Tin Can Sailor

by Charles R. Calhoun

  THE LONG VOYAGE ACROSS THE PACIFIC was uneventful and gave us all time to reflect. Harry Nyce and I had long talks about life’s values and where we fit in the scheme of things. He seemed to have come to terms with his performance in battle; I found myself in possession of a renewed faith in God and a sense of inner peace. Ginny and I had been blessed by the arrival of a new life entrusted to our care. I was convinced that nothing could be worse than the ordeal I had just gone through. If I could make it through that, I could make it through anything. A certain feeling of indestructibility came over me, and I knew I was not alone in that feeling. For some reason I had emerged without a scratch, while all around me others had been injured or killed. I had accumulated a huge debt of gratitude, one I could never repay in full.

  As we approached the entrance to the channel at Pearl Harbor on 4 December, I recalled that the last time we had looked on that scene the Mississippi was heading out to sea and signaling for us to follow her. That was June 1941. A lot had happened in that year and a half. But here I was on the bridge once more, about to get my first look at the site of Japan’s act of treachery. I peered through my binoculars, trying to locate signs of damage from the attack. There were many ships in the harbor, and it was obvious that something unusual was taking place. A remarkably large number of sailors were out on the decks of those ships; as we drew closer it dawned on me that they were manning the rail. “Captain,” I asked, “do you know if the president is making a surprise visit to Pearl Harbor?”

  He turned to me with a puzzled look. “No, Cal, why do you ask?”

  “Because it looks as if all these ships are manning the rail.”

  He looked with his own binoculars and said, “Well, I agree with you, but I can’t offer any explanation. Maybe the president is coming as you suggest.”

  By this time we were well into the harbor. We could see the sailors of every ship arrayed along the lifelines in immaculate white uniforms, and the bands of the larger ships with their instruments in hand. We were ahead of the San Francisco, and as we drew abreast of the first ship in the harbor a bugler blew “Attention.” All hands jumped into position. At a single note from the same bugler, they rendered a hand salute. Then we heard, “Hip hip hooray! Hip hip hooray! Hip hip hooray!” All of those white hats were raised to us at each cheer. There was no presidential visit. They had manned the rail to honor the Sterett and the San Francisco. Even the men of the huge air station on Ford Island were formed along the cement seaplane ramps.

  Each of the ships present repeated the procedure as we drew abreast of it. They gave three cheers in turn to the cruiser as she followed in our wake. As we steamed past the larger ships their bands played the “Victory March,” “Anchors Aweigh,” or one of John Philip Sousa’s marches. It was a welcome beyond description—one that I am sure none of us has forgotten. I have never felt prouder, or more humble, than I did on that day. We also received the following message from Admiral Nimitz: “No words can express my admiration for the San Francisco and Sterett and the officers and men who man them, but to you I give what no others have more fully merited—the Navy ‘Well done’—[and] my wish for you is that your repairs may be fast and effective and your personnel losses made good by men as willing as the shipmates you have lost to give their lives for their country and their Navy’s honor.”

  The admiral came aboard two or three days later, after his staff had thoroughly inspected our damage. We met him in the wardroom, and he extended his hand to each of us. Turning to the skipper, he explained that he had proclaimed his admiration for the men of the Sterett in his official message, but that in the meantime he had come aboard to express to us in person his great appreciation for the ship’s outstanding performance. He made a quick tour of our damage and listened carefully as the skipper explained the scope of it. Once he had seen it all he turned to Jess Coward and said, “Well, captain, how long will it take you to be ready to go back to the States?” Without a moment’s hesitation, the skipper said, “We’re ready right now, admiral.” Admiral Nimitz just smiled and said that he was ordering us to accompany the San Francisco back to Mare Island for repairs, adding that he suspected we would consider that to be the most important news he could give us. Concerning the welcome we had received when we entered the harbor, he told the skipper that it was an indication of how the entire U.S. Navy felt about the Sterett’s conduct in the night action of 13 November. I was impressed with the admiral as a man of exceptionally fine character. He seemed to exude kindness—a quality one would not normally expect to find so visible in a great military leader. His business completed, he asked that we dispense with any side honors for him and left the ship, pausing to shake hands with several crewmen who were standing at attention as he passed. I am sure all of us felt that the Pacific Fleet was in the best possible hands after that visit.

