On the second day out, Spence conducted a surprise abandon-ship drill. After the general quarters horn blared oooga-oooga-oooga came the announcement over the loudspeaker: “This is a drill, this is a drill. All hands prepare to abandon ship.” It was the one order that no seaman ever wanted to hear for real, but it had to be practiced, like everything else aboard ship. It took twenty minutes for the crew to be in their proper places wearing their life jackets, and with large life rafts ready to be cast off—at which point they were “secured from drill.”
On November 5, Spence arrived at Ulithi, a large atoll in the Caroline Islands occupied by U.S. forces with no opposition only two months earlier. Spence had no sooner anchored at a depth of 130 feet “over a sand and coral bottom” some 100 yards from shore when a priority message was received indicating that all ships in the lagoon were in “Condition of Readiness Typhoon II,” requiring them to stay in a “high degree of readiness” to encounter a typhoon that might hit in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. The alert lasted three days, until a lower condition of readiness was set, which meant that a storm was “no longer imminent” but still could materialize.
Aboard Spence and other destroyers in the squadron, the weather alerts “impressed upon” officers and enlisted crew alike that they would be operating in a region where they had to be prepared to deal with typhoons. Commanding officers and junior watch officers alike broke out copies of Austin M. Knight’s Modern Seamanship and Nathaniel Bowditch’s American Practical Navigator—both classic naval titles were carried on the bridge of every U.S. Navy ship—“to reacquaint themselves” with cyclonic storms. The former title was of little help, as it contained only a single-page reference to typhoons, and stated: “At the present time the available evidence concerning the formation of tropical cyclones—they are called typhoons in the Far East—is incomplete and inconclusive.” Bowditch, however, had a twenty-two-page chapter titled “Cyclonic Storms,” which contained information “of great value to the uninitiated destroyer skipper so far as typhoons were concerned.” Sections in Bowditch included “Fixing the Bearing of the Storm Center” and “Handling the Vessel Within the Storm Area.” Of special interest were the “thumb rules regarding local indicators of a typhoon’s approach,” including increased and shifting winds, and falling pressure readings on the barometer. Fully developed typhoons were described as covering an area 300 miles in diameter with a calm center—the eye of the storm—up to 20 miles wide. For mariners, the “dangerous semicircle” of the storm—the right-hand side in the northern hemisphere—was the worst place to be, according to Bowditch, as the “seas within this area are violent and confused, sweeping in from all sides with overwhelming violence.” The left-hand side or southernmost side was considered the “navigable semicircle.”
While most crew members of Spence and the other destroyers at Ulithi had not been through a typhoon and had “no conception of the overwhelming destructiveness of such a storm,” their officers hoped that should they have the “bad luck to encounter one” they would at least be able to recognize its approach and take appropriate measures to avoid the worst of it. While all agreed there was value in discussing typhoons, they reasoned that “only if we were operating independently did it seemed necessary to concern ourselves with avoiding bad weather.” Otherwise, they believed, the fleet would provide the eyes, ears, expertise, and leadership needed to avoid a typhoon, which in the lower to middle latitudes traveled at relatively slow speeds of from 5 to 17 miles per hour along its path.
On November 10, Spence in company with other destroyers and several aircraft carriers headed farther westward across the Pacific. One evening during this leg of the journey, Water Tender 3rd Class Charles Wohlleb, twenty, who had been on Spence since May 1943 and had gone through all the exploits of the Little Beavers, finished his watch in the after fire room. Coming topside on a “pitch-black” night, he went to the engineering division’s berthing compartment near the fantail—right above the twin turbine-powered propellers that drove the ship—and found fifty or sixty guys off duty, shooting the breeze and playing poker and games of checkers. “All of a sudden, the screws stopped.” It was not a noise Wohlleb had often heard at sea, as it meant the ship was dead in the water. Then the ship was thrown into “full reverse” and “the whole boat shuddered.” Wohlleb and the others “looked at each other,” jumped up, and rushed topside to see “what the hell was going on.” Scaling the ladder to the deck and emerging through a hatch, Wohlleb was alarmed to see a “huge shadow” looming close in front of Spence. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he was shocked to see an aircraft carrier—darkened per wartime regulations and not showing a single light—crossing silently in front of their bow.
