Tin Can Sailor

by Charles R. Calhoun

  The transports were the planes’ main targets. They carried vital supplies and ammunition, and they were slow and vulnerable. The destroyers formed a loose protective ring around their charges. One enemy plane almost scored a hit on the Sterett, but her veteran gunners shot it down. It missed by no more than thirty yards off the starboard beam. The pilot’s body and parts of his plane were recovered by the Sterett after the fight.

  Many ships were hit. On top of the loss of the Bush and the Colhoun, the destroyers Mullany (DD 528), Newcomb (DD 586), Leutze (DD 481), Howorth (DD 592), Hyman (DD 732), Morris (DD 417), and Haynsworth (DD 700) and the destroyer-escort Fieberling (DE 640) were all damaged and sent to the protected anchorage of Kerama Retto (about eighteen miles south of Naha) to be patched up by our tenders and repair ships. Despite the toll they had inflicted on our ships the Japanese failed to reduce the capabilities of U.S. forces in any significant way, and they lost about two hundred planes in the process. The conquest of Okinawa continued on schedule.

  Aboard the Sterett pride and satisfaction were the dominant emotions. She had scored one positive kill and had at least participated in the downing of five more Japanese aircraft, at a cost of 250 rounds of 5-inch ammunition and innumerable 40- and 20-mm rounds. Gordy Williams took to the public-address system to tell the crew what a good job they had done and to give them the Navy’s highest accolade—“Well done.”

  That first day served to indicate exactly how ferocious the enemy’s attacks would be for the duration of the Okinawa campaign. It was clear that the occupants of the radar picket stations were in for a fight. If you had asked any sailor on the Sterett on 6 April 1945 what he thought would be next on the ship’s agenda, chances are he would have replied, “We’ll probably be assigned to radar picket station number one.” And that is exactly what happened. On the morning of 7 April the Sterett was ordered to that station along with the Bennett (DD 473) to provide early warning of the approach of Japanese aircraft. Since station number one was on a direct line between Japan and Okinawa, it was certain to attract the attention of every enemy raid southward. The men of the Sterett knew all about the Bush and the Colhoun, but they adopted their characteristic attitude: “Well, what the hell, somebody has to do it—and besides, who can do it better?”

  A protective CAP of between four and six fighters from one of the fast carriers was assigned to picket station number one from one-half hour after sunrise to one-half hour before sunset. Of course, the Japanese were aware of this schedule. They concentrated their attacks at dawn and at dusk, although skirmishes went on all day too. Without the protection of our fighters, the picket force (which included destroyer-escorts as well as minecraft, landing craft, and patrol boats that had been assigned for rescue purposes) were at a distinct disadvantage. Gordy Williams gave this account of the events of 7–9 April 1945:

  Each destroyer division usually had one ship equipped with extra electronic gear that enhanced its capacity for early detection and control of the CAP. The destroyer so equipped was then designated as a DDR, for radar picket. The Sterett, in Squadron One, Division Twelve, did not actually have extra electronic gear due to weight limitations, but she had been labeled as a DDR anyway. Following our orders, we joined the Bennett in radar picket station one at about noon. The scuttlebutt took on a new tone, and the ship buzzed with excitement. “How long before we get creamed? Can this old can take a kamikaze? Is our shooting good enough? What are our chances?” The Sterett had swapped shots with a Japanese battleship at Savo Island and had the 14-inch scars in the superstructure to prove it. We were well trained, the ship was fast, and we had proved we could shoot straight. Morale was high. I had been through eight campaigns and engagements, and had held every job on a destroyer from “George” to captain in my six straight years on this type of ship. I felt confident of my own and the ship’s ability to meet any challenge.

  Early in the evening of the seventh as we patrolled stations with the Bennett, two low-flying planes came in and attacked her. She was about three miles north of the Sterett. The Bennett was able to shoot down one of the planes, but the second crashed into the forward fire room, killing and wounding many personnel and incapacitating the ship. Because the planes came in on the far side of the Bennett, the Sterett was unable to render gunfire support without shooting over her and running the risk of hitting her. The risk was magnified by the fact that kamikaze tactics usually involved at least some very low-level approaches; and even when the aircraft dove from above, the stream of gunfire had to follow the plane in its descent and then stop before it got so low as to hit the structure of the target ship. An appropriate damage report was sent, and the Bennett was ordered to proceed to Kerama Retto. The Sterett was directed to remain on radar picket station one. Two small ships (LCSs) were directed to join us for limited gun support or, as some members of the crew observed, to pick up survivors.

