Tin Can Sailor

by Charles R. Calhoun

  For the next several weeks we operated south of Guadalcanal rendering escort and plane guard services to the Wasp while she provided air support to the Marines, who were having no easy time of it. According to General Vandegrift, they whipped the Japanese ashore but took a nightly pounding from Japanese Navy surface units, including battleships. Aboard the Sterett we wondered why our own surface units were not sent in to oppose them. On 23 August we received word from the Saratoga and Enterprise groups that Japanese carriers and transports were on their way down from Rabaul. A nice fight was about to happen, and our group headed north at 25 knots in an effort to join the fray. We did not make it in time to see the enemy, but reports from the Wasp said that Enterprise and Saratoga planes had damaged a carrier, a battleship, five cruisers, three destroyers, and one transport, as well as shooting down eighty-one enemy planes. Unfortunately, in the exchange the Enterprise had taken a 1,000-pound bomb on her flight deck. Obviously the “big E” would have to return to some repair facility and get herself patched up, and we did not have any carriers to spare.

  MEANWHIILE, DAY-TO-DAY LIFE aboard the Sterett drew us closer together as we learned more about one another. Harry Nyce proved to be a dedicated medical officer, with foresight and administrative capacity. One of his pet projects was the creation of a team of first-aid experts who could help him deal with a large number of casualties. He recruited about fifteen sailors of all rates who in his opinion had the steady composure, intelligence, and compassion necessary to handle traumatic injuries on a large scale. He conducted training sessions, and when the inevitable accident occurred he delegated first-aid treatment to these individuals (always under his careful supervision). Harry also performed daily rituals to hone his own surgical skills, and I frequently walked into our stateroom to find him tying knots in a short piece of fishing line inside a matchbox—an effort to maintain his manual dexterity. In addition, he interested himself in all phases of shipboard life, and like Bill Scharbius he often stood bridge watches with me to gain a better understanding of the operational aspects of destroyer duty.

  Lt. Tiny Hanna and I became fast friends. A William and Mary graduate and former varsity football player, Tiny was our popular first lieutenant. Like most reserve officers, he was eager to serve in whatever way the situation demanded. We seemed to share many of the same values, and I found him to be a real asset to the ship. When he first came aboard in August 1942 he was delivered to us at sea by high line from a tanker. It was understandably not his favorite mode of travel. To effect a high-line transfer at sea, two ships steamed on parallel courses at the same speed. Gradually one converged on the other until they were only about fifty feet apart. Then the transferring ship rigged a high line from its superstructure to a lower point on the receiving ship. The person to be transferred sat in a boatswain’s chair suspended from the high line by a pulley wheel, and the crew of the receiving ship pulled the chair across the intervening water by means of a small line attached to the chair. The line-handlers had to keep the high line taut to prevent the occupant of the chair from being dunked in the water. On this occasion I watched with some amusement as the new arrival rode across the heaving ocean. When he arrived safely aboard the Sterett and I saw exactly how big he was, I called down from the bridge, “Welcome aboard, Tiny.” The nickname stuck.

  Lt. Comdr. Frank Gould, USN (class of ’31), came aboard as executive officer and navigator in February 1942. I first met him in Charleston, where he was one of the shipyard’s most knowledgeable specialists. He was the Navy Yard’s ordnance officer, and he was instrumental in setting up the Sterett’s trouble-free gunnery installation. As our exec he went by the book but was always fair. He was a source of wise counsel regarding regulations and the legal aspects of personnel disciplinary problems. During our deployment with the British Home Fleet Frank proved to be an excellent navigator, and Jess Coward trusted his judgment. He was also a good-humored messmate but an aggravating acey-deucey opponent: the way he jiggled the dice in the palm of his hand and then abruptly dropped them resulted in an unusually high percentage of winners. I usually protested that technique, to no avail.

