Tin Can Sailor

by Charles R. Calhoun

  After delivering our charges to the Royal Navy we entered Reykjavik on 25 January. It was bitterly cold, and the wind blew at gale velocity for the duration of our stay. As Jim Clute said, that “breeze” felt as though it came straight from the North Pole. Four days later the Coast Guard cutter Alexander Hamilton was torpedoed about ten miles south of Iceland. The Sterett, the Stack, and several other destroyers were dispatched immediately to locate and destroy the U-boat. We passed the torpedoed ship, still afloat, a few miles outside the harbor entrance. It had started to snow that afternoon, and by nightfall we were in a real blizzard. Standing on the wing of the bridge, I strained to see ahead and to keep my teeth from chattering. As soon as we reached the location of the attack we formed a search formation, in line abreast. Even though we were only about fifteen hundred yards apart, we could not see the ships on either side of us. Captain Coward, Jim Clute, and I—each of us holding a cup of steaming coffee with both hands in an effort to stay warm—peered ahead through the swirling white flakes and repeatedly wiped the snow from our eyes, hoping to catch sight of a surfaced sub. In that weather, any sane U-boat commander would have kept his craft submerged. Nevertheless, at about midnight one of our companions from another ship reported that he had just passed a surfaced submarine on an opposite course, so close aboard that he was unable to turn sharply enough to go after it. Without hesitation, Jess Coward swung the Sterett around to try to catch the U-boat before she submerged. We had moved only a few hundred yards on our new course when we picked up a sonar contact. Jim assisted the captain with interpretation of the contact, and we dropped a full depth-charge pattern on what we firmly believed to be the sub—no doubt she had crash-dived after passing through our line. The Sterett’s stern bounced high out of the water with each concussion as the charges detonated at a depth of fifty feet. Even on the bridge the shock was severe, and I could imagine the intensity of those explosions close against the outer shell of a submarine. We circled around and continued to search for our quarry but were unable to regain contact. I was convinced that we had sunk that sub, but Jess Coward and Jim both agreed that we had only managed to shake her up a bit. They were right. Meanwhile, the Alexander Hamilton had sunk while being towed back to Reykjavik.

  The two torpedomen responsible for loading the Y- and K-guns were named Keenum and James. Keenum, the older of the two, was of average size, but James was depicted by Tom McWhorter as “a horse of a man” at 6 feet, 2 inches and 220 pounds. In a recent letter, Keenum described the fight this way:

  We immediately got into the thick of it shortly after dark. All of us torpedomen were in heavy foul weather clothing. We were manning the depth-charge racks, K-guns, and Y-gun. James and I were on the Y-gun, using a davit with tackle to hoist the charges up to load. The seas were running very rough, with green water breaking over us on the main deck every few minutes. I probably weighed about 150 pounds soaking wet, even with all that heavy clothing, so big James bore the brunt of controlling those charges. He and I were often off our feet swinging free under the charges we were trying to load. At the same time, the spare charges in the storage racks had been dislodged and were rolling around loose on the deck. Fortunately some of the Repair Party (who were helping out everywhere) came to our aid, and it all turned out OK.

  Tom McWhorter’s recollections also make it clear that these were brave, tough men who had repeatedly risked their lives to deliver that depth-charge attack. We were all proud of their actions, Jess Coward included. After we had expended our depth charges, he directed the torpedo gang to report to sick bay, where the doctor issued each man a welcome dose of “medicinal” whiskey. It was only a token gesture, but it said a lot to those men about their skipper’s regard for them.