  The dawning of 8 April had special meaning for me—it was my thirtieth birthday. I wondered, perhaps a bit morbidly, if this was to be my last day on earth. We were directly in line for the next kamikaze attack, and the odds were against us. The carrier group would provide CAP for us for most of the day, but we would be on our own at the most dangerous periods of half-light—dawn and dusk—when the fuel limitations of our planes and the distances involved necessitated leaving the picket destroyers unprotected. To my relief, we received no attack at dawn, and shortly thereafter the friendly fighters arrived overhead.

  The day passed with the condition watch alert and the air controller in the Sterett’s combat information center in constant conversation with the carrier’s CAP. I listened to these conversations and read the messages that the decoding watch constantly brought to the bridge for my perusal and information. Our ground forces were advancing inland on Okinawa in heavy fighting, aided by heavy bombardment from ship batteries and carrier aircraft. Throughout the day none of the anticipated attacks occurred, but as sunset was not until 1930 there was plenty of time before the inevitable dusk general quarters. The steward, James Bailey, had remembered my birthday and provided a nice birthday cake at dinner. The wardroom was fairly relaxed and there was considerable kidding, although the tension could be felt under the calm exterior. After dinner I returned to the bridge and called the ship to general quarters about a half-hour before sunset, which was about ten minutes before the CAP would depart to return to the carrier. Dusk came, and then night, and I felt reasonably sure that I would not meet my maker on this date.

  The morning of 9 April was strictly routine on the Sterett. Dawn general quarters, with gun drills, were held as usual. After daylight, with the arrival of the CAP, the condition watch was set and the ship proceeded with normal advanced-area routine. Emergency drills were held in the afternoon (collision, damage control, man overboard, and so on) and were efficiently carried out. I had formed the habit of timing all drills with a stopwatch and was satisfied insofar as speed, thoroughness, attention to detail in battle dress, and general procedures were concerned. . . .

  As evening approached and the CAP prepared to leave, the Sterett went to general quarters as usual. This was at about 1850, with sunset due at about 1930. About five minutes after the departure of the CAP, the combat information center reported many bogies approaching from the northwest at a distance of forty miles. I took the conn and ordered all engines ahead flank speed—25 knots. Then I went to the loudspeaker system and made the following announcement: “We have Jap planes en route heading directly for us—if you characters ever want to sleep with a blonde again, you had better shoot down these bastards as soon as they come up.” I sensed that it eased the strain a little bit. My plan was to fishtail (make rapid changes of course to port and starboard) at high speed to become as elusive a target as possible, and at the same time to keep all my guns firing.

  In a few minutes the gun director was locked on the enemy plane formation, which now began to break up into five segments. I gave the order to the gunnery officer to open fire as soon as the Japs were
within range. We had clear weather and good visibility, and in a few minutes five planes identified as Vals came at us. . . . Four of these planes headed for the Sterett. The fifth peeled off and went after the two small craft now several miles from us. This plane dove over one LCS and overshot the hull, but knocked off the mainmast. In accordance with his suicide pact, the pilot had flown to his death.

  Up in the gun director, Roy Cowdrey had a good solution and was doing a superb job. One Val zeroing in on us was shot down by the 5-inch guns when it was still about four miles away. Now Roy shifted to a second Val, and it was hit shortly thereafter. Once it hit the water, the odds were cut in half. The two remaining planes were heading directly for the bridge structure, their machine guns blazing to strafe the gun crews and other exposed people. I ordered the bridge personnel to take cover on the port side—the kamikazes were coming at us on the starboard beam. All of the quartermasters and signalmen scrambled to the opposite side except Signalman 1/c Conn, a rather laconic individual from Tennessee who stated flatly, “If you stay, captain, I’m staying also.” I appreciated his attitude, and the starboard wing of the bridge was not quite so lonely in those memorable few seconds of ultimate peril. Below us on the 01 level, Steward’s Mate 3/c James Bailey and his gun crew fired their 20-mm gun at its maximum rate while bullets struck all around them and hit the ship’s side. This gun crew literally sawed off one wing of the attacker, and it hit the water no more than fifty yards away on the starboard beam. One wheel of the plane ricocheted and wedged under the starboard anchor chain.