  Ens. Herb May, USNR, was another mainstay on the Sterett’s team. He came aboard in Norfolk in March 1942 just before we deployed to Scapa Flow, and I recall that on the day he reported I asked him to round up a supply of new battle helmets. I did not think that he would be able to cut through the Navy’s red tape in time to accomplish his mission. Furthermore, he was new to the base—he did not even know where the supply depot was—and had no means of transportation and certainly no rank to throw around. But when he returned that afternoon in a huge truck (which he had managed to wangle from someone) loaded with enough brand-new helmets to outfit the entire crew, I knew that we had acquired a prize in Herb May. By the time of our departure for the Guadalcanal show, he had become our officer-of-the-deck during general quarters.

  THE 5-INCH LOADING CREWS became increasingly competitive during these weeks in the vicinity of Guadalcanal. One morning Chief Hodge asked me to officiate at a loading contest between the crews of guns number two and number four. The contest was to measure stamina as well as speed. Each crew would load four hundred rounds; the winner would be the one that completed the task in the shortest time. This race was a matter of intense interest to the entire ship’s company, and a considerable sum of money was riding on it—four thousand dollars, to be exact. I became the custodian of the pot and scheduled the contest to begin at 1400.

  At the appointed hour, everyone who was not on watch was at the loading machine. The gun captains drew lots, and gun number two picked the leadoff spot. This was Big Willie’s crew, and as first shellman he was without question the key man on that team. With stopwatch in hand, I shouted, “Go!” Big Willie attacked each shell as it came up in the shell hoist, handling them as if they weighed five pounds instead of fifty-five. His movements were fluid and graceful, and there was no wasted motion. The noise of the loading machine took on a cadence of its own as one after another the shells came out of the hoist, were put in the tray, and went into the breech. Big Willie averaged about four seconds per load at first, and I waited for the pace to slow as he grew tired. But it did not slow. It continued for five, ten, even twenty minutes, and within thirty minutes the crew of gun number two had loaded four hundred rounds. Big Willie and his teammates looked as fresh as when they had started.

  Now came Jim Grann’s turn. He was younger and an inch or two taller than Big Willie, but not quite as muscular. He started out like a sprinter. Again the shells landed in the tray with a regular cadence. But after twenty minutes the pace slowed, and after thirty minutes (still short of the four hundred rounds) Grann was very tired and had trouble moving the shells. Gun number two had won, hands down. I presented the four thousand dollars to Big Willie for distribution to his mates and congratulated both crews. This performance assured us all that when our time came to fight, we would acquit ourselves well.

  On 10 September our unit, Destroyer Division 15, was relieved of its duties with the Wasp group (Task Force 18) and replaced by Destroyer Division 24. We hated to leave our old friend, and Tom McWhorter expressed our feelings well: “Even though she was a hard taskmaster and a great responsibility, we were somewhat reluctant to leave her. For a full year we had taken her through the worst submarine waters in the world without a scratch. For that length of time the destinies of the Sterett and the Wasp were the same: Bermuda, Martinique, Argentia, Scapa Flow, the Mediterranean, Malta, the Coral Sea. She was a fine ship, and a friend of ours. We joked to each other about it. They can’t do that,’ we said. ‘Why, the Wasp won’t last a week without the Sterett to keep her out of trouble!’”

  We were assigned to work directly under Commander South Pacific and proceeded to Nouméa, New Caledonia. Liberty was granted but there was nowhere to go, and after a few days we were glad to get under way again and run up to Espíritu Santo, in the New Hebrides. There we learned that we were to escort two cargo ships (Fuller
and Bellatrix) to Guadalcanal. Our companion escort, the USS Hull, had just pulled in to fuel when we left the harbor, making it apparent that we would be the only escort until the Hull caught up with us. She did so the next morning, and our four-ship convoy headed north along the eastern side of San Cristobal Island, then turned west and entered Lengo Channel. We arrived off Lunga Point at dawn, and while our two cargo ships proceeded to Guadalcanal and Tulagi to unload we went on antisubmarine patrol and familiarized ourselves with our surroundings. We had a hunch that we would be frequent visitors to “Cactus” (Guadalcanal’s code name). At 1700 we proceeded to Tulagi Harbor and anchored to wait for the Fuller. We were only a stone’s throw from the beach, and many of Tulagi’s Marine defenders took advantage of our proximity to ride out in native canoes or landing boats and do business with our ship’s service store. They were after such simple little items as toothbrushes, toothpaste, soap, and razor blades. It was a revelation to meet them and to appreciate for the first time what the life of a Marine on one of these islands was like. Those of us who lived aboard ship had a comfortable existence by comparison.