  A few days later we were assigned to escort a big convoy into New York. This gave us our first real opportunity to observe our new division commander, three-striper Bill Warlick, in action. The Sterett was stationed on the starboard flank of the convoy, which was in column formation. Because we were at our special sea details I was the officer-of-the-deck. We were actively patrolling station, maintaining a speed slightly faster than that of the convoy and steering a few degrees on either side of the base course. It was standard practice, designed to widen our sonar coverage. The division commander looked somewhat unhappy; he walked over to the captain, who was standing next to me, and said something to him. Jess Coward looked flustered. Turning to me he said, “Mr. Officer-of-the-Deck, patrol station!” It was obviously intended as an order, one to be complied with immediately, and it was delivered with force. And because the skipper normally addressed me as “Cal” I was even more aware of a sense of urgency. However, I did not have the slightest idea what it was he wanted me to do. “But captain,” I said, “we are patrolling station.” He reacted swiftly and angrily: “Damn it, I said patrol station!”

  All I knew was that he expected (and apparently felt that he needed) some immediate show of response. It seemed to me that he was saying, “For God’s sake, do something!” As soon as that thought entered my head, I said, “Oh! Yes, sir! All ahead full—hard right rudder, come to course. . . .” The change brought us about twenty degrees to the right of our previous course. The skipper looked relieved. “That’s better,” he said. Then he and the commodore walked away, chatting pleasantly, and I was left on my own to bring these more radical moves in line with the convoy’s progress. Never again did I patrol station in any but the most aggressive manner. So far as I could tell, both the captain and the commodore quickly forgot the incident. I did not—it was a useful lesson.

  The Sterett was assigned a six-day availability at the Brooklyn Navy Yard, and we made the most of it, going to nightclubs with Jim Clute before his transfer to a new destroyer (the USS Bailey) then under construction at Staten Island. We also lost Frank Luongo to a new ship, and we knew we would feel the absence of those two stalwarts very keenly. They were not only shipmates but also competent and dependable pros who had contributed a great deal to the organization and training of the Sterett’s crew. Those of us who remained benefited from their service throughout the Sterett’s lifetime. Lt. Frank Gould now came aboard as our new executive officer, and I moved up to the post of gunnery officer.

  Our New York interlude ended much too soon. The Sterett departed with the carrier Wasp for a period of intense training in the vicinity of Casco Bay. The Sterett and Wasp had already developed a good working relationship during previous assignments. Capt. “Black-Jack” Reeves of the Wasp was a hard taskmaster who made it clear that he would accept nothing less than outstanding performance from his destroyer escorts. Aboard the Sterett we made it a matter of personal pride always to provide the Wasp with the best services that any escort could render. We were especially careful to anticipate every Wasp maneuver and never to leave her uncovered and vulnerable to submarine attack. The result was the development of a Sterett doctrine for carrier operations—“Hard right rudder, all ahead flank, make turns for 29 knots!” It was a matter of attitude, and our relationship with the Wasp continued to flourish.

  Jim Clute’s departure necessitated several other changes in personnel assignments. Ens. Hillard Marver, a new arrival, became assistant gunnery officer, and Tom McWhorter took on the job as communications officer but also retained (at his request) his assignment as torpedo officer. Tom threw himself into the communications job with typical McWhorter enthusiasm and turned in his usual fine performance. Marver was quiet and reserved—a counterbalance to the rest of us, who were inclined at times to be more boisterous than was appropriate for wardroom decorum.

  We arrived in Boston on 16 February to find the Queen Mary there, loading soldiers. At once we concluded that we were about to escort her somewhere but had no idea what our destination might be. At 1100 on the eighteenth we left from South Boston Pier and anchored in President’s Road, where we waited until our new charge got under way an hour or two later. She departed at high speed with ten thousand troops aboard and the Sterett in hot pursuit. We had
to make 30 knots to get ahead of her to our screening station. The weather was rough and getting rougher by the hour.

