Tin Can Sailor

by Charles R. Calhoun

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Yes, in the back.”

  “Anyone in bad shape?” was my next question. Jeff and Shelton both thought they were OK, but Byers said he had been hit in the neck, and that really concerned me. I reached out with my left hand to touch the back of his neck. I could feel a puncture wound, but because there was no spurting arterial bleeding I told him it did not seem too serious. I asked if anyone felt that he needed immediate treatment. Instantly, all three answered with a loud and definite “No!” So we sat there more alert than ever, looking for fresh targets. We were on the prowl again.

  EVEN IN OUR WILDEST FANTASIES in the spring of 1939, none of us imagined that by November 1942 we would find ourselves aboard a little destroyer called the Sterett slugging it out at murderously close range against a Japanese cruiser—with a battleship and a destroyer to follow. In April 1939 President Roosevelt conducted a formal review of the U.S. fleet in New York. The USS Tennessee (BB 49) made the transit from the Pacific for the occasion, and I was serving aboard that venerable man-of-war on my first tour of duty after graduating from Annapolis with the class of ’38. I had enjoyed my tour on the Tennessee, but by the time of the visit to New York I wanted a transfer from the big-ship to the little-ship Navy. Duty in destroyers had become my preference two years before, when my Naval Academy class had gone on a summer cruise in ships of that type. Now the Navy was rapidly expanding to meet the growing threat of war, and the nucleus of officers required to man those new ships had to come from the fleet. I hoped to be reassigned to one of the brand-new destroyers that were just coming off the building ways.

  Lt. Comdr. Atherton Macondray (left) and Lt. Watson T. Singer, the Sterett’s first commanding and executive officers, established a “can do” spirit and a winning attitude, both of which lasted throughout the ship’s lifetime. (Author’s collection)

  The orders arrived and fulfilled my hopes. I was to “proceed to Charleston, S.C., and report to the Commandant, Sixth Naval District, for duty in connection with the fitting out of the USS Sterett, at the Navy Yard, and on board that vessel when commissioned.” On 1 May I left the Tennessee and took a train to Charleston. The next day, a Sunday, I took a cab to the Navy Yard to look at this new destroyer that was soon to become my home.

  The Sterett’s appearance was a far cry from that of the Tennessee. The latter’s gleaming brightwork, fresh light-gray paint, smartly uniformed quarterdeck watch, and spotless white teakwood decks marked her as a proud man-of-war. Looking at this lifeless ship, I felt a twinge of regret. My mind’s eye had envisioned a sleek craft, with perhaps a clipper bow and rakish mast and stacks. After all, this was one of a new class of destroyers with state-of-the-art design features, and I had expected something more compatible with the “greyhound of the sea” image of the “tin can” Navy. This ship was definitely not attractive. She had a stubby stack and a high, straight, ungraceful bow. The large white numerals “407” painted on each side of the bow, just aft of her housed anchors, did nothing to enhance her appearance. Steam hoses, electrical leads, water lines, and an array of tools and pumps cluttered her topside. Finally, my gaze shifted to her squat stern, where the black letters “STERETT” disclosed her name. Whatever her good qualities, beauty was not one of them. I wondered what life would be like on this new destroyer. Always an optimist, I told myself that appearances are superficial. At least she looked rugged and seaworthy.

  The first Sterett officer I met was Lt. (jg) James Clute, Naval Academy class of ’34 and the Sterett’s first lieutenant. Jim was a 6-foot, 1-inch former varsity pitcher with a droll sense of humor. He called me at the hotel that evening, having guessed that I might have arrived. We had dinner together, and he filled me in on the other officers, who had already reported. The commanding officer was Lt. Comdr. Atherton Macondray, USNA ’21, a Virginia gentleman; the executive officer was Lt. Watson T. Singer, USNA ’25, a tall, square-shouldered, gruff veteran of the China Station; the gunnery officer was Lt. Frank Winant, USNA ’30, blonde, short, and slight, a graduate of the Navy’s postgraduate school in naval ordnance; the chief engineer was Lt. Frank P. Luongo, USNA ’30, a graduate of the Navy’s postgraduate course in marine engineering; and the communications officer was Ens. Richard Hughes, USNA ’37. I was the assistant engineer, and because I was the junior officer I also served as the “George,” handling all of the additional duties—mess treasurer, welfare officer, and officer-in-charge of the landing party—that no one else wanted.

