night at speeds of 20 knots or more, with the ships darkened), we learned how to judge the distance to the ship ahead by the size of the image in the field of our binoculars. It was more of an art than a science, and we took pride in our ability to maintain station accurately. It called for heads-up ball, and there was certainly nothing boring about it.
This first deployment also drew the wardroom officers closer together. We got to know each other aboard ship as well as ashore, where we often had dinner together or went to a show. Only Jim Clute and I were bachelors, but because none of the wardroom wives had come to Honolulu one or more of the remaining officers would accompany us on shore leave from time to time. Usually we went ashore on Saturday afternoon, spent a couple of hours on the beach, ate dinner at the Moana or the Royal Hawaiian, gathered with friends from other ships in the lounge, and took part in bull sessions until the wee hours of the morning before returning to the ship. Sundays were perfect for quiet trips around the island, picnics, beach parties, or just for basking in the glorious sunshine for which Waikiki is so famous. Our operating schedule moved us around to other islands in the Hawaiian chain. The island of Hawaii, with its awe-inspiring volcano, was my favorite port of call. On one trip to the summit Jim Clute and I watched nervously as Watso, with the kind of nonchalance engendered by one too many martinis, walked to within inches of the crater to peer down inside. I refused to go closer than three or four feet.
Eventually, it came time for our navy yard refit. The Sterett returned to San Diego on 8 December 1940 for a brief but extensive overhaul; this gave me just enough time to return to Charleston and marry Virginia Taylor of Winston-Salem, North Carolina—the wisest move of my entire Navy career.
The ship returned to Pearl Harbor on 27 January 1941. For the next four months we concentrated on destroyer operations, focusing on antisubmarine warfare (against our own target sub) and on air-defense training (in which our target was a towed sleeve). We also engaged in torpedo firing exercises, but we rarely fired the “fish” for fear that we might lose one; they occasionally sank instead of surfacing at the end of their run. The loss of a torpedo usually resulted in a letter of reprimand for the torpedo officer and unfavorable comments on the skipper’s report of fitness. The Navy’s high command tended to blame any damage to expensive weaponry on personnel error. Consequently, the preparation and maintenance of such equipment were accorded the greatest concentration and care. Our highest priority in torpedo firing exercises was not hitting the target but rather recovering the torpedo.
Meanwhile, the complexion of our shipboard duties underwent a significant change. Our new division commander, Comdr. Don P. Moon, shifted his command pennant to the Sterett. Suddenly we were a flagship, and I became the communications officer to the division commander as well as to my ship. I soon learned that the words work and busy had an entirely new range of meanings. The commodore was a vigorous, ambitious workaholic, and it took a full head of steam to keep up with him.
One night during tactical maneuvers, with all fleet units darkened, the destroyers Aylwin and Farragut collided. It happened quite close to us, and we could see that the Aylwin was on fire in the vicinity just forward of her bridge. Captain Macondray brought the Sterett as close as possible to the cripples and sent a rescue party. When it reached the Aylwin their own damage control party already had the situation in hand. Our boatload of volunteers placed themselves under the command of the Aylwin’s first lieutenant and remained aboard for about two hours, helping to fight the fire and shoring up bulkheads that had been weakened by the collision. When they returned to the Sterett and reported that the major fire hazard they encountered was the accumulation of many coats of paint, Captain Macondray lost no time in initiating a paint-chipping program. Commodore Moon mandated the same action for the other ships in our division, and before long it was a standard procedure for the entire Pacific Fleet.
The Sterett’s officer complement increased by two in this period as Ens. T. O. McWhorter, USNA ’41, and Ens. P. G. Hayden joined our ranks. Tom McWhorter’s enthusiasm and friendly manner made him popular immediately with both the officers and the crew, and he was named our torpedo officer. Gardie Hayden, a handsome reserve officer from Appleton, Wisconsin, conveyed a sense of quiet competence; he became the assistant first lieutenant, under Jim Clute.
The desk log for the forenoon watch on 2 May 1941 contains the following entry: “0812—Lt. Comdr. A. Macondray, USN, was relieved of command of this vessel by Lt. Comdr. J. G. Coward, USN, in accordance with Bureau of Navigation dispatch 281418 of March 1941, and was detached this date.—/s/ P. G. Hayden.” All hands regretted the departure of Atherton Macondray. He was an outstanding destroyer commanding officer and had set the tone and established the standards for the Sterett’s development. We knew that we would miss his even disposition and his infallible sense of fairness. We turned to the new skipper with hope and confidence.
Jesse G. Coward was a completely different entity. My first impression was that we had exchanged the good humor of Atherton Macondray for a sour martinet. But as I was to learn a hundred times over the next thirty years, looks are often deceiving. Beneath Jess Coward’s serious mien resided a fair and compassionate personality, as well as a good sense of humor. His dedication to the naval service and his can-do attitude were contagious, and he imparted to all of us a renewed desire to go in harm’s way. He was a fighter, looking ahead to the day when he could take the Sterett into action. Every day he made it clear that we had to prepare for the battles that lay ahead. The Sterett volunteered for every task that came along, and we found ourselves sharing a new pride in the ship’s growing reputation as a star performer on the first team. The atmosphere in the wardroom was upbeat and positive. The mess deck and the CPO mess reflected the same attitude.