  The fourth Val was headed directly for the bridge structure. The kamikazes liked aiming at this point, which obviously was the most likely location at which to score lucky hits on critical ship-control personnel. If the plane was hit and lost altitude while aiming at the bridge, it could still damage the ship at the waterline or in vital engineering spaces. This Val was hit by gunfire, but it struck the Sterett just above the waterline and directly below the bridge, exploding into the mess hall. It made a ten-foot hole in the ship’s side, bashed in the diesel generator, and did some damage to the fuel oil tanks directly below. The damage control parties worked quickly to ascertain the extent of our wounds and whether there was any loss of vital ship services. I slowed to 15 knots as we lost steering control on the starboard cables. Dusk was descending as I called for casualty reports and further damage evaluations. It was with the utmost relief and satisfaction that I received the report of none dead, and only minor injuries. In fact the number-one personnel casualty appeared to be our own favorite medical officer, Doc Lea, who was thrown off balance during our radical maneuvering. Fortunately, he had no broken bones, but he did suffer some painful contusions. We had been through and survived a full-fledged kamikaze attack by four simultaneous attackers without the loss of a single man.

  Our communications were intact, and we were able to get action and damage reports off immediately. A relief destroyer was ordered out to relieve us of our picket station duties, and the Sterett was ordered back to Kerama Retto for emergency repairs of battle damage.

  Chief Engineer Leonard Woods offered this account of the kamikaze hit:

  I was in the forward engine room, at engine control. At first the 5-inch started firing, then the 40-mm, and finally the 20-mm. The hit by the plane created quite an explosion, and in engine control we were in complete darkness. The point of impact was just forward of the forward fire room. The plane severed all of the electrical cables on the starboard side, went through the emergency diesel generator room (putting that out of commission), and then cut all the cables on the port side of the ship. All of our circuits were out, and repeated efforts to reset the breakers were futile. The chief electrician’s mate suggested we abandon the engine room, but I wasn’t ready to do that yet. Then the hatch opened, and I was handed a sound-powered telephone from the bridge. Captain Williams instructed me to try to restore power with our emergency jump system, and then to try to trim the ship with ballast. We were able to do so. Speed was restricted then to about 3 knots. How we escaped without serious injuries to our people I’ll never know. Much credit must be given to Captain Williams for his leadership in directing total command of all the steps necessary to save the ship.

  Again the Sterett had been tested to her utmost, and again she had passed the test. For his performance during and after the kamikaze attack Gordy Williams was awarded the Navy Cross, the third Sterett skipper to be so honored.

  The Sterett made it to Kerama Retto under her own power—no small accomplishment under the circumstances. Once there she went alongside a repair ship, whose crew welded a steel plate over the huge hole made by the kamikaze and removed what was left of the Japanese plane and its pilot. In little more than a week the Sterett left the vicinity of Okinawa for Bremerton, Washington (stopping at Guam and Pearl Harbor), and permanent repairs at the Puget Sound Naval Shipyard.

  Her repairs completed in early July, the Sterett steamed down the coast to San Diego for refresher training. After a couple of weeks of concentrated drills and practices she was ready for combat again, despite a large turnover in personnel and the loss of many old-timers. In late July she moved to Pearl Harbor to take part in more training exercises, including shore bombardments of Kahoolawe Island. Gordy Williams reported that his ship was ready to return to the conflict—but her fighting days were over. President Truman authorized the use of atomic bombs, and soon after they were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki the Japanese capitulated. Surrender ceremonies were conducted aboard the USS Missouri, and the Sterett was on her way home.

