Tin Can Sailor

by Charles R. Calhoun

  ON THE MORNING OF 5 OCTOBER 1942 the Sterett was off the entrance to Nouméa, New Caledonia, returning to the anchorage there after an escort run with the supply ship Betelgeuse to Guadalcanal. It was a beautiful day, and the calm sea changed color as it neared the encircling reefs from deep blue to blue-green, blending smoothly into the lush green of the dense island undergrowth. The scent of wild honeysuckle seemed to follow us everywhere in the South Pacific, and here it seemed to promise peace and quiet in a safe harbor. Ens. Perry Hall was the junior officer-of-the-deck, and he glanced at the navigational chart to note the course he would have to steer to avoid the defensive minefield.

  Satisfied that he understood the entrance pattern, he turned his attention to two new 2,100-ton destroyers ahead, which were about to negotiate the channel. An exchange of call signs identified them as the USS Fletcher and the USS O’Bannon. Hall looked at them with a touch of envy. They were cleaner and sleeker in line than the Sterett, with her stubby one-stack configuration, and they boasted five 5-inch gun mounts instead of our four. These ships were new arrivals—welcome additions to the small force of destroyers that provided close gunfire support for the Marines, antisubmarine and antiaircraft escort services for troop transports and supply ships, and harbor-approach patrols for fleet anchorages like Efate, Espíritu Santo, and Nouméa. As Ensign Hall watched, the two destroyers cleared the reef and at once turned left, heading directly for the harbor entrance. Reacting as swiftly as the ships had turned, he realized that they were unaware of the defensive minefield and were almost upon it.

  Once apprised of the crisis, Jess Coward seized the TBS handset and called to the O’Bannon: “Reverse your engines—you are standing into danger!” Within a minute or two it was apparent that they had “backed full” and were now stopped. The Sterett rushed to the scene and offered to lead the new arrivals safely in to the anchorage. We concluded in light of the momentous events of the next six weeks that Perry Hall’s alertness and quick response were significant factors in the attainment of U.S. naval superiority in the region. The balance of naval power was at that point very delicate, and the loss of those two destroyers would have made a difference.

  On the night of 11–12 October Rear Adm. Norman Scott’s task force—the cruisers San Francisco, Salt Lake City, Boise, and Helena and the destroyers Buchanan, Laffey, Duncan, and McCalla—engaged three Japanese cruisers and two destroyers. Both sides lost a destroyer and had two cruisers damaged, one seriously; in addition, the Japanese lost a cruiser and had one destroyer nearly wrecked. Because the enemy force had intended to bombard Marine positions at Lunga Point, the engagement was a success from the U.S. point of view. We received word of the battle aboard the Sterett on the twelfth as we neared Guadalcanal, settling into antisubmarine patrol off Lunga Point at dawn. Only a few minutes after our arrival, search planes from Henderson Field reported seeing about one hundred survivors in the water near Savo Island. Two World War I-era destroyers were dispatched to the scene to rescue them. Shortly before noon the old destroyers returned with many forlorn figures wrapped in blankets on the fo’c’sle decks. They were all survivors from the gallant little Duncan—among them, my Academy classmate Herb Kabat.

  Around noon we received news of approaching enemy aircraft. The cargo ships got under way so as not to be sitting ducks, and we headed northwest into open water. We were of course at general quarters (we had not left our battle stations since our arrival), and every eye was straining skyward in the direction of Savo Island. Suddenly Herb May saw the planes through a break in the clouds; they were almost overhead. He grabbed the skipper by the shoulder and, pointing to a group of twenty-three twin-engine Mitsubishis, yelled, “Christ, captain—look, there’s millions of ’em!”

  We opened fire with our 5-inch battery. The planes were high, and although our bursts came close enough to bounce them around a couple of times the pilots exhibited excellent discipline. They kept tight formation and never wavered from their course. Their aim was excellent, and we watched a perfect pattern fall smack on Henderson Field. Once the attackers departed, the cargo ships returned to their anchorage and continued unloading. We resumed our antisubmarine patrol and took advantage of the lull to feed the crew. At about 1500 the assault was repeated, this time with twenty-four planes from the southeast. Again our bursts came close, but not close enough to deter the Japanese from their mission. Again a well-placed pattern fell on Henderson Field. The transports continued to unload after the raid, but because of the interruptions they were still in the harbor after sunset.