The presence of the division commander and his staff aboard the Sterett made a difference from the moment that Commander Moon first stepped aboard. We liked his staff, but the commodore was aloof and preoccupied. Our enlisted men seemed to like him, a fact that made me think he possessed certain qualities that for some reason he preferred to conceal from the officers. Perhaps he thought we would benefit from a good dose of hazing; but whatever his reasons most of the officers appeared to be wary and ill at ease around him, Atherton Macondray and Watso excepted. Jess Coward initially seemed uncomfortable too, as though he expected some kind of trap. I found this quite understandable: the commodore had a habit of springing surprise drills on the officer-of-the-deck, and his manner conveyed a sense of skepticism and distrust.
Commander Moon proved to be one of the most interesting people I ever met. He was unpredictable, constantly asking questions about the ship’s position, course, speed, tactical maneuvers, cruising range, fuel consumption, and seaworthiness. His questions always served a purpose, and it was essential to stay one step ahead of him. Yet at times his actions seemed somewhat strange. For example, at night it was not unusual to find him reading in bed and listening through headphones to the fleet broadcast of the FOX schedules, messages addressed to any and sometimes all naval ships and units that were transmitted on an hourly schedule and a prescribed frequency in five-letter groups of Morse code—not everyone’s idea of entertainment. Once as we approached Pearl Harbor at night he told Jim Clute, the officer-of-the-deck, to take a compass bearing on the star Polaris. That may have made sense t
o some navigational experts, but it was beyond our ken.
Don Moon was also a prolific message writer, and it was a rare day when the Sterett’s signalmen and quartermasters were not exhausted by nightfall. Their heavy work load soon started to affect their morale. After about three weeks of watching them transmit four-hundred-group dispatches by flashing light, I decided to surprise the commodore by confronting him with the total group-count of outgoing message traffic for the month. I expected that when he realized just how much visual traffic he was generating, he might ease up a bit. Accordingly, one morning when we were engaged in ISE I went down to the radio shack and enlisted the help of Chief Radioman Lillard in collecting and tabulating the total visual group-count for the past thirty days. It took about two hours to do the job, but when we finished the adding machine tape must have stretched for ten feet—and the total was astronomical, somewhere above ten thousand. Convinced that this would startle the squadron commander (it had certainly impressed me), I climbed the ladder to the bridge, where he was engrossed in watching one of our division mates through his binoculars. I approached him and stood quietly, waiting for him to acknowledge my presence. In a few minutes he put his glasses down and looked at me. “Did you have something for me?” “Yes, sir,” I said. “I thought you might be interested to know how many groups of visual traffic have been handled by the Sterett’s signal gang in the past thirty days.” By now he had noticed the adding machine tape trailing from my hand and was obviously interested. “All right, how many?” He did not bat an eye when I mentioned the total, instead asking, “How did you arrive at that figure?”
“By running a tape of the group-counts from our message files,” I replied.
“How long did that take?”
“About two hours.”
“Did you run the tape yourself?”
“Yes, sir.”
He nodded. “Go do it again.”
Well, I thought, he’s hazing me, but this might still work. I had of course only one possible response, so I mustered the cheeriest “Aye aye, sir!” that I could manage and went below to count up the message units all over again. When I finished, the second total came in six groups under the first. I trudged back up to the bridge, where “the Dipper” (as we sometimes referred to him) was now eating lunch. “Well,” he asked, “did you get the same total?” “No, sir. It’s six groups less.” He immediately shot back, “So that first total you brought me was inaccurate?” “Yes, sir.” Now he fixed his eyes on me for perhaps three or four seconds. Then the slightest suggestion of a smile came to his face. He said, “I am aware that I have been pushing the signal gang pretty hard. I wanted it to be the best in the fleet, and the best way to achieve that is to make them work at it.” That ended the episode, but later that afternoon he addressed a message to the commanding officer extolling the performance of the Sterett’s signal gang during the past month. It had been worth the effort, and Leading Signalman Jeffery and his men were visibly encouraged by Don Moon’s words of praise.
While at Pearl Harbor we suffered another major loss: Watso was promoted to lieutenant commander and promptly reassigned to a repair ship. He had been a giant in guiding the Sterett’s development as an efficient man-of-war. Like Atherton Macondray, he deserved a share of the credit for her performance in the difficult days ahead. I felt Watso’s loss very keenly and wondered how we could ever function without him—but of course we did. Lt. “Red” Everett came aboard as the new executive officer. He was a small man with a temper that seemed to match his red hair and a very “regulation” attitude. After a short acquaintanceship, he became one of us. The Sterett took all these changes in stride.
