On 1 July we left San Diego with the three ex-President liners (Adams, Hayes, and Jackson), one amphibious cargo ship, the carrier Wasp, the cruisers Quincy, Vincennes, and San Juan, and the destroyers Buchanan, Farenholt, Aaron Ward, Lang, Stack, and Wilson. We could only guess at our destination, but our course appeared to be aimed at the South Pacific. Because we were with our old friend the Wasp we had many opportunities to track aircraft with our fire control radar. We held gunnery and director crew drills every day and made excellent use of the loading machine—an apparatus that used an exact duplicate of a real shellhoist to teach crewmen how to load ammunition into a 5-inch gun breech. It was a great training device, and the gun crews understood that it gave them the chance to become expert loaders. I saw to it that each of the four 5-inch gun crews spent at least half an hour every day on the loading machine.
The long voyage also allowed us to assess the performance of officers and crew at their various battle stations. I knew the Sterett was blessed with an exceptional group of gunner’s mates, fire controlmen, and rangefinder operators. Frank Winant and Jim Clute had honed their skills, so that by the time I became gunnery officer all I had to do was follow the established routines and supervise the daily drills. These dedicated professionals formed the core of the ship’s gun-fighting capacity, and if we could keep our loading crews at an equivalent skill level I was sure that we could take on any enemy. I was especially impressed with the knowledge and intelligence of our director crew. Ens. J. D. Jeffrey had relieved Hillard Marver as assistant gunnery officer when the latter was hospitalized after an auto accident in Norfolk. Jeff had repeatedly demonstrated his dependability and competence. If anything happened to me, he was ready to step into my shoes.
Chief Fire Controlman Chapman was a gem. I once told Captain Coward that I thought Chapman could visualize the inner works of the gun director and pinpoint any malfunction within seconds. His problem-solving skills were already legendary. Prior to our deployment to Scapa Flow, the director’s optical system often fogged up because of condensation in the cold North Atlantic. One morning Chapman remarked that with about four dollars from the welfare fund he could eliminate the condensation problem. He then described how he could mount a secondhand hair dryer inside the director casing. No permanent alteration to the casing was required: he simply had to remove a small screw-on access cover, insert the hair dryer, and attach it to the director frame. I gave him the four dollars. He bought the hair dryer and installed it as he had described—and our condensation problem was solved. (We wrote up this procedure and offered it to the Bureau of Ordnance as a suggestion to other ships. BuOrd responded that they “had their best minds working on the problem” and expected to have a solution soon. About a year later, a package arrived from BuOrd containing their “solution.” It was a hair dryer, painted gray.)
At the rangefinder was Jack Shelton, a youngster who had come aboard with the original crew in 1939 as a seaman 2/c. By the time we left San Diego he was probably a fire controlman 2/c. He was infallible in his capacity to identify ships and aircraft. He studied and practiced constantly, and his ranges (taken optically in the days before radar with the stereoscopic rangefinder) were always precise. The director pointer and trainer were Donald J. Starr, FC 2/c, and Robert O. Byers, BM 1/c, respectively. Both had steady nerves and excellent visual acuity and were, as far as I could tell, completely unflappable. The director crew was tops.
The gunner’s mates were headed by newly promoted Chief Gunner’s Mate Hiram Hodge. They formed a dedicated team and maintained the guns in apple-pie order. We were ready to shoot at a moment’s notice, always. An excellent leader, Hodge was everywhere, turning up when least expected to observe some maintenance procedure or to supervise a drill. Gunner’s mates Vernon J. Arnold, Vernon R. E. Martin, Clarence M. Simmons, and Charles L. Soelch were also the gun captains and were responsible for the training and individual supervision of their gun crews.