  We broadcast word of our return to the States over the public-address system at once, and a great cheer went up from our crew, who had been hoping for such news ever since our departure from Guadalcanal. We left for the last leg of our return journey on 7 December—it seemed an appropriate way to mark Pearl Harbor Day.

  As we approached the Golden Gate on the eleventh the weather thickened, and we found ourselves in a pea-soup fog. Captain Coward anchored until it cleared. Meanwhile, the radio blared out all sorts of jubilant greetings to the hero of the Third Battle of Savo Island, the USS San Francisco, as she returned in triumph to the great city for which she was named. Every able-bodied citizen was urged to participate in the gigantic waterfront welcome that had been planned. The cruiser dutifully entered the harbor and, despite the fog, slowly steamed up and down in the vicinity of the piers to let herself be seen, finally mooring at her assigned pier where she was instantly overwhelmed with a crowd of well-wishers. We felt sorry for her men, who would be delayed in departing on leave to see the loved ones from whom they had been separated for many months.

  While the city of San Francisco turned itself inside out to welcome its cruiser, the Sterett proceeded quietly to the Mare Island Navy Yard, where we moored and promptly sent our leave and liberty parties ashore. My request for twenty-three days of leave had been approved. Herb May, H. E. Jervey (our assistant engineer, from Columbia, South Carolina), and I went directly to the office of the captain of the yard and arranged for a free ride to Washington, D.C., the next morning aboard a Navy transport plane. It was a miserable trip insofar as comfort was concerned. The plane did not have heat, so we ran up and down the center aisle to keep warm and had a member of the aircrew wake us up whenever we fell asleep. But we were homeward bound, and nothing could diminish our joy over that fact. We would have made the trip by oxcart or dogsled if necessary.

  Herb May left us in Pittsburgh. From there on we encountered exceptionally rough weather—but even this had amusing consequences. With the exception of one Navy nurse and two sailors, “Jerv” and I were the only Navy passengers. All of the others were Army officers, and most of them were ferry pilots. Every last one of them got airsick, while not a single Navy representative so much as looked pale. Our nurse especially seemed to appreciate the humor of the situation.

  In Washington I boarded a Piedmont Airlines flight to Winston-Salem and soon arrived home. My three weeks of leave were, as always, wonderful. But there was bad news along with the good. Our little boy was not well: something was seriously wrong with his kidneys, and he also experienced projectile vomiting. Preliminary examinations in Winston-Salem were inconclusive, so we decided to take him to San Francisco—in that way we could utilize the facilities at the University of California hospital and still be together during the weeks the Sterett remained at Mare Island before departing for the western Pacific. The next two months were enjoyable but also very worrisome. As is so often the case for service wives, the brunt of the anxiety and responsibility fell on Ginny’s shoulders.

  ONE SATURDAY NIGHT IN EARLY JANUARY the Sterett was asked to provide a senior lieutenant, a chief petty officer, and ten additional pet
ty officers for shore patrol duty in the town of Vallejo. I went, together with Hodge and ten petty officers handpicked for their leadership abilities and physical toughness. During the weeks of liberty in San Francisco our sailors and those of the cruiser San Francisco frequently got into altercations over which ship had single-handedly won the war. For the most part these fights were harmless, seldom involving damage or injury to civilians and usually resulting in only black eyes or fat lips. During the early hours of our shore patrol duty we were called to break up three fights of that kind and had very little trouble reestablishing order once we separated the combatants and returned them to their ships under escort.

  At 0100 we were called to a reported riot at a bar in Vallejo. I took Hodge and five men in the patrol van; what we saw when we arrived was a scene from a Mack Sennett comedy. Four sailors with their backs to the bar were slugging it out with seven or eight other sailors in what seemed to be the central event of the disturbance. The local police had responded with about six officers, who were all involved in scattered individual fights. Hodge and I agreed that the ringleader of the eight aggressors was a small sailor whose pugilistic style suggested that he may have been a Golden Gloves champ. When he saw Hodge and his team move in, he broke off the neck of a bottle and thrust it toward the chief’s face.

