Tin Can Sailor

by Charles R. Calhoun

  Captain Coward did not initially recommend specific awards for any of those cited. We were unaware of these details until many months later—but it did not really matter. Our own knowledge of the Sterett’s performance, coupled with the comments made by the Navy’s most admired combat leaders, was enough to make us all proud.

  After the meeting with the skipper and Frank Gould, Harry Nyce asked me to accompany him to survey the remains of our dead shipmates and make positive identifications. It was a request that I could not refuse, especially since I knew our crew as well as anyone aboard: I was a “plank owner” (someone who has been aboard since a ship’s commissioning) and had become acquainted with most of them from the day they reported on board. Even so, I found it very hard to recognize six or seven of these men, who only a few hours earlier had been the picture of healthy young manhood. At the same time, the task was not as bad as I had anticipated, because I found that even those bodies with terribly disfiguring wounds held a quiet dignity. They had been transformed, I thought, into impersonal symbols of courage and patriotism. I was not looking at Chief Torpedoman Jackson, for example, but at the hallowed shell of a warrior who had given his life for our cause and who now expected us to prove ourselves worthy of his sacrifice. Of course, there was a gruesome side to the task. Each of the bodies had to be sewn into a canvas bag weighted at the foot with a 5-inch projectile, in preparation for burial at sea. Perry Hall was one of those assigned to this detail, and he later commented on the problems he and his helpers encountered when they had to straighten limbs that had become fixed in distorted positions by rigor mortis. It was not a pleasant job.

  Late in the afternoon, all was finally ready. The bodies of twenty-eight of our shipmates were laid out on the main deck aft in one long row. All hands in the ship’s company (except those on watch) were formed in solemn and silent ranks on the fantail. Off to one side a squad of bluejackets stood at attention with rifles at the “order arms” position. An hour or so earlier as I watched the preparations, I was convinced that this would be little more than a mechanical operation—an unpleasant job that had to be done. The scene had not softened or improved since then. The bodies had been lifeless for more than twelve hours; unembalmed, they generated the unmistakable stench of death. Blood soaked through the canvas shrouds and collected in little puddles on our gray steel decks. Behind us were our two damaged 5-inch guns, looking almost like skeletons with their blackened shell holes and twisted metal shields. On either side were the unshaven, worn, and sad faces of men who had just fought desperately for their very lives and experienced the loss of a good number of their comrades. It was not a pretty picture. But I suspect that, in our private reflections, each of us had come to accept the fact that our lost shipmates were no longer in those canvas bundles.

  With bowed heads, we waited for Jess Coward to speak. He began to read the burial-at-sea service from the Book of Common Prayer:

  Unto Almighty God we commend the souls of our brothers departed, and we commit their bodies to the deep; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection unto eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ; at whose coming in glorious majesty to judge the world, the sea shall give up her dead; and the corruptible bodies of those who sleep in him shall be changed, and made like unto his glorious body; according to the mighty working whereby he is able to subdue all things unto himself.

  Then, in a quiet voice, he spoke with pride and admiration of the way our shipmates had served their country and given their lives so that others might be free. In a low tone that was only slightly unsteady, he said, “We will never forget our departed shipmates.” I could not hold back the tears that welled up in my eyes, and I was aware that most of us were having the same reaction. Tom McWhorter described the ceremony in these words:

  The guard of riflemen fired three volleys, and as the names were called out, one by one, the mute bags of canvas were lifted and slid over the stern, disappearing in the wake of the ship. “Jackson . . . Walker . . . Kula . . . Klepacki. . . Perry . . . Martin . . . Smith, M. E. . . . Robinson . . .”—the names droned on. “Smith, Joseph . . . Kreilick . . . Stapleton . . . Spaulding . . . Tynan. . . .” Each name meant a great deal to us. It seemed that the ceremony would never end. When the last of our departed shipmates had slid into the blue waters of the Coral Sea, the crew slowly and silently walked away. Darkness soon set in; we were safe from air attacks for the day. The Sterett had paid a terrible price for victory.