  We were on patrol five miles offshore at 2000 when we saw flashes from the Japanese shore batteries near Point Cruz. Their tracers arched their way eastward to Henderson Field, where we could see shells exploding. We were almost directly opposite that Japanese stronghold and needed no invitation from the Marines ashore (although we received one anyway) to “put the heat on” against those batteries. In a few minutes we opened fire on those flashes of light with our 5-inch guns. From up in the gun director it was beautiful to watch the four tracers of each salvo sail gracefully through the dark, converging as they traveled until they landed together at the target. As each shell hit there came a bright flash and a sudden cloud of smoke and debris. After the tenth or eleventh shell landed, I could no longer see the enemy gun flashes. With no exact target to shoot at, we “walked” our salvos out to the beach until we could see them splash in the water, then moved back inland in one-hundred-yard increments to the maximum range. After expending some three hundred rounds, we stopped firing. We had covered Point Cruz with shells and could see nothing there now but a few small fires.

  Suddenly everything around us was illuminated brilliantly by a flare that seemed to be directly over our heads. We realized before the Marine radio report reached us that enemy aircraft had arrived on the scene. We searched the sky for a glimpse of the plane that had spotted us. As I looked out from the gun director I knew that we were clearly visible to any ship within fifteen miles and wished we had some way to put out that damn light. Next we were brought to attention by a radio report that blared from our bridge speaker: “Stand by to repel enemy surface units approaching from the west!” I did not know who had sent the message, but it did not matter much. We were about to become the target of the entire Tokyo Express.

  The captain, in a calm voice, radioed the task force commander. “This is Sterett. Unless otherwise directed, I am proceeding to intercept. Over.” I found myself wondering how many heavy ships we would face and whether we would get a chance to fire our torpedoes before they hit us. There was no way we could surprise them, and we had just expended three-quarters of our 5-inch ammunition. Fortunately, we received an immediate reply: “Do not, repeat, do not intercept. Retire to the east through Lengo Channel. Your friends are getting under way now and will follow you out. Over.” I breathed a sigh of relief and thought, Looks like we’ll live to fight another day. As we passed through Lengo Channel we could see the gun flashes of the Japanese bombarding force. They were too close for comfort. Then I thought of our Marines: there was no place to which they could retire. They had to sit there and take the punishment.

  We remained at general quarters throughout the night. General Van-degrift’s morning report confirmed that the bombardment had been very effective and had done significant damage to Henderson Field. He also noted that his men were tired, hungry, and in desperate need of aviation fuel. That was the bad news. The good news was that his patrols had discovered about two hundred dead Japanese soldiers in the area we had shelled. We felt that we had contributed to that body count, but we remained keenly aware that those brave Marines desperately needed naval support beyond what we were able to render. Our admiration for them grew daily. Tom McWhorter described these times in his own inimitable fashion:

  Things were tough on Guadalcanal. The Japs were continually putting reinforcements ashore at night from destroyers; air attacks were stepped up, and the Tokyo Express was an almost nightly occurrence. Messages from the
commanding general of the 1st Marines [General Vandegrift] were received daily, reporting operations but also the status of his troops and equipment. It was a little pathetic to read those messages day after day, pleading for more planes, more gasoline, more troops. He would report the results of the previous night’s bombardment by the cruisers and destroyers of the Tokyo Express, listing the number of serviceable planes on Guadalcanal; sometimes it would be pitifully few—eighteen or twenty. Some of the planes were old P-40s and P-39s of small value. A flight of a dozen or so planes would arrive, and some would promptly be destroyed by Jap bombardment. Gasoline was critical at times, especially in the middle of October, and was being flown up by DC-3 transport planes. Some old four-pipe destroyers also were used to carry gasoline. The rate of attrition was high among the few Marine aviators who were carrying the burden in spite of the fact that they were exacting five or six Jap planes for each of our losses, and 50 percent of our pilots were being saved to fight again. General Vandegrift begged for “one more division in order that offensive action may be initiated.” He stated that excellent though his 1st Marine Division was, the troops were constantly fatigued by strenuous operations during the day, and bombardment at night. The last remark made us grit our teeth, because the Navy was not yet in position to stop the Tokyo Express. . . .