As we worked to perfect our gun-loading performance, the roles played by the first loaders were critical. These were the sailors who placed the 5-inch projectiles in the tray of the gun and positioned them for the hydraulic ram that pushed them into the barrel. Because the shells weighed about fifty-five pounds apiece, it took a strong individual to throw one into the tray every five seconds and to sustain that pace for a protracted period. The half-hour that the gun crews spent on the loading machine every day gave them a pretty good workout. But as we steamed across the broad Pacific a spirit of competition developed among the members of the four crews. They were all good, but of course some were better than others. The first loader of gun number two was Big Willie, the well-built mess attendant; he was certainly one of the best. The first loader of gun number four was a young seaman 2/c named Jim Grann, who appeared to belong in the same category as Big Willie. I fostered the sense of rivalry and began a series of weekly loading contests, timing the crews to see which could consistently load one hundred rounds in the fastest time over the course of a week. The prize was usually a carton of cigarettes for each member of the winning crew. I was delighted with their performance and their attitude. I promised them that we would soon tangle with the Japanese Navy, and that that contest would decide whose gunners were the best in the world.
As we sailed westward our priorities shifted. The main focus, dictated by Jess Coward, was on battle-readiness. The uniform requirements in the Pacific were far less formal, and the efforts normally devoted to “spit and polish” projects were now turned toward preparations for combat. It affected everything. Matters of appearance became relatively unimportant. The attitude was more relaxed, and the fact that we had dropped our division commander in Norfolk seemed to lift a burden from Captain Coward’s shoulders. His new independence was a boon to him and to us. We also seemed to have a guardian angel in Washington. Before we sailed for the South Pacific we were afraid that the Bureau of Personnel would strip us of most of our veterans in order to man the many new ships then entering the fleet. It did not happen, and our cohesiveness had a great deal to do with our performance in combat over the next four months. We owed a debt of gratitude to someone. I was content to attribute it to God.
On 18 July we sighted Eva Island, one of the Tonga group south of Samoa and our first landfall since leaving San Diego. We entered the harbor and anchored off the town of Nukualofa, on the island of Tongatabu. For the next three days our sailors were to be seen on shore, happy to feel terra firma under their feet again. With typical American curiosity and ingenuity, they rented horses for the purpose of touring the island. In one case a sailor bargained with the owner of a horse, paid the five-dollar fee he demanded, and when he tried to return the steed to his owner discovered that he had purchased the animal. With the liberty boat waiting, the sailor had no choice but to turn the horse loose to graze, saddle and all. Sterett sailors claimed for months afterward to be the owners of a horse on Tongatabu. Tim Cleere’s diary entry about the visit seemed very appropriate: “Haven’t seen Dorothy Lamour yet, but she ought to be along any moment now.”
THREE DAYS AFTER OUR ARRIVAL all commanding officers, plus their gunnery and communications officers, were summoned to a conference on board the cruiser San Juan. We assumed that we were about to participate in an invasion, but we had no idea where. The conference provided the answer. We were to rehearse a shore bombardment the next day on one of the uninhabited islands in the Tonga chain. Our ultimate target was somewhere in the Coral Sea; we received more specific instructions shortly after we returned to the Sterett. We were part of the task force assigned to conduct the first U.S. offensive operation of the war by seizing and occupying Guadalcanal, in the Solomons.
The bombardment rehearsal went off without incident, and we avidly read every scrap of intelligence material we could find about Guadalcanal. Tom McWhorter summarized what we learned:
This area constituted one of high strategic importance. Its naval possibilities long recognized, it had once been referred to by the German Admiral Sche
er as “the finest natural fleet base in the world.” The Japanese, very receptive to such advice, recognized this fact, and it was from Tulagi, Florida Island (across from Guadalcanal), that they had fought the ill-fated Battle of the Coral Sea.
The Japs had advanced down from the north and had taken Rabaul, New Britain, the northern coast of New Guinea, and all of the Solomons. They were smugly and confidently building an airstrip on Guadalcanal (the progress of which we had been receiving in daily reports). This airstrip, when operational in a few days, would give the Japs command of the air over the New Hebrides, preparatory to invasion, and also command of the air over sections of our supply routes from the east. Observation planes operating out of Guadalcanal would be of immense value to the enemy. The airstrip was almost complete. The time had come for us to deprive the Japs of the fruits of their labors. D-Day was set for 7 August—just eight months after Pearl Harbor.
