We received a few air raid alarms on 5 November, but nothing materialized. We concluded that our fighters had probably intercepted the attackers and shot them down. The Army’s unloading continued in good order and was finished the next day. We left for Espíritu Santo with the empty transports, expecting to pick up another convoy of support ships. This is the way Tom McWhorter described the situation:
From the second to the sixth of November, the transports unloaded troops and supplies at our beach at Lunga Point, but the primary purpose of this trip was to form a new beach at Aola Bay, about fifteen to twenty miles east of our main positions. There we unloaded an Army engineering battalion. It was the job of this group to build an airfield at Aola Bay. This spot was chosen for obvious reasons, considering the topography of “Guadal.”
Guadalcanal is a mountainous island of volcanic origin some ninety miles in length (east to west) and twenty miles in width. On this relatively small land area are several mountains over six thousand feet high, and two or three of seven thousand or eight thousand feet. On most parts of the northern coast the foothills of these mountains slope down almost to the water’s edge. There are two positions on the northern coast suitable for building an airstrip: the first and most desirable is in the vicinity of Lunga Point, where Henderson Field is located. The other is at Aola Bay. An airfield at Aola Bay would serve several very useful purposes. It would provide a standby field sufficiently far from the center of operations that if we were to lose Henderson Field we could maintain an air strength on Guadalcanal to neutralize the Japanese control of Henderson. Another practical use of a second field (other than the obvious advantage of having two fields instead of one) was that it would disperse our planes to minimize damage by aerial bombs and naval bombardment.
Thus the Aola Bay project was undertaken. [It proved later to be a disaster and had to be abandoned.] The combatant ships during the unloading phase were employed in a manner by this time familiar to us: at night when the transports and cargo ships retired to the south of the eastern Solomons, the combatant ships, cruisers and destroyers, formed up and patrolled Indispensable Straits—thus protecting the other ships from possible surface attack by enemy ships approaching from the north and west.
For almost two months it had been the practice to stay at our battle stations during all hours of darkness while in the Solomons area. It was a relief when the task force completed its assigned task and retired eastward through the slot between San Cristobal and Malaita islands, and on southeast to the good harbor of Espíritu Santo.
Soon after our arrival at Santo the Sterett received orders detaching her from her long duties as the South Pacific handyman and placing her once again on the “main team.” It looked like a fighting outfit when we joined the cruiser Task Force 67.
Although little high-level intelligence flowed through the radio circuits to those of us in destroyers, we were aware of the increasing pace of our efforts to reinforce Guadalcanal’s defenders. We sensed that the Japanese were about to make another effort to recapture the island. We did receive the daily reports from General Vandegrift indicating that he considered the situation to be nearing an extremely critical phase. As we steamed back to deliver another load of troops, ammunition, gasoline, and other supplies, we felt that we would soon be in a real scrap—and we were ready for it. On 10 November we left Espíritu with several cruisers and destroyers to join Admiral Turner’s amphibious transports and cargo ships at Lunga Point. The sailors of the amphibious ships had been delivering troops and supplies to Guadalcanal for three months, and they had learned the hard way how to increase their unloading efficiency. They made their runs to the beach and brought their craft back alongside their mother ships with skill and precision. Meanwhile, the Sterett and the other destroyers established an antisubmarine patrol around the anchored amphibious ships. The operation proceeded throughout the day without interruption. That afternoon the cruiser Portland sent her observation planes back to Espíritu Santo. It was a significant move; obviously her skipper wanted to clear the decks for action. After escorting the transports out of the objective area that evening, we returned with the cruisers to make a sweep of Iron Bottom Bay in search of the Tokyo Express. Seeking out the enemy instead of running away from him was good for morale, but on the night of 11 November the Japanese decided not to cooperate. We remained at general quarters until after dawn alert and then led the transport ships back in so that they could continue to unload. Again we patrolled around them and took the opportunity to catch a few hours of shut-eye.