  While anchored there we received a red alert warning by radio, indicating that enemy planes were on their way to attack us. We immediately went to general quarters. As we did, the Marines also rang their general alarm, which sounded like a small-town fire gong that one struck with a hammer. At the first clang the boats shoved off and the beach swarmed with Marines, scrambling into foxholes and manning well-concealed antiaircraft weapons among the palms and undergrowth. They added their voices to the din, yelling “Bring ’em on!” and other less elegant expressions.

  We weighed anchor and stood out of the harbor ahead of the Fuller, both of us zigzagging at best speed and headed in the general direction of Guadalcanal. When we were halfway across (about eight miles away) we saw the Hull and the Bellatrix on our starboard bow, also standing out into open water. By this time the sun was close to the horizon, and the entire western sky was ablaze with the red glow of a beautiful South Pacific sunset. Ahead was the flat beach and mountainous interior of Guadalcanal, the peaks of which were hidden by dark, low-hanging thunderheads. It was from this tranquil scene that the planes emerged. About fifteen in all, they hopped over the hills and swooped down on the Marine shore installations. They were float planes of cruiser type, and in no time at all a group of our fighters from Henderson Field took them on. Tracers filled the dusky sky. In short order, two of our fighters scored kills. Their victims burst into balls of brilliant orange-red fire and fell into the water, where they continued to burn with a heavy black smoke. Tracers continued to pour out of one of them even after he hit the surface. I could not help thinking of the scorched and blackened bit of humanity inside that inferno. It was not a very good way to die.

  By this time the raiders had started to scurry for home. A flight of four came within range of our guns, and we opened fire on the second in line. As the targets passed aft, the guns followed their movements; I could almost see down the muzzle of the number two 5-inch. The heat and blast of that barrel were damned uncomfortable for those of us in the director. Then one of our shell bursts exploded very close to its target. The plane faltered and fell smoking into the sea—it was one hell of a lucky shot. It was almost dark, so we turned east and headed out Lengo Channel to get clear of the Japanese bombarding force that was expected to arrive later that night. Everyone felt relieved to have had a chance to engage the enemy at last. The Sterett had scored her first kill of the war.

  The next few days were described by Tom McWhorter:

  The night after the attack we anchored in Tulagi Harbor. The “Tokyo Express” had by this time become a very real thing. Usually composed of one or two cruisers and about four destroyers, this force would enter Savo Sound sometime during the night, make a sweep looking around for our light forces, then bombard Henderson Field and leave at a speed that would get them away from our planes by daylight. The Japanese had good aerial reconnaissance, and would not strike when our heavy surface units were in the area. A few nights earlier the old four-stack destroyers Gregory and Little had gone out to oppose them and were sunk in a matter of minutes. However, on our first night in Tulagi the Tokyo Express failed to show up. On the next day the cargo ships finished unloading, and we retired back to Espíritu Santo. When we returned to Santo we received a shock that struck us deeply. During our brief absence from Task Force 18, the Wasp had been hit by four torpedoes from a Japanese submarine, had burned furiously for a few hours, and had sunk in her patrol area south of the Solomon Islands. We were sick. It seemed ironic that she should have been lost so soon after we left her—and we couldn’t dodge the feeling that perhaps it wouldn’t have happened if we’d remained with her. Our division had grown so accustomed to the Wasp’s modus operandi that we anticipated her every move. That knowledge, or lack of it, on the part of those good destroyermen who had relieved us could well have made the difference. In any case, it was a sobering and depressing piece of news. Again we had reason to hope that we could tangle with the Jap Navy.