  Finally, there is this poignant recollection by J. D. Jeffrey:

  All action finally over, the scene shifts to afternoon. The final, climactic event of the Sterett’s most heroic, bittersweet day occurs with burial at sea. I vaguely recall Captain Coward reading the service. But my vivid, lasting memory is of Seaman George Burris, a Georgia boy and probably the youngest sailor on the ship. He stands next to the wooden slide down which the canvas-encased bodies will leave the ship on their final journey. In one of Burris’s hands is a pot of grease; in the other is a paintbrush. The captain’s words are completed. Burris looks questioningly at the veteran chief Hodge standing next to him, in effect asking, “Shall I grease the slide now?” Hodge nods. Burris has the honor of performing the final rite for our twenty-eight fallen shipmates. He does it with dignity. Somehow, his simple act seems the appropriate ultimate tribute, a valorous deed in itself, on a day when so many valorous deeds were performed.

  We arrived at Espíritu Santo on the morning of 14 November. As soon as we came within signaling range, Adm. Kelly Turner flashed the following message from his flagship:

  In dissolving Task Force 67 I express the wish that the number sixty-seven in the future be reserved for groups of ships ready for as high a patriotic endeavor as you have been. Although well aware of the odds which might be against you, I felt that the impending Jap night attack on 12–13 November was the time when fine ships and brave men should be called upon to do their utmost. For your magnificent support of the project of reinforcing our brave troops on Guadalcanal, and your eagerness to be the keen edge of the sword that is cutting the throat of the enemy, I thank you. In taking from the enemy a toll of strength far greater than that which you have expended, you have more than justified my expectations. For our lost ships, whose names will be enshrined in history, and for cherished comrades who will be with us no more, I grieve with you. No medals, however high, can ever possibly give you the reward you deserve. With all my heart, I say, God bless the courage of our men, dead or alive, of Task Force 67. —Turner

  CHAPTER 7

  BATTLE REPAIRS

  ONCE WE ARRIVED AT ESPIRITU SANTO we had little time to reflect on the battle. Our first priority was to get the critically wounded to the hospital. Hawkins and L. A. Martin in particular needed immediate care. Before we even dropped the hook our whaleboat was in the water, and we transferred Hawkins and Martin to Mobile Base Hospital (MOB) Three. Because that facility was relatively small we kept the rest of our wounded shipmates on board until the hospital ship Solace arrived that afternoon. She had received word of the Sterett’s casualties by radio, and soon her motor launch—staffed by a team of doctors and nurses—was at our accommodation ladder, taking our shipmates aboard with great care and affection. As we had planned, the torpedomen were able to look up at the bridge as they left the Sterett and see the painted silhouettes of the enemy battleship, cruiser, and destroyer; they noticed them and were cheered by those symbols of their outstanding performance. All hands gathered at the rail to see them off and convey our wishes for a speedy recovery.

  Harry Nyce was greatly distressed by the knowledge that, had he had access to the trained personnel and the facilities of a hospital surgery, he would not have had to amputate in at least two instances. I noticed that he seemed depressed, and when I asked him why he responded that what he had done was more like butchery than the expert surgery of which he was capable. I reassured him that without his courage as well as his skill as a doctor and a surgeon, many of our wounded would not have survived. But it
was many weeks before he seemed to come to terms with himself. Finally he accepted the fact that aboard a destroyer the lack of medical facilities was unavoidable. His frustration with this aspect of his role was probably the real reason he applied for a transfer to Pensacola for a course in aviation medicine.

  After we had transferred our patients to the Solace we pulled up to a tanker to fuel. As soon as we moored to her, she caught fire. For a little while we wondered if we were jinxed, but the fire proved to be only a superficial one topside and was soon extinguished. Finally we relaxed, and all hands got some much-needed sleep.