The skipper had been at the conn, Wohlleb found out, and “almost hit” the carrier Wasp (CV-18). Andrea had ordered an emergency stop and reversed the engines to avoid ramming Wasp, and barely succeeded in doing so. Wohlleb had never seen anything like it, not in the eighteen months he had been aboard and all the tight spots Spence had been through. Their old skipper had always had a deft hand at the conn no matter the situation. Now Wohlleb “got to thinking” about Andrea, who hailed from the same Jersey town (West New York) as he did, although they had not known each other. It dawned on Wohlleb that the new skipper, whom he thought was a “nice, regular guy,” had demonstrated he “just didn’t have the experience.” Added to this was the fact that they also had a new executive officer; two weeks earlier, shortly before leaving Pearl Harbor, Lieutenant Frank V. Andrews had taken over as second in command and navigator. That meant Spence’s two highest-ranking officers were new at their jobs, along with a majority of the other officers and crew.
Wohlleb and some of the old hands in the engineering division talked it over. Their young commanding officer had made his “first mistake,” and it had been a close call. No matter how pleasant the new skipper, they begrudgingly agreed they would, if they could, trade him for Henry “Heinie” Armstrong—that “tough bastard” who had “gotten us through a lot” and “never did anything stupid” such as nearly hitting another ship. What in the world would happen, the sailors wondered, if things got really rough?
Nine
Early on September 27, 1944, fires were lit under Monaghan’s boilers. By noontime, all preparations had been made for getting under way from Puget Sound Navy Yard to conduct engineering trials following a six-week overhaul.
In the Strait of Juan de Fuca that afternoon, engines were brought up to full power—and in short order a “gasket blew in boiler #2.” The boiler was secured and other tests continued, including the firing of new 20 mm and 40 mm antiaircraft weapons. By evening, Monaghan was dockside again, and the shipyard was presented with a list of final fixes to be made.
Monaghan ran another full-power test the next day to determine any new handling characteristics after the overhaul, such as how much the ship heeled over during turns at certain speeds and how long it took to recover from turns of varying degrees. A sister Farragut-class destroyer, Dewey (DD-349), also wrapping up an overhaul, was in the seaway at the same time undergoing similar trials. Among experienced personnel on the bridges of both ships there was the recognition that “something was wrong.” Long considered top-heavy, the prewar destroyers had always been prone to steep, slow rolls even in relatively calm seas. The officers and enlisted crew who had served on Farraguts were “very aware of their lack of stability,” and it was a “matter of constant concern.” However, the ships now seemed even “more sluggish than when they first entered the shipyard” a month earlier. In turns as moderate as 10 degrees, they “lurched awkwardly and heeled over about fifteen degrees.” Failing to “snap back” normally, they hung precariously to one side for “a long time” before slowly righting themselves. It made for serious questions about their seaworthiness in strong winds and high seas.
Dewey’s skipper of only four days, Lieutenant Commander Charles R. Calhoun, who had previously commanded the fast minesweeper Lamb
erton (DMS-2), a converted destroyer, was so alarmed at the instability of his new ship that he decided against executing “radical turns at speeds in excess of twenty knots” because doing so seemed “imprudent.” His urgent request—upon returning to the shipyard—to have the vessel’s “serious stability problem” more extensively tested was “beyond the scope of local authority,” and it was passed along to Washington. In response, the Navy’s Bureau of Ships conceded that the Farraguts’ “stability might have undergone some reduction” due to the added weight of new equipment installed topside, but claimed they were still “basically stable.” It was also pointed out that “in light of pressures from the operating forces to deploy all available destroyers to the western Pacific as a matter of urgency,” no further shipyard delays for these vessels were “feasible.” Calhoun and the officers of other Farraguts had little choice but to accept the opinion of the Bureau of Ships that the over-hauled ships were stable, and “went about the business of getting ready for sea.”*
Since the launch of the Farraguts in 1934–35, many newer destroyers had been built—more than 250 during the war. These newer classes of destroyers were equipped with better armament and communications and more modern engineering systems. Notwithstanding the Farraguts’ documented stability problems, the remaining seven destroyers of the class were needed in the war effort, as fleets tended never to have enough destroyers to screen and protect larger ships.