  All of the officers from the captain to Dick Hughes (whom I had known and liked at the Academy) were friendly and helpful. The common background of Annapolis provided a strong bond among us, and we soon became a closely knit team. As the junior ensign I was the butt of some good-natured ribbing, but the attitudes and actions of my messmates conveyed a sense of trust and acceptance. The most outstanding character among the officers belonged to “Watso” Singer. He was a great teller of sea stories, a fine seaman and ship handler, and a tough disciplinarian. He was also a self-professed “black sheep” who often entertained us with tales of his escapades as a bachelor ensign in China. Watso possessed great courage and an uncanny capacity for common sense. In the two years that we spent as shipmates aboard the Sterett, I never knew him to be unfair. The men loved him. He was exacting in his insistence on top-flight performance and industrious in his role as executive officer. More important, he was the kind of stern and uncompromising mentor I needed at that time. I was intent on performing at my best while aboard, but just as intent on raising hell when I went ashore. Watso must have seen something in me that reminded him of his own wild days. When I needed tough discipline, he willingly supplied it. In only a few months he managed to convince me that I was on the road to disaster and turn me completely around.

  The USS Sterett as she appeared in September 1939. (U.S. Navy Photo)

  For the first three months we were kept busy checking the installation of equipment, the loading of supplies, and the organization of personnel, who arrived in increasing numbers every day. Within a couple of weeks, all of our chief petty officers and the majority of our first- and second-class petty officers had arrived and were hard at work checking their department inventories. Frank Winant supervised the gunnery installation, inspected the fuse setting mechanisms in the shell hoists, ran tests on the fire control circuitry, and assessed the operation of the main battery director. Jimmy Clute was engrossed in the acquisition of our deck force equipment, including a full suit of manila lines for mooring, zinc chromate, red lead, paint, brushes, brooms, cleaning gear, tools, foul weather clothing, and a thousand other items. Dick Hughes supervised the placement of our radio and sonar equipment. I worked with Frank Luongo, tracing out steam, oil, and water lines and preparing sketches of their “as is” installation. We also checked on the installation of pumps, valves, boiler tubes, reduction gears, and myriad other details to ensure that everything in the engineering department was properly hooked up and ready for operation.

  Meanwhile, Captain Macondray made it clear to us that our Sterett (DD 407) would begin her naval service under the banner of a proud name and a heroic tradition. She had been christened in honor of Andrew Sterett, who in 1801, commanding the schooner USS Enterprise, captured a fourteen-gun Tripolitan cruiser and her eighty-man crew in the Mediterranean. Congress awarded a sword to Lieutenant Sterett and commended his crew for their bravery. This history added an unmistakable luster to the privilege of belonging to the ship’s company of the new Sterett. Although she was not very pretty, we were determined that this ship would live up to her name.

  The Sterett belonged to the twelve-ship McCall class. She was designed for 36.5 knots and sported superheated, high-pressure boilers, twin screws, geared turbines, and a range of ten thousand sea miles. Her armament at commissioning would comprise sixteen 21-inch torpedo tubes in four quadruple mounts (the most ever mounted in destroyers); four 5-inch, 38-caliber dual-purpose guns; and four 1.1-inch antiair
craft mounts (although by the time she was commissioned it had been decided to replace these with 20-mm guns, which were more dependable). She displaced 1,500 tons, was 341 feet long and 34 feet, 10 inches in the beam, drew 9 feet, 10 inches, and had a rated horsepower of 42,800. The Sterett’s statistics were a lot more impressive than her looks, and they served to reassure us that she would make a formidable opponent for any enemy she might encounter. It would be up to those who manned her to ensure that she came out a winner.

  The Sterett’s hard-working chief petty officers were the backbone of the ship. (Author’s collection)

  The Sterett was commissioned at Charleston, South Carolina, on 15 August 1939, while the world was filled with rumors of war in Europe. Hitler blustered and threatened aggression with sinister belligerence. England and France were unable to prevent him from taking what he wanted, and two weeks after our ship was commissioned we received the secretary of the navy’s message to all naval ships: “Germany has entered Poland, fighting and bombing in progress. You will govern yourselves accordingly.” We were not quite sure what that last sentence meant, but aboard the Sterett we were convinced that the war would not be contained and that sooner or later we would be in it. On 6 September 1939 President Roosevelt announced the establishment of a Neutrality Patrol to report the presence of any belligerent ships within two to three hundred miles of the East Coast. The situation lent a new sense of urgency to our efforts to make the ship and her crew as battle-efficient as possible, for none of us thought that we would remain neutral very long.