  Hodge cracked the sailor’s knuckles with his nightstick, and he immediately dropped the bottle. Then the chief grabbed him by the collar and, holding him at arm’s length, started for the paddy wagon. The culprit continued to yell at the top of his lungs and swing wildly at Hodge. A quick glance at his companions showed them to be in the firm grip of our other shore patrolmen. The police got their assailants under control, and we all made our way into the street, where we lined up the prisoners to load them in the patrol wagon. Hodge’s prisoner had not stopped shouting and struggling, but fortunately the chief’s reach was long enough to keep this wildcat at a safe distance.

  As we waited in line, Hodge remarked, “Mr. Calhoun, I think I should let this guy have one.”

  “No, Hodge, he’s drunk,” I said. “Don’t hit him if you don’t have to.”

  A few seconds later the sailor grabbed Hodge’s nightstick from his belt and brought it down on the side of his head. The blow would have knocked out most men, but Hodge just shook his head and looked at me.

  “Now?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Yes. Now.”

  Hodge’s right fist caught the sailor on the point of his jaw. The young man’s feet left the ground, and he sailed headfirst through the open door of the paddy wagon. That ended the riot. All of our prisoners suddenly became very cooperative; we had no trouble returning them to their ships, complete with written shore patrol reports that detailed the behavior for which they had been apprehended. All of them faced captain’s mast the next day, with appropriate disciplinary measures. I was secretly pleased to note that only three were Sterett men. Against eight from the cruiser San Francisco and other ships, it appeared that the Sterett’s sailors had acquitted themselves well. Hodge had a sprained thumb and a lump on his head but otherwise suffered no ill effects. I am sure he remembered for a long time the coup de grace that he had administered so effectively. We referred to the incident as the Battle of Vallejo. No battle star was awarded for it, but it was woven into the fabric of the Sterett’s reputation and became a favorite topic of conversation.

  On 18 January 1943 Lt. Comdr. F. G. Gould relieved Comdr. J. G. Coward as the commanding officer of the USS Sterett. We were all very sorry to lose Jess Coward, but we had expected it, and we liked Frank Gould. We vowed that we would give him our complete loyalty and work closely with him to help keep the Sterett a happy and efficient ship. Frank was delighted with his new assignment. He threw himself into the job of supervising our repairs with typical painstaking thoroughness.

  We were fascinated with some of the new equipment and armament that was put aboard. New torpedo mounts replaced the damaged ones, and new 5-inch gun mounts were installed aft. We were fitted with new 40-mm antiaircraft guns and a beautiful surface-search radar with a PPI scope that enabled us to see every contact on a large visual display. It placed our ship at the center of the picture and showed every other ship within range in the appropriate position relative to us. It left little to the imagination and made me wonder how any task force commander could select a ship that did not have SG radar as his flagship.

  The “Scrappy Sterett,” as Jesse Coward described her, departs Mare Island Navy Yard, 6 February 1943. Her battle damage repaired, she deployed on 10 February to rejoin the South Pacific Force in the Guadalcanal area. Note that her damaged 5-inch gun shields aft have been removed and not replaced. (U.S. Navy Photo)

  Like every other veteran ship that returned to the States for overhaul, the Sterett was vulnerable to the personnel rearrangers in Washington. Before we could leave Mare Island we also lost Hugh Sanders and Tom McWhorter. I was especially sorry to see Tom go, because he had given so much of himself to the men of the Sterett. Losses by transfer were also costly in the enlisted ratings. The list of those transferred to new construction or shore duty included Ed Coppola and C. C. Landers, both chief machinist’s mates; Hilbert Jenson, chief torpedoman; C. R. Reese, chief boatswain’s mate; Harry Stenslie and W. W. Talbot, chief electrician’s mates; and twelve other petty officers. Still we counted ourselves lucky, for we retained people like Byers, Chapman, Keenum, Hodge, Plecker, and Shelton. In my view, the Sterett still had the best crew of any destroyer in the Navy.