On 23 July we left Tongatabu and headed in the general direction of the Fiji Islands. We were joined by a number of other ships and started to appreciate the size and strength of the force that the United States had mustered for this first offensive thrust. The Sterett seemed to be permanently assigned as a screen and plane guard for the Wasp, a job that we knew well and always enjoyed. By 4 August we were in the vicinity of the New Hebrides. Tim Cleere’s diary described the next two days: “4 August—At sea. Fueled from the Cimarron. Weather is perfect. It was a lucky day, for mail from the States arrived, and I received four letters from Marie. 5 August—At sea. The captain had the crew gather on the fantail and told us some of the plans for the coming invasion. We are going to take over some of the Solomons and very soon. The transports with their accompanying warships made their appearance again today.”
My own notes, compiled while hospitalized in 1943, indicate that 5 August was a beautiful day, with a calm sea and a hot, bright sun. We steamed northward with the Wasp, five destroyers, and two cruisers. At sunrise we were roughly six hundred miles south of Guadalcanal. Shortly after noon I walked back to our midship machine gun station to have a talk with Chief Torpedoman Jackson. He had an excellent sense of humor, and as we joked with “Doc” Nyce we began to spot other U.S. warships. At first there was just a mast astern of us—then another—and then several. Soon superstructures came into view, and we became aware that we were joining a whole fleet of ships: transports, destroyers, tankers, minesweepers, cruisers, a new battleship, and two big carriers. The carriers we quickly identified as the Enterprise and the Saratoga. Each was accompanied by a screening force similar to ours—two cruisers and several destroyers. One had the added luxury of a new battlewagon. It was probably the biggest show of seapower ever assembled in the Pacific at that time, and it was awe-inspiring.
By dusk on the fifth we were arranged in one huge disposition, the three carrier groups out in front and the transports (with their supporting cruisers and destroyers) bringing up the rear several miles behind. I was confident that we had sufficient force to take our objective. As we approached Guadalcanal on 6 August the panorama of ships held our interest, and there was a great deal of speculation over what tomorrow would mean for us. I recalled the skipper’s briefing. The Marines were to land on Guadalcanal, Florida, Gavutu, and Tulagi islands to wrest those strongholds away from the Japanese troops who held them. The carriers would open the invasion with an air strike before dawn. The heaviest resistance was expected on Guadalcanal, which was the largest and most heavily garrisoned island. We would be screening the Wasp and therefore would not go close enough to see the actual landing; but determined air opposition was expected from Rabaul, and we hoped to get in a few shots at enemy aircraft. In fact, we expected an air attack and had been at Condition Two since morning, with half our guns constantly manned. I spent the entire day either on the bridge or in the gun director, wondering why we had not been attacked yet. We were only about one hundred miles from Guadalcanal at dusk. For whatever reason we remained unmolested, and I got a surprisingly good night’s sleep.
The quartermaster of the watch woke me at 0400 on 7 August. I dressed and went to the wardroom to join as sleepy-eyed a group as I had ever seen. Herb May and I played acey-deucey and gulped down several cups of coffee before the alarm sounded for general quarters. At my station in the gun director I would have a box seat for the air activities. It was still dark when I poked my head through the director hatch and looked around. The three carriers were barely visible until they began to warm up their planes. Then blue flashes from engine exhausts flickered and burned—first only here and there, but all at once as if at the flip of a master switch they covered two-thirds of each flight deck. The air filled with the roaring, throaty noises of powerful engines, and in just a few minutes the planes began to take off. We could see them circle, rendezvous, form up, and disappear into the northern sky. Our guns were completely manned and ready, and we were eager for action, but the day belonged to our aviators and our gallant Marines.
Shortly after dawn the first planes returned to the carriers. Jubilant pilots circled us, rocking their wings and waving as they passed overhead. The attack had been a complete surprise. Reports from the carriers indicated that all air opposition had been wiped out while still on the ground. Antiaircraft positions had been hit, and the Marines were moving ashore. There was practically no initial opposition on Guadalcanal, but Gavutu and Tulagi were the scenes of fierce battles.