In the days preceding Monaghan’s departure, the usual sense of excitement and anticipation was palpable throughout the ship at the promise of getting under way, no matter what the destination. When Monaghan departed on October 1—in company with Dewey, escorting the battleship North Carolina (BB-55) down the coast to San Pedro, California—the ship “mustered the crew on stations” that morning and found two “absentees,” both young seamen who would be reported as AWOL.
From San Pedro, Monaghan steamed to Pearl Harbor, arriving October 10. For several weeks in Hawaiian waters, the destroyer trained her crew—many of them right out of recruit training—in gunnery, torpedo-firing runs, and antisubmarine warfare. Everyone knew what to expect next.
Gunner’s Mate Joe Guio, who had written home in 1943 announcing that the president of the United States was sending them to San Francisco for Christmas, now wrote a different message to his folks in West Virginia.
The Navy will get together & pay the Japs a visit in the Philippine Islands. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be alright. The Japs don’t worry me a bit.
I didn’t get to stay in the states very long. Hell, I didn’t like Seattle anyway but at least that’s a safe place to be, isn’t it? I hope it isn’t too long before this War ends. It will last a couple of years at the most, then I come home to stay for keeps. I guess you people know what is happening out here in the Pacific by what you read in the newspapers. I don’t have anything more to say so I’ll drop my anchor until I hear from you. Love & kisses to all.
Toward the end of October, a kind of “miracle” happened to Water Tender Joseph Candelaria, who had been aboard Monaghan since shortly after the attack on Pearl Harbor, and who had figured during the Battle of the Komandorski Islands in the Aleutians that he and his shipmates were all goners.
Candelaria was one of three senior water tenders eligible for transfer to three-month boiler school in Philadelphia, which would include leave to go home—but only one man could be sent. The other two candidates, Joe “Mother” McCrane and Water Tender 2nd Class William D. Weaver, were both married. Candelaria was single, and at first he said one of the other two should go. Besides, he had spent all his money on liberties in Seattle, and going home broke didn’t seem like a good idea. On decision day, however, Candelaria received a letter from his hometown sweetheart, Alvina Holguin, in California. She told him she had joined the WAVES and expected to be leaving shortly for training. Candelaria thought it might be a good idea, after all, to get home. Chief Water Tender Martin Busch stood on the quarterdeck before the three men with a hat containing folded slips of paper; two said “no” and one said “go.” After all reached into the hat, Candelaria unfolded the “go” slip. His luck amazed him; he had quit gambling because he “never caught a lucky break.”
Just before Candelaria left the ship a couple of days later carrying his seabag and with new orders in hand, two buddies—Boilermaker 1st Class Frank A. Cain and Water Tender 3rd Class Leonard R. Bryant—tried to talk him out of leaving so they could enjoy more liberties in port together. In addition, Candelaria had been offered “over $200” to sell his “go” slip, as each of the married water tenders tried to outbid the other. As much as he could use the money, Candelaria knew he would have to work with the fellow who didn’t get to go. Although he would miss his liberty buddies, he decided to punch his lucky ticket off the ship and get back to the woman he hoped one day to marry.
Candelaria said his goodbyes and boarded the whaleboat to be taken to the fleet landing. Casting a last look back at the old destroyer on which he had spent the last thirty-three months, he started his long journey “back to the States.”
His shipmates, Candelaria knew, would be heading in the opposite direction: toward the war and whatever fate awaited them across the Pacific.
LIEUTENANT COMMANDER Charles Consolvo was relieved of command on October 2, 1944, with Hull still dockside undergoing a major overhaul at Seattle’s Todd Pacific Shipyard.