  During all this time the Sterett was getting not a moment’s rest; it had come to be a very personal war.

  The Guadalcanal Shuttle was in full operation. Every trip to the objective area brought about a quick turnaround. It was never-ending, escorting cargo ships one time and assault transports with reinforcements the next. During our time under ComSoPac the Sterett escorted every group of reinforcements the Marines received. It seemed that after every successful trip to Guadalcanal, Tokyo Radio would send out a friendly, patronizing broadcast to our Marines, saying: “Marines on Guadalcanal, you are doomed if you insist on waging this losing fight in the Solomons. You are now cut off from all supplies and reinforcements by the big guns of the Imperial Japanese Navy. You will get no more food, and you will starve. Lay down your arms; think of your loved ones back home!” Listening to Tokyo Radio was always good for a laugh; they understood our fighting men less than we understood theirs. Tokyo Rose ran the most popular radio show in the Pacific at that time. She would open by saying in her cheery voice, “Hello, you honorable boneheads in the Solomons. This is your favorite enemy, Ann.” Then she would play some good old American records intended to make us homesick and quit. It was a good morale builder.

  In our numerous trips “up the slot” we found that Japanese tactics followed a set, unaltered pattern. Air attacks on Henderson Field were regularly at 1145 and 1500 by high-altitude bombers, then at dusk by dive-bombers and Zeroes. The high-altitude bombers were beautiful planes, trim and silvery as they came in from the northwest in perfect formation, dropped their bombs, and veered south over Guadalcanal and then back toward Buka and Rabaul, from whence they had come.

  We would shoot at them, but they were too high and wide for accurate fire from us. The Japs never learned. Every time they pulled a high-level raid—always on schedule—they would come in at twenty-five thousand feet. The Marines would be waiting for them with their F-4F Wildcats at thirty thousand feet, dive down on them through their fighter cover, if they had any, and send a large percentage of them to join their ancestors. Japanese losses were high, but they kept coming.

  We had our set routines also, dictated by necessity. On our runs to Guadalcanal our task groups would be timed to enter Lengo Channel at about 0500 and arrive off Lunga Point at daylight. We were always at general quarters during these approaches, as we were most of the time in the objective area. It was rather pleasant up on the bridge when steaming through Lengo Channel, though. The channel was about three thousand yards from the beach, and the morning air just before dawn was cool and refreshing and carried a heavy fragrance from the wild honeysuckle and vegetation on the beach. Once at the anchorage the transports and cargo ships would make great haste in unloading, while we patrolled and searched for the Jap submarine that was usually in the area. The ships got under way during air attacks, with attendant loss of time; then they returned to the anchorage to unload until the next raid. At dusk the ships retired out Lengo Channel and on to the south of San Cristobal Island to return at dawn. As soon as we left, the Tokyo Express moved in. Often they were so close on our heels that we could see their guns’ flashes as they bombarded the Marines and the airfield. It was a strange setup. The Japs had control at night and we had it in the daytime. It was a bitter pill to run out and submit to letting the Japs bomb with impunity. Our PT boats were on the job in the absence of any of our surface forces, and they would damage a Jap destroyer every once in a while—they even sank a couple of them. . .

  Events moved in rapid succession in the month of October. The Guadalcanal Campaign was already two months old; the Japs were gradually getting their forces together for a supreme effort to recover the important island, and we were reinforcing our troops in an equally determined manner. To be beaten in our first offensive would have been unthinkable.