CHAPTER 2
ATLANTIC OPERATIONS
ON 14 MAY 1941 the Sterett was returning to Pearl Harbor after division tactical exercises. The commodore had had a great time putting us through our paces, and we felt pretty good about our performance. I was on the bridge and could see several heavy ships standing out the channel. We pulled off to the right and stopped, watching their progress out of the channel with some impatience. In the lead was the battleship Mississippi, and pretty soon one of her signalmen trained a light in our direction and began to flash our call, “DD 407.” Jeffery jumped to our signal light and responded. The dots and dashes now spelled out the words “follow me.” Captain Coward immediately took a course to put us behind the Mississippi, and within about fifteen minutes we found ourselves headed south, five hundred yards behind the broad stern of the battleship. I could not imagine why the Mississippi would direct the Sterett to follow her. We were accompanied by a cruiser and two other destroyers from our division, the Lang and the Wilson. As Pearl Harbor gradually receded over the northern horizon, I realized that we would not enter port that weekend.
Then the squat-sterned behemoth ahead of us flashed another message: “Come alongside to receive guard mail.” The skipper kicked her ahead fifty feet to the right of the Mississippi’s wake until our bow overlapped her stern. A husky boatswain’s mate 2/c named Byers was our best pitcher when it came to heaving lines. Standing in our bow, he threw the coiled line toward the battleship’s stern; the monkey-fist arched through the air and came down in the midst of her line handlers. They quickly hauled it in and attached a small waterproof bag to it. On signal, our sailors hauled it back aboard the Sterett. I had gone down to the forecastle to receive the mail. It consisted of two letters, one addressed to the commander of Destroyer Division 15 and the other to the commanding officer of the USS Sterett. I hurried to the bridge with them, delivered the first to the commodore, and handed the second to the captain, who quietly opened and read it. Then he gave it back to me, saying, “Cal, file this, and note its classification. It should be closely held, on a need-to-know basis.” I saw that it was stamped “Secret” and hurriedly read it.
We had been assigned to screen the Mississippi and the cruiser Savannah through the Panama Canal as reinforcements for the Atlantic Fleet. President Roosevelt was concerned that the British could not handle the German threat without the support of the U.S. Navy. The redeployment was to be kept secret; there would be no communication by radio, mail, or direct contact with personnel ashore when we made our canal transit. We were to paint out our bow numerals, cover the ship’s name, and obliterate any other identifying marks or symbols. Of course my shipmates were all curious about our destination. Since Red Everett was the navigator, he had to know, but I told no one else. The crew came up with a wide range of possibilities, including the occupation of Tahiti, but within a few days a consensus emerged that we were headed to join the Atlantic Fleet in case it became necessary to capture Martinique, where units of the French fleet had taken refuge.
Commodore Moon made the voyage to the canal memorable. He must have felt that if we had been left to the devices of the individual commanding officers, the officers and men of the three destroyers would have wasted a lot of valuable time. In any case, he originated and delivered to the Sterett’s signal gang a series of lengthy messages on two unrelated subjects, the first of which was the establishment of an intership athletic contest—what we dubbed “the Moon Olympics.” For the next six days each destroyer would hold seven athletic contests (standing broad jump, running broad jump, standing high jump, running high jump, chin-ups, push-ups, and the hop, skip, and jump) and signal the results to the commodore. Commissioned and chief petty officers competed against their opposite numbers on the other ships, while enlisted men participated according to their ratings, so that we had to announce a winner in each event in each rating: the best seaman, the best fireman, the best radioman, the best signalman, the best torpedoman—the list seemed endless.
At first the whole idea seemed laughable, especially when I tried to envision some of the older chiefs—some in their late fifties—and the more senior officers taking part. I fully expected Captain Coward either to protest or to put out no more than a token effort in order to get off the hook. I was wrong. When asked how he felt about the competition he said, “Whe
n the commodore says ‘Jump’ I’m going to jump, and this time he said ‘Jump’ literally!” When news of the skipper’s reaction spread throughout the ship, everyone’s attitude changed (with the exception of Jim Clute, whose favorite response to any proposal involving physical exercise was to borrow from Mark Twain and declare that he was going to lie down until the proposal evaporated). Almost to the man, we determined that the Sterett was going to win this contest.
There was apprehension about the consequences of doing the running broad jump on the deck of a heaving destroyer, but it proved unwarranted. The weather remained calm, and our creative carpenter’s mates fabricated mattress- and sawdust-filled jumping pits that greatly reduced the risk of injury. Each day a crowd of cheering spectators turned out to encourage their division mates to do their best. We all assembled to support Jess Coward as he performed these events, probably for the first time since his days at Annapolis. We were all delighted with his good sportsmanship, and when he told Commodore Moon, “Commodore, if you don’t compete in this we’re gonna think you’re chicken,” our admiration rose to a new level. Lo and behold, Don Moon did compete, just as a matter of principle, and acquitted himself quite well.
Tin Can Sailor Page 3