  By early June I had become acquainted with most of our leading petty officers, and I made a habit of dropping by the chief petty officer’s mess to chat with them at least once a day. They were with few exceptions wise, mature, and competent men. Jackson and Baker were probably the oldest of the lot. George R. Jackson was the chief torpedoman; a veteran of World War I, he had fought at the Battle of the Marne and had a calm, unflappable demeanor. He confided to me that he had enlisted in the Navy to escape from a woman who had “done him wrong.” He soon became the “scoutmaster” for all the younger sailors, and his contribution to morale was immeasurable and widely recognized up and down the chain of command. William J. Baker was the chief quartermaster and an excellent navigator. I never heard him raise his voice to anyone, yet he never had a problem with discipline. The other chief petty officers (their names are listed in Appendix 2) were all outstanding team players who wanted to make the Sterett shine.

  Most of the junior enlisted men were required to participate in the Navy’s self-education program, which was similar to a series of correspondence courses. Well-organized and clearly written study materials outlined weekly assignments that were designed to impart the theoretical knowledge needed for advancement up the ratings of one’s chosen category. Periodic tests were graded by the appropriate division officers. An individual’s progress generally kept pace with the availability of promotion vacancies created by an expanding Navy. The Great Depression had raised the quality of enlisted personnel. The average recruit had three years of high school education, and reenlistment rates hovered between 70 and 80 percent. It was a joy to be associated with the Sterett’s enlisted men. They were smart, alert, and enthusiastic.

  From August to October the Sterett and her crew were fitted out, organized, and trained. She went to sea as a commissioned ship for the first time on 6 September 1939 so that we could familiarize ourselves with her maneuvering characteristics. She was very responsive to the rudder, and the surges of power that were apparent as we accelerated made her feel strong and alive. All of us shared the conviction that the Charleston Navy Yard had provided us with a superior fighting ship. The skipper seized the opportunity to conduct general quarters, fire, collision, abandon ship, and man overboard drills. There was little confusion, thanks to several scheduled instruction periods in port over the preceding weeks. We returned to the yard that afternoon. The skipper brought the ship alongside the pier, and while it was not a spectacular landing it was not a bad one either. Our first day at sea was a success.

  During the next several weeks we experienced numerous difficulties with the main reduction gears and the boiler safety valves, which popped open whenever the engines were under stress. But the contractors dispatched representatives to ride with us, and they and Frank Luongo quickly worked out the problems. The Sterett’s engineering plant became as dependable as a railroad conductor’s watch.

  Our shakedown cruise commenced in October with a visit to Newport, Rhode Island, where we received our full torpedo complement (sixteen 21-inch “fish”). Next we stopped in Norfolk to repair damage sustained during our first North Atlantic gale and then proceeded to Veracruz, Mexico, to join the other ships of Destroyer Division 15 (the Lang, the Wilson, and the Stack) for a brief period during their surveillance of the German liner Columbus, which had sought refuge in a neutral port. The Sterett resumed her shakedown cruise in early December, visiting Guantánamo Bay, Mobile, and Savannah. In Savannah we learned that the Columbus had made a run for it but was intercepted by the British destroyer Hyperion. The German crew had set the Columbus afire and scuttled her rather than turning her over to the British.

  The battleship North Carolina, as seen from the deck of an unidentified destroyer. This was the scene observed on almost any day from the deck of the Sterett during her many months in the wintry North Atlantic. This was a relatively calm sea—it was often much rougher. (U.S. Navy Photo)

  We returned to Charleston on 20 December 1939. The shakedown cruise marked our first sustained period of at-sea watch standing, and all officers qualified as top watch-standers. The cruise also demonstrated to Dick Hughes (and to his shipmates) that he was subject to chronic seasickness. He earned our respect and admiration by never missing his turn on watch, even though he always had to bring a bucket with him. Anticipating a transfer to Pensacola to train as a naval aviator, he looked forward to an early end to his problem. We all wondered at the logic of that view.