  The Sterett departs Brooklyn Navy Yard in early February 1942 bound for Boston and a brief but rough escort assignment with the Queen Mary. Note that the after two 5-inch gun mounts have been enclosed (although gun number three has only a canvas top). (U.S. Navy Photo)

  The majestic, enormous Queen continued to accelerate. The Sterett had to labor from the outset just to keep up with her, and our companion escort, the Stack, was having just as hard a time. Throughout the night of the eighteenth our bow reared up wildly and then suddenly plunged down and down until we slammed into the sea with a bone-wrenching crash. Then the ship would slowly rise, shuddering and shaking the whole way as she shook the water off. On the bridge, walls of green water broke over our heads and battered us constantly as we tried to hold on to a rail or anything solid to keep from being dashed against a bulkhead. I did not see how we could possibly be of any use to that giant vessel unless she encountered a U-boat on the surface, in which case the conditions would have made it extremely difficult to achieve any effective gunfire. By noon on 19 February we were barely able to hang on at 31 knots. Perhaps because she realized the futility of our situation, and just when it looked like we would have to cry “uncle,” the Queen released us. As she disappeared over the horizon she sent a very nice message to thank us for our services. All of us wished her well and prayed for her safe arrival whatever her destination.

  On 23 February 1942 we were in the Atlantic with the Wasp, just east of the coast of Maine. She was engaged in flight operations, launching and recovering aircraft, and the Sterett was up ahead as a screen against submarine attack when I saw a Wasp plane from the returning group crash into the icy water several miles ahead of the carrier. We immediately headed for the spot where we had seen it splash. By the time we arrived, no more than ten minutes later, there was absolutely nothing left; we searched the area for several hours with one of our division mates but found nothing. We had to abandon the search and return to our screening stations. When I went ashore in Portland several days later I learned that the missing pilot was Frank D. Case, Jr., one of my best friends. Frank was the president of our Naval Academy class, a star football and lacrosse player, and one of the finest men I have ever had the privilege to know. Since our last names both began with the letter C we were often in the same division or group, especially during the summer cruises. We had even taken girlfriends on double dates to Academy social functions. I recalled all of those incidents of good comradeship and mourned his loss. Deaths in routine operations were the hardest to take. Those in combat were no less sad, but they seemed easier to rationalize.

  While we were still at sea with the Wasp, the skipper called me into his cabin. “Cal,” he said, “we have to send an officer to gunnery school. You’ll leave for Norfolk as soon as we get in this afternoon.” The course was a hands-on, accelerated program conducted aboard the old battleship Wyoming. It was designed especially for destroyer gunnery officers and continued for about one month. The students were rotated through each of the stations on the gun director so that they could better appreciate the duties performed by each member of the director crew. We took part in a series of concentrated firing exercises at both air and surface targets under the close supervision of expert instructors, who critiqued each student’s performance immediately after each practice.

  On 18 March the Wyoming was in the Chesapeake conducting gunnery exercises. My class had just been dismissed for lunch when a Navy PBY landed nearby, and the pilot signaled that he had come to pick up an officer named Calhoun. I hurried to the quarterdeck, where a boat awaited me. I jumped in and in a few minutes was hauled by the seat of my pants into the gently bobbing PBY. Half an hour later I was at the Norfolk Naval Air Station. The Sterett had arrived that morning for a three-day availability at Portsmouth Navy Yard in advance of an extended period away from home. The PBY delivery was Jess Coward’s way of giving me an extra day with my bride. It was typical of the consideration he demonstrated constantly for his Sterett shipmates.

  During the next three days we accomplished some structural repairs and received a few minor alterations. On 23 March we left Norfolk and proceeded to Casco Bay with our old friend the Wasp. Before departing, however, we also received one other very important addition: Lt. A.A.W. Scharbius, M.C., USNR, reported for duty as the Sterett’s medical officer. He was to be my roommate, and I should let him relate the story of his arrival:

  I remember I reported aboard our destroyer after chasing her up to Casco Bay then finally down to Norfolk, where she was undergoing an overhaul in March 1942. I had just ten days of active duty behind me as I scrambled up the gangway, barely remembering to make the proper salutes, which was about the only thing I knew. I was directed to the wardroom, where I presented myself to Captain Coward. His first question was, “Do you get seasick, doctor?” Apparently I was relieving their previous medical officer (McGinnis I think his name was) who, though immensely popular, had the misfortune to suffer from chronic mal de mer and could hardly make a sick call, let alone chow down. I gulped and answered with supreme, if totally uncertain, confidence that I was immune. This was based on a bit of sailing on small boats as a youngster, and several Atlantic crossings on the old SS Leviathan on which I worked during summer vacations while at college, which probably never rolled more than three degrees while I sailed on her.