At midmorning on 12 November Admiral Turner sent a message to the entire force about a flight of twelve friendly DC3 transport planes due to arrive at noon. He noted that they would probably approach from the north and warned everyone not to mistake them for enemy aircraft. Captain Coward used our public-address system to pass along to the Sterett’s crew the gist of the admiral’s message. At about 1130, anticipating the customary Japanese raid, we went to general quarters. No attack materialized, but a few minutes before noon our DC3s appeared over Florida Island, right on schedule. As soon as Shelton spotted them, I reminded all of our gun captains over the sound-powered telephone circuit that these were the friendly aircraft we had been cautioned about and again warned them not to fire. I had just finished when I heard the first gunshot from some unidentified ship, and almost immediately a veritable chorus of fire rang out from the entire formation. Simultaneously, we heard the task force commander shout over the TBS, “Cease firing! Cease firing!” It did no good.
The shooting continued until the planes passed overhead. Then an angry Admiral Turner came on the radio and asked those ships that had not fired to identify themselves. Only Jess Coward responded. It was incredible, in light of the special warning the admiral had sent, that all of the other ships had broken their fire discipline. And more disturbing perhaps was the fact that not a single aircraft had been shot down; it was a damn good thing that they were not enemy planes. Admiral Turner then ordered the commanding officer of every ship that had fired on the DC3s to report to him aboard the flagship (the McCawley, an attack transport) immediately. One can only imagine what took place when those skippers faced the admiral, who had a reputation for being a formidable opponent under any circumstances. Captain Coward went on the public-address system for a second time to express his appreciation for the tight fire discipline the men of the Sterett had exhibited.
EVERYTHING HAS A RELATIVE ORDER OF IMPORTANCE, and as the events of the next twenty-four hours unfolded the incident of the trigger-happy gunners soon faded into insignificance. On the afternoon of 12 November we received a Condition Red warning: heavy air attacks were reportedly on the way. We went to general quarters at once. The transports got under way, and we formed a defensive disposition around them. The cruisers stayed in close, while the destroyers went into a circular screen formation on the periphery. We were on a northerly heading when the attackers first appeared over Florida Island, directly ahead. The Sterett was on the starboard flank, or the eastern side of the disposition.
Up in the gun director we used binoculars to scan the horizon for approaching bogies. Shelton, our keen-eyed rangefinder operator, spotted them first. “There they are!” he shouted. “Right over Florida Island—headed east.” Their intentions were clear: safely out of range, they meant to head east as far as the channel entrance to Sleepless Hollow and then reverse course, coming in from our starboard beam. By this time, Shelton had identified them as “Betties” (twin-engine bombers) armed with torpedoes. We had our guns on full automatic control, and our director sights framed the lead plane in dead center. They flew to the eastern tip of Florida Island and then reversed course in a wide arc.
At the stereo rangefinder, Shelton checked his visual ranges with those of the fire control radar. As the planes came within our effective range Chief Fire Controlman Chapman turned his knobs and adjusted our estimates of their course, speed, and altitude. In about twenty seconds he called out, “Solution!” That told u
s that our director computer had solved the gunnery problem and was now generating angles of elevation and bearing that were automatically translated into gun position angles. Hydraulic motors pointed the guns at the proper spots, allowing for the necessary lead angles. The computer also generated fuse settings and transmitted them to the shellhoists in the ammunition handling rooms, where a small rotating ring engaged each shell as it was placed in the hoist. As the first shellman removed the shell from the hoist and slammed it into the gun tray, the fuse was set to detonate at precisely the distance calculated by the computer. Chapman could quickly change the director settings to set the fuses to detonate on impact (for a surface target) or to place the guns in local control, leaving everything to the gun crews.
Now I gave the gun captains the signal they had been waiting for—“Commence firing! Director control. Rapid, continuous fire.” The crews loaded the shells and powder cartridges into the guns, and in four seconds the first salvo was on its way. The concussion was terrific, but by now we were used to it. Our first bursts were low and short, so we changed our trajectories. We were the ship closest to the attackers, and our tracers were headed straight at the lead plane. On our third salvo we made our first kill. With a tremendous explosion and a huge cloud of smoke our target fell out of the sky, its tail section completely demolished. The plane hit the water with a crash, skidded, tumbled, came to a stop, and burned like all the fires of hell. We shifted our sights to the next plane in line and immediately hit it squarely. It simply disintegrated in the air—big chunks of airplane splashed into the sea across a wide area.