  And so it went. On 15 October on the way back to Espíritu we were shadowed by a four-engine Kawanishi 97 for most of the morning. We went to general quarters in the hope that we might get a shot at him, but he obviously knew his business well: he never came within our maximum gun range. Our escort duties continued. The total Japanese force in the South Pacific at that time was formidable in comparison to ours. Admiral Yamamoto had five aircraft carriers, five battleships, fourteen cruisers, and forty-four destroyers. We had two carriers, two battleships, nine cruisers, and twenty-four destroyers—a total of thirty-seven combatant ships against their sixty-eight. On 26 October in the vicinity of the Santa Cruz Islands the U.S. Task Force 16, under the command of Rear Admiral Kinkaid and comprising the carriers Enterprise and Hornet, the battleship South Dakota, six cruisers, and fourteen destroyers, engaged a vastly superior force consisting of four carriers, four battleships, ten cruisers, and twenty-nine destroyers. The action was fought entirely in the air, with the ships remaining about 250 miles apart. When the smoke cleared, we had lost the Hornet and the destroyer Porter and had sustained damage to the Enterprise, the South Dakota, the cruiser San Juan, and the destroyer Smith. The Japanese retired with damage to two carriers, a cruiser, and two destroyers. The aircraft tally was one hundred Japanese planes lost to seventy-four of our own. Despite the box score, the enemy had failed to achieve his objective: to deliver a strong force of carrier-based aircraft to Guadalcanal. Ashore, the Japanese Army had been ordered to capture the airfield; in a fierce battle, the Marines defeated the assault on Henderson Field, and our carrier pilots destroyed most of the planes bound for the new Japanese air squadron on Guadalcanal. We continued to hold our own. In the jargon of the active combat zone, Guadalcanal now became known as “Cactus,” and Tulagi was “Ringbolt.” Cactus seemed to be an especially appropriate name—our forces on that island were prickly, tough, and highly durable.

  Our milk runs continued, and when we heard about the action at Santa Cruz we all wished we had been there instead of shepherding the transports. On 4 November 1942 we arrived in the Cactus-Ringbolt area once more, this time with a large force of transports and cargo vessels carrying Army reinforcements. We covered their landing on the eastern tip of Guadalcanal at daybreak and then joined the cruisers San Francisco and Helena to bombard Japanese positions at Koli Point, where the enemy had landed reinforcements during the previous two nights. Joe Jeffrey recently sent me these Sterett log entries from that day:

  0815—Ship at general quarters maneuvering with USS San Francisco off Kokumbona Point, Guadalcanal Island. 0837—USS San Francisco commenced firing main battery on Japanese concentration on beach. 1008—Form 18 [in column behind the San Francisco] off Koli Point making eastern firing run on Japanese-held shore concentrations. 1010—Commenced firing on Japanese shore concentrations as designated by spotting plane. 1022—Ceased firing.
1025—Commenced firing on western run. 1032—Ceased firing. 1043—Commenced firing on second eastern run. 1048—Ceased firing. Total rounds expended 506; no casualties.

  This modest bombardment effort marked our first attempt to use aerial spotting to guide surface gunfire. As soon as we formed up behind the San Francisco the air spotter, Lt. Red Johnson, came aboard the Sterett to outline communication procedures. We discussed every contingency and agreed on a plan of action. First we tagged along behind the San Francisco and the Helena while they blasted away at Kokumbona, then we steamed down to a position opposite Koli Point. The beach near the new target area was still littered with small landing craft. A few hundred yards inland and hidden from our view was a native village in which the Japanese had established defensive positions. We opened fire. Each salvo was spotted by Red Johnson, who circled about one thousand feet above our target area in a little cruiser floatplane. He used the radiophone to communicate with Jeffrey in the gun director, and because Jeffrey was the one who normally applied “spots” (corrections to the firing solution) no time was lost. If Red said, “OK, small boy, let’s get that gun emplacement over there—spot up two hundred, left ten,” Joe would make the corrections with the appropriate knobs. As soon as that was accomplished I gave the order to fire, and off went another 5-inch salvo. As soon as it landed Red reported back, “That got him—good shooting!” or “Didn’t quite do it that time—try up another hundred,” in which case we corrected our coordinates and sent off another round. This system gave us perfectly coordinated control over our gunnery. Johnson also spotted for the cruisers, and they really hit the Japanese positions hard.

  Our gunfire support mission completed, we returned to the eastern end of the island and continued to cover the Army landing operations. During the night a couple of Japanese “cans” were reported off Lunga Point, and we wanted very much to go after them. This time the job was handed to our PT boats; although they chased the destroyers away, they did not inflict any damage. Aboard the Sterett we felt that we had missed an opportunity to fight on our own terms.