Consolvo had been skipper for ten months, a period of time that placed him in line to rotate to a new assignment. He had performed well in his position, not only in the opinion of his crew but also according to Consolvo’s squadron and division commander, who had rated Consolvo in his latest fitness report a 3.9 (out of 4.0) in three categories: present assignment, ability to command, and ship handling. Another comment was “Commander Consolvo is an excellent officer in every respect. He is conscientious, energetic, and sincere.” When asked for his preference for his next duty station, Consolvo had written: “No change.” Still, the Navy had decided it was time for him to move on, and had a special job in mind for him: Consolvo was headed to Annapolis to teach future officers.
Among those disappointed to see the popular skipper depart was Storekeeper 3rd Class Kenneth L. Drummond, twenty, of Jamesport, Missouri, where all nineteen boys in his twenty-seven-member high school graduating class were in military service. A strapping six-footer with a mop of black curly hair, Drummond joined the Navy six months after graduating from high school in June 1942. Aboard since early 1943, he considered Hull “a very good ship” with “high morale.” He found the crew to be a “tight-knit group and very close,” and agreed with the consensus that Hull was a “lucky ship” for having gone through so much without loss of lives. Drummond also liked his own duties: as storekeeper, he always had “plenty of food” close at hand. His battle station was on the bridge as a captain’s talker over the ship’s sound-powered phone system, and he liked being “aware of all that was going on” during the action. With his bridge duties, Drummond had the opportunity to get to know many of the ship’s officers. They were, he thought, uniformly competent, as well as friendly toward enlisted men. The officers had all been trained as underway watch officers by Consolvo, and Drummond witnessed how they had been given plenty of time at the conn under his watchful eye and instructive hand.
Drummond considered Consolvo “the very best”—an excellent ship handler who could “lay a ship against a dock with precision the way some people park a car and never bump the curb.” He had been standing near Consolvo when Hull was shelling the beach of an enemy-held island and suddenly a rain squall came up and “visibility dropped to almost nothing.” Moments later, everyone on the bridge looked up to see the bow of the battleship New Jersey “almost upon us and very close to ramming us amidships.” Consolvo ordered full speed ahead and hard left rudder, and Hull swung up alongside New Jersey like a harbor tugboat. Everyone on the bridge “breathed a sigh of relief.” New Jersey’s captain signaled by light: “How does our bow look?” Conso
lvo signaled back: “Second link in your anchor chain is rusty, sir.”
An incident Drummond thought revealed Consolvo’s true character happened as they were heading stateside for overhaul. Drummond was at the fantail with several other enlisted men having coffee and shining their shoes, which were lined up in front of them. When the skipper approached, everyone started to stand, but Consolvo said, “No, sit down.” Consolvo seated himself alongside them, picked up a rag and a scuffed shoe, and began polishing. The skipper, who had been a “private in the U.S. Army for a year before receiving his appointment to Annapolis,” didn’t leave until the enlisted men’s shoes were all shined.
Drummond appreciated the way Consolvo “took care of his crew” in ways large and small. During a stopover at Pearl Harbor some months earlier, Consolvo had purchased black baseball caps for all the crew. The caps “kept the sun off your forehead and out of your eyes” and made it easier to wear the sound-powered phone headsets. While the caps “made a lot more sense in the Pacific than the regulation white sailor hats,” Hull’s crew did get some “strange looks from other ships” when they were spotted in the baseball caps.
In the course of going through the change-of-command procedure, Consolvo took his relief on a tour of Hull, introducing him to officers and enlisted men alike and endeavoring to explain the ship’s little quirks and his tricks for handling them. Normally, they would have spent time operating at sea, with Consolvo showing how the vessel handled, but there was no opportunity to do so with the yard work still going on. Likewise, they could not hold the usual general drills—battle stations, fire, collision, abandon ship, and such—with all the civilian workers aboard. The new commanding officer would have to do that on his own when the yard finished its work—conducting the first full-power runs after the overhaul, and testing all the new equipment installed and repairs made. Consolvo tried to cover everything else the regulations required, and whatever else he could think of that would be useful.
Down to the Sea Page 12