Now every ship opened fire at one target or another. Because we were between the main body of the formation and the attackers, hundreds of shells streaked over our heads and hit the water ahead of the planes. The sky was filled with antiaircraft bursts, and our fighters flew into the middle of that steel hailstorm with their guns firing at the maximum sustained rate. The Japanese formation broke up and starting dropping torpedoes all over the place. Some fell at such a high speed that they somersaulted, while others ran true but wide. Two passed close astern of us. Two planes that we had hit fell into the water after they had flown directly over us. Our 40- and 20-mm shells made contact with engine nacelles and fuselages. Our automatic weapons gunners were terrific: Kelly, James, Keenum, and Grimm had nursed those guns, firing short bursts every day, and had sometimes slept by them, just waiting for a chance like this. The steady stream of tracers pouring out of those gun barrels was a beautiful sight.
An enemy plane approached our stern, and we watched with great admiration as a determined Marine Wildcat followed only a few yards above and behind it. The little Wildcat flew on through a wall of steel sent up by friend and foe alike, its guns planting a steady stream of hard-hitting 50-caliber bullets into the Japanese bomber until it seemed that the Betty should drop just from the weight of the metal it was absorbing. At last the bomber faltered and fell blazing into the water just fifty yards astern of us. The fighter veered sharply up and over on its way to another target, apparently undamaged. Every man on the Sterett who saw that performance let out a shout of admiration and delight. We later learned that the pilot was Maj. Joe Foss of the Marines, one of the highest scoring aces of the war.
Soon the attackers had all crossed our track. One crashed into the cruiser San Francisco near her after gun director and exploded in a huge ball of flame. It was apparent that the ship had suffered a number of personnel casualties. But twenty of the twenty-one bombers were in the water, most of them on fire and all of them destroyed. Not a single torpedo had reached its target. The wreckage of downed aircraft covered the water in every direction. We almost ran down a couple of their planes, coming so close we could have retrieved their rising sun emblems with a grappling hook. The Sterett had earned a taste of victory.
I called our “powder monkeys” up from the magazines for a look at what they had helped to accomplish. As soon as their eyes cleared the hatch and they realized that the burning planes were Japanese, they cheered loudly enough to be heard in Tokyo. The Sterett’s morale was at an all-time high. We had finally been given a chance to demonstrate what we could do against enemy aircraft. The skipper used the public-address system to congratulate all hands; as he told them how proud he was of their performance, I could almost see their confidence and self-esteem build. A couple of our sailors had received shrapnel wounds but none were serious, and in the wardroom we sat around talking about the action—much like a bunch of kids after a ball game. We were elated. The transports returned to their anchorage to unload. That evening, the entire force moved south to avoid getting caught by the Tokyo Express.
CHAPTER 6
THIRD BATTLE OF SAVO ISLAND
WE WENT TO OUR BATTLE STATIONS AT SUNSET. J. D. Jeffrey and I were still talking about the air attack when a signaled message informed us that Task Group 67.4—the surface striking group that we were a part of—would soon be detached to return to the objective area. Our mission was to look for an enemy surface force reportedly en route to Guadalcanal. Once our transport group reached safe waters to the south, we left them and joined the strike force. The new group consisted of five cruisers and eight destroyers in a single column, with the ships in the following order from van to rear: the destroyers Cushing, Laffey, Sterett, and O’Bannon; the cruisers Atlanta, Helena, San Francisco, Portland, and Juneau; and the destroyers Aaron Ward, Barton, Monssen, and Fletcher. At high speed we headed north, swept quickly past the island’s eastern tip, and then turned west into Lengo Channel. From my vantage point in the gun director I could see the dim shapes of the two destroyers ahead, their white wakes boiling back toward us in the darkness, and the almost indiscernible forms of the long column astern. It was a dark night with scattered rain squalls, but we could still recognize the vague silhouette of Guadalcanal on our left. From the flashes of gunfire and tracers flying back and forth along the beach, it appeared that our Marines and the Japanese were in a firefight. I was glad to be riding my comfortable little ship, where no one was shooting at me out of the darkness.