  CHAPTER 5

  GUADALCANAL SUPPORT

  ON 15 OCTOBER 1942 Vice Admiral Ghormley was relieved as commander in the South Pacific by Vice Adm. William F. Halsey. We learned of this shake-up in the high command when the new ComSoPac sent a short message to all ships in his command: “Strike Repeat Strike—Halsey sends.” It was typical of the new commander, and it conveyed the posture of U.S. Navy operations from that day forward.

  By this time, life aboard the Sterett had become rather predictable. There seemed to be three operational modes: the low-risk wait at Espíritu Santo to pick up transport ships bound for Guadalcanal, the moderate-risk escort phase, and the high-risk wait in the Guadalcanal-Tulagi area while the transports unloaded. We spent our time at either battle stations or Condition Two, with half our guns manned. It was often boring, but we realized that vigilance was essential to our survival. We did not intend to be caught flat-footed by Japanese aircraft or a lurking submarine—and certainly not by an enemy surface ship. The crew adapted to the routine easily. Our cooks kept a caldron of soup on the stove, always adding the leftovers from our meals until it became a real gourmet treat; when we had to stay at our guns all day, the soup was delivered to every man at his battle station. We were called to general quarters for dawn alert every day no matter where we were, so the days were long. Lacking anything better to do, Harry Nyce often visited the gun director. On one such occasion we entertained ourselves by imagining that we were at Bookbinder’s restaurant in Philadelphia, deciding what to order.

  There was no one in the director crew I would have replaced even if given the pick of the entire Navy. Assistant Gunnery Officer J. D. Jeffrey’s station was about two feet to my right, while Boatswain’s Mate Byers (the director trainer) sat next to me to the left. Byers was a quiet but strong and intelligent individual, the kind of man you would want next to you if you were ambushed by a gang of thugs. We all got to know one another quite well in those months of watchfulness, and an atmosphere of mutual respect developed. There could hardly have been a more compatible ship’s company. This translated into high morale and a high state of battle-readiness.

  There were also plenty of activities and personalities aboard to provide a daily touch of humor. For example, Chief Gunner’s Mate Hodge was a great poker player and once admitted to me that he sent home more than one thousand dollars a month in winnings. I reminded him that gambling was against Navy regulations and that if he were caught he could lose his rating. Not long afterward the skipper told me that he knew there was a big poker game somewhere on the ship—and that Hodge was one of the consistent winners. He was determined to break it up, and if Hodge was part of it he would be demoted immediately from chief gunner’s mate to first class. When I repeated Jess Coward’s warning to Hodge, he smiled and said that he was sure the skipper would never find the game. As I expected, Hodge had underestimated the captain’s intuition and experience. No more than a week la
ter the game was raided by the skipper and the chief master-at-arms. The culprits were apprehended in the galley at about 0200 while we were en route to Santo from Guadalcanal. York, ship’s cook and one of the game’s veteran players, made a narrow escape. When the captain opened the door to the galley he activated the “darken ship” switch, which shut off the lights in the galley until the door was closed. In those few moments York, a diminutive man, climbed into an empty soup caldron and was never caught. As Captain Coward promised, Hodge was quickly knocked down to first class. But he took it in good humor, saying with a shrug, “The skipper sure is a wise old coot, isn’t he? Well, I’ll just have to make my rate again.”

  One day in mid-October while we were in Santo, I went aboard a destroyer tender to arrange for their help in repairing a shellhoist. When I arrived I came alongside a PT boat and was intrigued by the young skipper and his exec, both in worn and faded khakis, who were waiting for their crew to take freshwater showers aboard the tender. The next day aboard the Sterett we received a request (in a message addressed to all destroyers present) for a volunteer officer, rank of lieutenant, for duty with that PT boat squadron. I immediately wrote to the skipper to ask for reassignment. Jess Coward called me to his cabin and asked me what I was unhappy about. I told him I was not unhappy with my duty on the Sterett but just did not think we would ever see action. He smiled and said, “First, let me say that you aren’t going to PT boats if I have anything to do with it, and I do. Second, I can guarantee that if you wait just a little while you’re going to get all the action you could possibly want. Request denied!”