  The first several months of 1940 were spent operating along the East Coast. As part of the Neutrality Patrol, we often chased down foreign merchant ships, established their identities, and reported their locations, courses, and speeds. The North Atlantic in any season is cold, bleak, and rough; remaining at sea in the winter was itself an ordeal. Our enlisted men were in danger of being washed overboard every time they came topside. Unfortunately, coming topside was the only way they could get from their living quarters aft to their watch-standing stations forward. The common experience of combating a hostile sea welded us together. There were countless times when the entire bridge watch consisted of a lone officer (the officer of the deck) and five sailors (quartermaster, signalman, helmsman, engine-order telegraph operator, and telephone talker) who held the fate of the ship in their hands. Each had an important job to do, and each appreciated and depended on the others. We came to know one another and to respect our shipmates for their dependability and competence. To be out on the wing of a destroyer’s bridge in a blinding snowstorm with a sturdy sailor standing next to you, both of you straining to see through a swirl of white into the inky darkness—such shared experiences built a level of camaraderie unique to life aboard a destroyer. Several times during a watch like that, one of your companions would bring out a cup of steaming coffee—“How about a cup of joe, Mr. Calhoun?” And later you would return the favor. When conditions were exceptionally bad, Watso or the skipper would join us. No wonder we felt close to one another.

  The Sterett’s ship’s company in San Diego, June 1940. Officers, from left to right, Calhoun, Hughes, Winant, Macondray, Luongo, Clute, and Scofield. (Author’s collection)

  In the spring the high command ordered the Sterett to deploy to Pearl Harbor. On 12 May 1940 our Panama Canal pilot took us into the Gatun Locks in company with the Hammann (DD 412), another new destroyer. We made the transit from Gatun to the Miraflores Locks and thence to Balboa and the Pacific without incident. The weather was sunny and warm, and I thought
how wonderful it was to leave the bleak North Atlantic behind. As we steamed north from Panama to San Diego we passed through thousands of miles of calm, aquamarine waters, with gentle swells and hundreds of huge sea turtles. It was like moving into another world, and the peace of the Pacific seemed to have an impact on the human relationships aboard ship. We now considered ourselves veteran sailors.

  ON 2 JULY 1940 the Sterett arrived at Pearl Harbor for duty as a unit of the Pacific Fleet. As we approached the channel buoys I could see Aloha Tower, which issued the traffic control instructions for the busy harbor of Honolulu. We anchored in one of Pearl Harbor’s little bays near Pearl City, and the captain spent the rest of the day making courtesy calls on the senior officers in our chain of command. I was impressed with the number and variety of ships in that huge base: battleships, carriers, cruisers, destroyers, submarines, oilers, supply ships, and other auxiliaries. Ship’s boats flitted about like a swarm of water bugs. We had joined the Navy at last, and we felt the pride of belonging.

  Within a few weeks of our arrival, Waikiki (with its Royal Hawaiian and Moana hotels), Aloha Tower, the Section Base, Ford Island, Battleship Row, the Navy Yard, West Loch, and Diamond Head all became familiar names and sights to us. From my viewpoint, the most important development was the departure of Dick Hughes, who was bound for Pensacola. I moved up to the post of communications officer, and Ens. Hugh B. Sanders, USNA ’39, relieved me as assistant engineer. We cruised down to the vicinity of Jarvis Island, crossing the equator for the first time on 23 July 1940. All of us became “shellbacks.” Our initiation was memorable: all “pollywogs” were subjected to the same ordeal, officer and enlisted alike. First we were tried for a variety of “offenses.” After the inevitable guilty verdict we were sentenced to a shave and a haircut by the Royal Barber (which involved a fuel-oil shampoo and some especially nasty-looking, foul-smelling shaving cream), a swimming lesson in Neptune’s pool (with two or three of the biggest, toughest instructors, who proceeded to half-drown the victims), and finally a trip on our hands and knees through a gauntlet of paddle-wielding sailors who appeared to consider it a matter of honor to deliver a bell ringer with every swat. It was legalized mayhem—but I never knew anyone to be really hurt by it, and it always was accompanied by a spirit of fun and good sportsmanship.