Jeff remarked on how difficult it must be for the skipper and Herb May on the bridge below to keep station in that tight formation. The interval between ships was only 500 yards, and we steamed at 20 knots—about 650 yards per minute. That interval had to be maintained by “seaman’s eye,” and the two of them were giving an excellent performance. We were mindful of the fact that the Tokyo Express had comprised a battleship or two during recent bombardments, but we had not been told what kind of enemy force we might expect to encounter on this run. Although our adrenaline was flowing, there was no particular apprehension about what lay ahead. The talk in the director focused on the events of the last day and reminiscences about our days at the Naval Academy. We steamed westward along the northern shore of Guadalcanal toward Savo Island. Soon we could see its vague outline ahead in the darkness—and then things began to happen.
J. D. clapped his hands to his radio headset and tilted his head to listen. A voice from the flagship calmly reported, “Enemy aircraft overhead.” We stretched our necks and strained our eyes trying to see the planes in the inky night sky, but they were invisible. The next message was electrifying: “Seven enemy surface targets on the port bow. Bearing 312 true. Range 27,100 yards.” It was Friday, 13 November 1942. The time was 0124.
The contact report had come from the Helena. (The Juneau and the Helena were the only cruisers equipped with surface-search radar.) The director and the guns swung around to the announced bearing. The men in the director concentrated on their assigned tasks as though this was just one of our morning drills, expertly turning the little knobs that generated estimates of the enemy’s course and speed. Since the maximum effective range of our gun battery was a little over eighteen thousand yards, we had about ten minutes to wait before we would be in position to commence firing. We were there almost before we knew it. “Two large targets in that formation,” Shelton reported. “They look like battleships.” Battleships!
And we had two heavy cruisers to match them. Fortunately, there was no time for that sort of thinking.
“Solution!” Chapman called out. “Enemy course 107—speed 23 knots.” I relayed the solution to the bridge, where the skipper and Tom McWhorter needed all the information we could provide. Meanwhile, an unidentified voice on the TBS announced that there was a second enemy force to the right of the first one. We continued to head right for them, and I wondered why the first four destroyers did not break away from the cruisers to conduct a torpedo attack since we had the exclusive advantage of radar. Still there was no order from the OTC to do anything but move right down the middle, between the two Japanese forces. The range closed at an astonishing rate. When we were within four thousand yards I was able to see the enemy force for the first time. With my head stuck out of the director hatch, I could discern a battleship on our port side. By the time Shelton said, “Range three thousand yards,” I recognized the gigantic superstructure of a Kongo-class battleship. She looked like the Empire State Building to me. We had chosen this ship (the Heie) as our target right from the start and had a perfect solution on her.
The tension in the gun director grew as we waited for orders. Chapman, normally very quiet and reserved, now turned to me and said, “Mr. Calhoun, if you smell anything bad, don’t worry, it’ll just be me.” It was said loudly enough for everyone in the director to hear, and as we all laughed the icy tension melted away. We were still chuckling when a voice from the flagship announced, “Odd ships in column fire to starboard, even ships fire to port.” We were the third ship in the column and so were obliged to forsake that perfect solution on the battleship. She was now clearly visible to the naked eye, and it seemed that at any moment she could blow us right out of the water. I muttered, “Oh, Christ!”—more a prayer of frustration than an oath—and ordered the director wheeled to starboard to search for a new target. I thought I had seen two battleships to port, and I assumed that they could see us as well. It was not easy to turn away and focus on the new targets that were supposed to be on our starboard side. But true to form, Shelton immediately detected one on his fire control radar. We started to track it, and within a few seconds we had the solution. Then, like a bolt of lightning, a searchlight from the battleship swept down our column. At that moment the voice from the flagship ordered, “Commence firing!” I repeated the command to the gun captains and the director crew. As our first salvo was fired, I watched the tracers arc toward their target. And in the next instant the world exploded.
Tin Can Sailor Page 11