  THERE IS NO SINGLE EYEWITNESS ACCOUNT of the Sterett’s last days, but the following remembrances capture the sense of loyalty and comradeship that developed in those who served on her. From Roy Cowdrey—

  Gibson carried me while I learned—bless him and the other chiefs. I remember him telling me to pick the target, and he’d get the solution and tell me when to shoot.

  I remember a request from Signalman 1/c Conn—who had been our director/bridge telephone talker—to move him out of the director and assign him to the bridge for general quarters. I granted his request.

  Lastra, the director pointer, was the boatswain’s mate assigned with me to the after fueling station, which more often than not was underwater during our refuelings. The bridge would repeatedly call down to us to ask how much longer it was going to take before we had received our capacity intake. Our response was always, “How in the hell would we know? We’re just trying to keep from going overboard with these solid seas back here!”

  I remember all those dawn and dusk general quarters, straining to see a periscope or spot a bogie, when we were always required to hold various and sundry casualty drills and were often so tired that we could barely stay awake.

  I remember “Big John” Kosalko—gun captain of the number two 5-inch mount—hanging out of the door instead of the hatch and firing more rounds than the other three guns because of “Big Willie” and Varner (two terrific black sailors, both in and out of that gun). John knocked someone out when the sailor panicked during one action. Hodge and I tried every which way (short of making the checks on the exam paper) to get John rated up to second class.

  I remember Herb May scheduling loading drills every day, regardless of the fact that we may have fired umpteen rounds in anger the day before.

  I remember Okinawa and hearing Herb in combat, during dusk alert and just before we were hit, saying, “Here they come, low on the horizon.” Lastra tapped me on the shoulder as he pointed to the planes at about thirty degrees.

  I remember Montenegro (FC 3/c), the rangefinder operator, being blinded by Jap searchlights at Guam when we tried to shoot them out.

  I remember the stroke that Gordy Williams almost had when he was brought to the Sterett for the first time by the regular gig crew—they sported Mohawk hair cuts, no shoes, and cutoff jeans. The Sterett crew knew it was good.

  I remember Fink, the chief boatswain’s mate, and his dog who only had one pup�
�lack of space, you know.

  Then there was “Your Typhoon”—green water over the gun director.

  We chipped paint, weighed it, and tried to determine how much excess weight we’d removed. The result was that I had red, green, and yellow guns for a while—different chromatic colors.

  From Neale Fugate—

  Fairly early in my stint, the Sterett’s torpedo tubes were removed and replaced with two 40s. Then later, just before Okinawa, a radio transmitter/receiver outlet was set up on the gun director platform; we had become a picket ship. The radio hookup gave lookouts direct communication with the combat air patrol. Jap planes had begun to come down the chain of islands to Okinawa, mostly on suicide missions. Against shipping, they would come in below air search radar effectiveness but high enough so that it was difficult for the surface search radar to pick them up. The lookouts were supposed to spot these incoming planes early and coach the CAP over to them. It worked.

  On the evening of 9 April 1945, after the CAP had to head back to base, a squad of Jap planes showed up. I was on the gun director deck for this surface search routine with two exceptionally good lookouts. One of them spotted the planes (five of them) ten to twelve thousand yards out. As I remember, he climbed up the gun director ladder, reached down to guide the gunnery officer’s head up out of the top hatch, and pointed out the incoming planes to him. The director trained on them, got a solution at around eight thousand yards, and began firing at about five thousand yards. The 5-inch got two of the planes at around three thousand yards away. One of the remaining three turned south and went after two small landing craft that were with us. The landing craft were fitted with 40s and 20s, and they shot down their attacker. By then our 40s and 20s had come into action. One plane was hit and exploded no more than fifty yards off our starboard beam, showering our decks with debris. The remaining plane, now heading straight for our bridge and strafing us from murderously close range, absorbed a hail of 40-and 20-mm shells from our superbly courageous gunners, who never flinched. They were still firing when the plane hit us amidships, at the waterline. As one of our Brooklynites put it, “You could of drove a Mack truck tru duh hole.” Evidently the plane was carrying a 6- or 8-inch artillery shell that exploded when it hit—and yes, the hole was sizable.