  The morning of 15 November dawned bright and clear, and we were ordered to move alongside a small seaplane tender, the Tangier, for temporary repairs. That done, we discovered that our old friend Watso was in port. He was now the commanding officer of the USS Vestal, a heavy repair ship, and had relieved Capt. Cassin Young of that command only a few days before the engagement in Iron Bottom Sound. With Jess Coward’s blessing, I went aboard the Vestal for a visit. My host knew a great deal about our night action. He told me how proud he was that his old ship had distinguished herself. He also noted that he was about to send special equipment and expert personnel to Tulagi to assess the damage and to assist with the repairs of the Portland and the Aaron Ward. He spoke of Captain Young with the highest praise and obviously felt his loss personally. After a long talk about the old days aboard the Sterett I departed, inviting him to come aboard for lunch the next day.

  Watso arrived for lunch as scheduled and seemed to enjoy his visit as much as we did. We took him on a tour of our damage, and he was visibly moved. As he left, he promised that when we returned after our repairs he would join us ashore for a drink. He was certain that we would be sent to the States, and of course we hoped that he would be right. Also on the sixteenth we received word of the magnificent performance of our new battleships, the South Dakota and the Washington, in another engagement the night before. It appeared certain that a last-ditch effort by the Japanese to retake “Cactus” had been crushed. We felt that at last the Navy had rendered to the Marines the kind of support we would have liked to provide months before but could not because we lacked the necessary resources. It certainly gave boost to our morale, and I am sure it was greatly appreciated by General Vandegrift’s 1st Marine Division.

  We had been busy since our arrival, making temporary repairs and cleaning up the mess that the enemy’s shells had created. The overhead, bulkheads, and decks of the handling rooms and adjacent compartments all had to be scrubbed down with soap and fresh water to remove the bits of humanity that had been deposited there. The waterlogged ammunition had to be off-loaded; debris, wreckage, and dirt had to be cleaned out. I will skip the gruesome details of how we disposed of the pieces of our dead comrades, but daily reminders of their loss only served to make us more determined than ever to beat the hell out of the hated enemy.

  The actions of 12–15 November seemed to settle the issue of Guadalcanal. Now the heavens opened with a flood of congratulatory messages, many of them addressed specifically to the Sterett. When the cruiser Pensacola arrived, she sent this greeting to the San Francisco, Helena, Sterett, O’Bannon, and Fletcher: “The officers and crew of the Pensacola wish to express to you their heartfelt admiration for your heroic action.” We were surprised and pleased to receive the Pensacola’s message, but shortly thereafter came the one that touched all of us more deeply than any other. It was from the commanding general of our Marines on Guadalcanal. Addressed to Task Force 67, it read: “It is our belief that the enemy has suffered a crushing defeat. Our thanks for the sturdy efforts of Lee last night, and to Kinkaid, for his pounding of the foe by our aircraft has been grand. We appreciate all of these efforts, but to Scott and Callaghan and their men, who against seemingly hopeless odds—with magnificent courage—made success possible by driving back the first hostile attack, goes our greatest homage. In deepest admiration, the men of Cactus lift their battered helmets in proud salute. Vandegrift.” This expression of gratitude by our hard-pressed Marines, who demonstrated their valor on a daily basis, said it all. Yet more were to come. From Rear Admiral Tisdale, the administrative commander of all destroyers in the Pacific Fleet: “If words could add to the tribute paid you by the men of Cactus, my staff and I would join all Americans in saying this: We are proud to belong to the same service with you.” And from Admiral Halsey, at his headquarters in Nouméa: “To the superb officers and men on land, on sea, in the air, and under sea, who have performed such magnificent feats for our country in the past few days: You have written your names in gold letters on the pages of history and won the undying gratitude of your countrymen. My pride in you is beyond expression. No honor for you could be too great. Magnificently done. God bless each and everyone of you. To the glorious dead, Hail heroes, rest with God.”

  A few days later we were ordered to proceed to Nouméa. As soon as we arrived we were overrun by a squad of repair experts who came aboard to determine whether our damage could be repaired by a base facility somewhere in the forward area. Destroyers were in short supply, and the fleet commanders wanted to keep as many of them as possible. Those that were damaged were returned to the rear areas with great reluctance. However (as any Sterett sailor could have told them), the experts quickly decided that we needed the services of a shipyard to have two 5-inch gun mounts and at least one quadruple torpedo tube mount replaced plus considerable structural work done. So we were to be sent back, at least as far as the naval shipyard at Pearl Harbor. Of course, we all hoped that our ultimate destination would be the good old U.S.A.