  That night, lying in the upper berth, I was lifted right up against the overhead at 2 A.M. by a riveting machine that some idiot was suddenly inspired to operate on the deck immediately above me. Worse, I came into intimate contact with some lightly insulated steam pipes right over my bare belly. I had been looking forward eagerly to sea duty up to this time. Some weeks later, plowing through a mid-Atlantic storm, I began to wonder what the hell I was doing out here. And I was a volunteer reservist!

  Bill Scharbius would have made a welcome addition to any wardroom, and he quickly adapted to the life of a destroyerman.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE BRITISH HOME FLEET

  ON 26 MARCH 1942 the Sterett left Casco Bay for Scapa Flow, the base for the British Home Fleet, along with the Wasp, the new battleship Washington, the cruisers Wichita and Tuscaloosa, and the destroyers Wainwright, Plunkett, Madison, Lang, and Wilson. It was a strong force, provided to help the British prevent a breakout of German heavy ships into the Atlantic. No longer was the U.S. Atlantic Fleet to be restricted to escort of convoy operations. We were going into harm’s way, ready to take on the enemy’s biggest and best.

  The Atlantic was its usual bleak and miserable self. Just one day out, we received a stern reminder of the constant threat of the sea. Aboard the Sterett the first indication of trouble came in the form of a voice radio message from the flagship (the USS Washington) reporting a man overboard. The seas were very rough; it would have been difficult to keep a swimmer in sight, let alone recover him. Despite extra lookouts no one was able to spot the victim, and it began to appear that the original report was in error. All ships then were asked to muster their crews and report whether anyone was missing. With negative reports in hand from every ship, the chief of staff sent a messenger to tell Admiral Wilcox that all hands were accounted for. When the Marine orderly entered the admiral’s cabin to inform him of the messenger’s presence, the admiral was not there. Only then did it become clear: the man overboard was the admiral himself. Search planes were launched from the Wasp despite the poor conditions, and one of them was also lost. Rear Adm. Ike Giffen now became our task group commander, and we continued our journey to Scapa Flow.

  On 3 April the British cruiser HMS Edinburgh met us shortly after daybreak and escorted us into Scapa Flow the next day. The fog and mist gave an even more somber tone to the general appearance of the place. Many British men-of-war were anchored in the harbor, and the barrage balloons overhead testified to the fact that we were within range of some kind of German aircraft. In plain view was the sup
erstructure of the HMS Royal Oak, which had been sunk by a German U-boat. We all felt a certain admiration for that submarine skipper, for he had penetrated a dense antisub net in the middle of the entire fleet, conducted a successful attack, and escaped. As we proceeded to our assigned berth we received a visit from a Home Fleet boarding officer. Straddling our lifelines, a young lieutenant commander of the Royal Navy saluted smartly and requested permission to come aboard. His uniform was of Gieves quality and fit perfectly but was very “salty”: the gold braid was tarnished, and the cuffs and elbows were reinforced with black glove leather. He wore full Wellington boots and carried under his arm a brass telescope wrapped in leather and engraved with the words “To Viscount Kilbourne” and the royal seal of King George. He gave a nice little speech of welcome to Captain Coward, and it appeared that our Royal Navy comrades were happy to see us. Scapa Flow was the main base of operations for the entire British Home Fleet. It was packed with warships of every description, all flying the White Ensign. A cold and dismal anchorage, it had nothing to offer the shore-goer in the way of a liberty port but the tiny settlement of Lynesse, where we were told there was a pub or two. However, the warm, friendly attitude of our British comrades more than made up for the lack of facilities ashore.