A few minutes after noon the expected Japanese visitors arrived. We did not know how many aircraft had taken off to attack the invasion fleet, but only twenty-five torpedo planes arrived at Guadalcanal. They went after our transport group, and we were told that we lost one medium-sized transport that had already unloaded. All of the enemy planes were shot down, either by antiaircraft fire from ships or by our fighters. To those of us aboard the destroyers accompanying the carriers, it was a keen disappointment to be able to see so little. During the visit by enemy planes, our force commander wisely steered us into a convenient rain squall to keep us out of sight. But we did share in the feeling of elation and pride that prevailed throughout our fleet. We had been a part of the first American offensive operation of the war, and it had been successful. We soon learned from dispatches that the Marines had faced a tough opponent on Tulagi but reported the island completely in their control by the next afternoon. On Guadalcanal they had taken the airfield, which would have been operational in another three days. There was another air raid that afternoon, but our fighters fended them off. The score as we tallied it at the end of the second day was one successful U.S. landing and defense against Japanese retaliatory efforts at a cost of twenty-one fighter aircraft, one transport, and damage to two destroyers.
Tim Cleere’s diary for the seventh provides a good indication of the comprehensive understanding and appreciation of the tactical situation with which the Sterett’s crew viewed these and other operations:
7 August—Coral Sea—General Quarters at 0515 this morning, and everyone raring to go. Only thirty miles from Guadalcanal, and that is close to be taking a carrier group. Let’s hope it isn’t a mistake. At 0530 the carriers launched their planes, and it looks as though they put up everything they own. All planes roared overhead for awhile, and then sped to their objectives. What a good feeling to know we are doing the dishing out this time. I have a dollar bet that we do have an opportunity to fire at the enemy today. If we don’t, it means the Japanese airfield has been wrecked and our planes control the air. Right now it looks as though we are giving them a surprise party. 0600—No bandits yet. The transports must be close in by now. 0800—Lots of good news just received. Wasp just informed us that their fighters alone have shot down thirteen Zeros and four patrol planes so far. No telling how many were wrecked at the airfield. Things look good on the beach, for they have ceased firing the main batteries at the invasion points, and no doubt the Marines are landing. The planes are constantly landing and taking off. The dive-bombers always return minus their bombs, reload, and go off again. No Wasp planes have be
en lost yet. Latest reports say that the troops have made landings at Tulagi at 0800 and that the opposition is diminishing. 1200—Word just received that seventeen bombers have left the Japanese base at Rabaul and are headed this way. 1330—Enemy planes have been sighted, but apparently they are attempting to bomb only those ships that are inside at the invasion beaches. The carriers had lots of fighters up to meet them and I imagine that they were well taken care of. About 1445 a Wasp plane crashed in the sea, and about one minute later another crashed into the barrier and toppled over. As there were many planes waiting to land with little gas in their tanks, the damaged plane was gotten rid of in a hurry by pushing it over the stern. Things must still be going well on the beach, for the scout bombers have run out of targets. Another troop landing had been made on the north side of Guadalcanal. At 1830 we secured from General Quarters. Everyone is tired and disappointed at not getting a chance to shoot at the enemy, and I have lost a dollar!
By 9 August the carrier groups had all moved south to reduce their vulnerability to air attack. This gave us a welcome opportunity to refuel. The bad news on the ninth was the message from the Wasp informing us that the Japanese had destroyed the cruisers Vincennes and Quincy and the Australian cruiser Canberra during a major surface engagement the night before. The cruiser Astoria had sustained severe damage and might also be lost. The message concluded, “Enemy losses not known, but hope they are heavy.” We were shocked and puzzled. We had many friends on those ships, and we wondered how many of them had survived. It was sobering news indeed, and it brought home the realization that, success at Guadalcanal notwithstanding, the Japanese Navy was still a formidable foe. Now we wanted more than ever to get a crack at the enemy.
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