  No sooner had the repair team left than we were told that Admiral Halsey himself was coming aboard to inspect our damage. Captain Coward asked Frank Gould and me to join him on the quarterdeck to greet the admiral. He wore his four-star insignia for the first time, having just been notified of his promotion to the rank of admiral—a fitting reward for his outstanding leadership. We had a personal stake in the fight that he led, and his promotion was proof of its importance. I had never met him before but I had seen his picture, and no one could have failed to recognize the bushy eyebrows, the strong chin, or the direct gaze that bespoke confidence and strength. He shook hands with each of us and asked to be shown all of our battle damage.

  As we made our way through the gunnery department the skipper described the damage. He told the admiral what each shell hit had done. Here, the gun captain was mortally wounded and insisted that the doctor take the other wounded first, because he knew he was beyond help; in these two major-caliber hits the whole handling crew and most of the gun crew above were killed instantly, and four members of the gun crew dove overboard with their clothing ablaze—they had not been recovered, as far as we knew (later we learned that all but one had been saved). The admiral was quiet and pensive throughout the tour, as though trying to imagine what it must have been like to be a Sterett sailor during the battle. From time to time he simply shook his head as we described events.

  When he had completed his visit and was about to leave he turned to face us. I was surprised to see that there were tears in his eyes. For perhaps two or three minutes he told us in a low voice, one that was steady but charged with emotion, how proud he was of our performance. I wish I could recall his exact words, but I do remember some of his thoughts—he regretted that he had to send destroyers against battleships but was sure that the small ships would do their utmost; he was amazed that any destroyer could absorb eleven shell hits (three of which were 14-inch projectiles) and still steam away from the action under her own power; he was profoundly moved by the many stories of heroism, and by the mute but eloquent evidence of punishment and sacrifice that was apparent at every turn as he toured the ship. Finally he thanked us, with a sincerity that added a special quality to his words, and said, “God bless you!” We stood there filled with admiration, respect, and pride and watched him climb into a waiting jeep and drive off. It was an unforgettable, once-in-a-lifetime occasion. To those of us who wit
nessed it, Admiral Halsey’s name will always lead the list of inspirational combat leaders of World War II.

  Later that day an awards ceremony was held aboard the San Francisco at which some twenty officers and men received the Navy’s highest award for heroism, the Navy Cross. Our captain was among those so honored. As soon as he returned to the Sterett, he called all hands to the forecastle and read us this memorandum, a copy of which I still possess:

  Thanks to the heroic efforts of our departed shipmates, the splendid battle efficiency and cool-headed determination of all hands, every last officer and man, I was awarded the Navy Cross.

  That honor belongs to the Sterett as a fighting unit; to the toughest, sharpest-shooting ship that sails the seas—not to me as an individual.

  Admiral Halsey has not yet had time to read the Sterett’s action report. When he does, I’m sure there will be more medals handed out. The entire ship’s company deserves special commendation. I’m sure we’ll hear more about that.

  But the greatest honor of all for me was to have had the privilege to lead the scrappy Sterett into battle, to watch and admire the punishment you dished out to our enemy, and then to bring the ship safely out of battle when there was nothing else to shoot at, while all hands coolly and efficiently tended our wounded shipmates, put out severe fires, and repaired damage.

  The Japs will be most unhappy when they learn that the Sterett is after them again.

  We are now headed for Pearl Harbor. Expect to arrive there 4 December. What we do after that I do not know. I hope and pray we’ll head for the coast. All hands are entitled to a few good liberties.

  We departed that afternoon, in company with the cruiser San Francisco—but not before the Communications Office delivered the following telegram, sent on 29 September and mailed on 3 October: “From Winston-Salem, N.C., to Lt. C. R. Calhoun, USS Sterett, care of Bureau of Navigation, Navy Dept, Washington, D.C. Your son arrived today. Congratulations. All’s well. Virginia sends love. Dad.”