  On 10 February 1943 we left Mare Island, passed under the Golden Gate Bridge, and headed west for Pearl Harbor. The old routine of drills and practices started over again, but this time we had a veteran crew—one that had seen it all—and it was relatively easy to break in the new arrivals. By the time we reached Pearl we were running pretty smoothly and became anxious to get back under the Southern Cross, where we knew we were needed.

  We played musical chairs on the bridge after the skipper left. I moved up to the post of executive officer, and J. D. Jeffrey took my place as gunnery officer. Each of us welcomed our new assignments, and the business of the ship continued on an even keel. I had some concerns about my ability to locate the stars well enough to carry out my new responsibilities as navigator. But after a few days of practice I was able to take my sights and work them out with no difficulty. We arrived in Pearl Harbor on 16 February, and for the next week we took advantage of the many target services available there. By the time we left on the twenty-first we felt pretty good about our battle-readiness. It seemed that we had managed to fill the holes in our roster with well-motivated and intelligent people. As to Admiral Nimitz’s question—whether they would be willing to give their lives for their country and their Navy’s honor—we would have to await the ultimate test. But there was little doubt in my mind that they would answer the call.

  CHAPTER 8

  RUSSEL ISLANDS SHUTTLE

  HE CROSSED THE EQUATOR ON 24 FEBRUARY 1943 and had just started to wonder if we would ever see land again when we arrived at Espíritu Santo. Frank Gould and I had always maintained a cordial relationship. Now he appeared to have confidence in me as his exec, and I respected him as a highly competent professional. At sea, he gave me all the authority I needed to do my job. In port, I was his negotiator and intelligence-gathering agent. It was a great arrangement, and I thoroughly enjoyed my new role.

  Our new assignment kept us almost exclusively in the Guadalcanal area, and we frequently anchored in Tulagi or in Purvis Bay, on the coast of Florida Island. One rainy night in Tulagi a merchant ship called on the voice radio to say that she was trying to negotiate the channel to her anchorage but that she was without radar and absolutely blind. Frank plotted her on our navigational chart and, by taking continuous ranges and bearings on her with our new surface-search radar, directed her to her exact anchorage location. This was an early demonstration of the innovative possibilities of radar.

  At this time ComSoPac decided to augment the existing air
strip facilities at Guadalcanal by building a new landing field in the Russel Islands, sixty miles west of Tulagi. Transport of the necessary materials and equipment was to take place under the cover of darkness. The job was assigned to several small to medium-sized amphibious craft, and our task was to shepherd them to their destination over a period of several weeks. When we were first ordered to perform this mission I discovered that one of our old four-stack destroyers had already visited the small harbor where the new base was to be established. Her commanding officer was Lt. Comdr. “Punchy” Shea, a 1936 graduate of Annapolis who (like me) had been a member of the 4th Battalion.

  I went to see him aboard his ship, the Trever (DMS 16), a converted World War I destroyer. It was an inspiration to go aboard a truly heroic element of the Navy. The ship was ancient and, like her sisters, was barely holding together. Ships such as the Trever and the Reuben James performed some of the most hazardous tasks of the war. I had observed the Southard carrying aviation gas to Guadalcanal in fifty-gallon drums stored on deck and unloading them onto the beach in the face of an imminent air attack. Many difficult escort duties were performed quietly and efficiently by these four-pipers. They were pitifully ill equipped to oppose any Japanese force—surface, air, or submarine—yet they accepted every assignment without complaint and in most cases delivered the goods. They deserved our admiration, and Punchy Shea seemed to exemplify their spirit.

  Asked how to enter the Russel Islands base at night, he sat down at his wardroom table and explained how he had done it. There were no navigational aids on which to obtain a fix, but he mapped out how we could proceed on a westerly course until the higher of two small peaks was on a specific northwesterly bearing, and then turn to that course and proceed until we were within a certain distance of the beach. At that point we could safely anchor and wait for our amphibious craft to unload. With luck they would complete their unloading before daybreak, and we could be well on our way back to Florida Island by sunrise.