Tin Can Sailor

by Charles R. Calhoun

  We made our first run to the Russel Islands on the basis of Punchy Shea’s advice, and it worked like a charm. We formed our small charges in a column astern of us at twilight and were a few miles east of Savo Island by dark. We traveled with all units darkened, and as we drew near our destination we could see the twin peaks. We lined up the pelorus on the higher of the two, and when it reached the prescribed bearing we changed to that course. Within half an hour we were at anchor waiting for the transports to unload. These short trips were usually without incident, and we derived a measure of satisfaction from the knowledge that we were helping to expand our air defense capabilities.

  One evening shortly after we had cleared the harbor with our little convoy, our sonar operator obtained a contact. Captain Gould immediately developed an approach strategy, and within minutes we were on our way to conduct a depth-charge attack. Out on the starboard wing of the bridge as we closed on the contact, I heard the sound of an airplane; looking up and aft, I saw a twin-engine aircraft flying directly up our wake. I stepped into the pilothouse and told the skipper in a quiet voice that there was a low-flying enemy plane overtaking us. The words were hardly out of my mouth when we heard the aircraft pass overhead. The captain fired his depth-charge barrage, and seconds later a stick of bombs fell harmlessly in our wake about a hundred yards astern. We had been lucky—it is hard to understand how the pilot could have missed at that altitude, but somehow he did. I was chagrined that neither the air-search nor the surface-search radar had picked up the attacker, and from that night on we routinely went to general quarters as soon as we started out. The incident was never repeated, but it served to demonstrate that although Guadalcanal was presumed to be relatively secure the enemy could still strike without warning.

  On several occasions we witnessed dogfights directly over our heads as we returned from these trips in the early morning. Once we saw the pilot of a Japanese plane bail out. Tiny Hanna and I were about to propose to pick him up in a whaleboat when three more Japanese planes appeared. We gave up on the project, concluding that it would make us vulnerable to strafing.

  Frequently we carried Army personnel over to the Russels, or back to Guadalcanal on our return trip. On one occasion a young Army major rode back with us, and he elected to remain on the bridge and chat. I was happy to have the company. We had a box seat for a dogfight that morning, and it apparently raised the possibility in his mind that the Sterett might become the target of one of those planes. He looked around apprehensively.

  “How thick is that metal?” he asked, pointing to the pilothouse bulkhead.

  “About a quarter of an inch.”

  “And how thick is the hull?”

  “It’s about the same.”

  He looked at me in disbelief. “A quarter of an inch? Where the hell do you take cover when they shoot at you?”

  “There is no cover.”

  He pondered that for a few seconds. Then he said, “I’l1 take the Army any day. At least we have a foxhole.”

  “Well, every man to his own taste,” I replied. “At least we have three good meals a day, and clean sheets to sleep on every night.” I would not have traded places for all the money in the world.

  THE COMSOPAC STAFF must have felt that the Sterett deserved a break from its routine, because in early April 1943 we were diverted to make a few escort runs from Espíritu Santo to Guadalcanal. The Aaron Ward, our companion from the Third Battle of Savo Island, took over our Russel Islands resupply duties. We steamed south from Tulagi to pick up several transports loaded with supplies for the troops of Cactus and arrived at the objective area by 7 April. The transports unloaded all morning while we patrolled the periphery of their anchorage, providing antisubmarine cover. The Aaron Ward had traveled to and from the Russels that morning; she herded her three LCTs as far as Savo Island, then broke away to pick up the LST 449 off Lunga Roads and escort her out of the area.

  Intelligence reports indicated that the Japanese planned a big aerial offensive against Guadalcanal. That morning we received a message telling us to expect a heavy air attack of at least a hundred planes. It was a warm and sunny day, and I was on the bridge with the skipper discussing the warning. We passed the word to the crew over the public-address system. At about noon Rear Adm. “Pug” Ainsworth’s cruiser/destroyer force departed on its way to bombard Munda. A few minutes later we received a Red Alert and went to general quarters. The transports immediately got under way and headed east, and because we were northeast of them we turned to a southeasterly course to close.

  We were just north of the eastern tip of Guadalcanal and pretty well in the clear when the enemy planes first came into sight. At first they were behind us, diving on unidentified ships that had apparently been caught close to the anchorage. Using the public-address system, I gave the crew a blow-by-blow account. The microphone was on the starboard side of the pilothouse, and by standing just inside the door to the bridge I could watch the attack as it took shape. The planes dove on their targets and scored at least one hit. Black smoke billowed skyward from the damaged ship—I could not tell which one it was.

  From Guadalcanal we received word that some sixty enemy planes were directly over the eastern tip of the island. It was clear that they had seen and were about to attack the formation of merchant ships we were escorting. I walked onto the starboard wing of the bridge in time to see the first Val dive-bomber break through a cloud, headed toward the lead merchantman in the starboard column of the formation. My battle station was at the secondary conn atop the after deckhouse, where I could take control of the ship in the event of a casualty to the bridge. I decided that I had better get back there and went down the ladder two steps at a time. Before I reached the bottom the first bomb fell with a loud “crump” close to its target, and the plane that had delivered it flew slowly up our starboard side only a hundred yards away and very close to the surface. The pilot obviously wanted to draw our fire away from his squadron-mates. We obliged him with all our starboard-side automatic weapons. Many of our tracers slammed into the after portion of his fuselage, but none did serious damage. He flew merrily on his way despite the added efforts of Chief Torpedoman Keenum, who stood on the main deck and determinedly fired a tommy gun at the plane in hopes of scoring a lucky hit.

  At the starboard midship 20-mm gun, Red Hammack was having a difficult time. His loader seemed to be so fascinated by the attacking planes that he was slow to replace the magazines. Hammack solved that problem by shouting a string of expletives and directed his fire at those planes that had not yet released their bombs. The port-side gunner also focused on such high-priority targets, but at the moment they were all on the starboard side. Red opened fire on a plane that was just starting its dive, and I watched as his tracers arched toward their target and were joined by another stream of tracers coming from somewhere behind me. My first instinct was that these were from Japanese planes that were now on our port side, but soon it was clear that this line of bullets was directed at the same target that Red Hammack had selected: as the target descended, so did the tracers. They had to be from our own port-side gun. I had the sudden feeling that if I did not duck at once they were going to hit me in the back. I ducked down and to the left, and within a fraction of a second something walloped me in the right arm. It felt like a hard-hit baseball, and it knocked me off my feet. I landed on the deck in a sitting position.

  The telephone talker at the midship 20-mm guns was Ron Giffen, yeoman 2/c and the captain’s writer. He was at my side in an instant, tearing off my shirtsleeve for use as a tourniquet. The air raid continued for perhaps five more minutes, with our gunners shooting at one target after another until at last the Japanese aircraft retired. Our Marine fighters gave chase and scored several kills. At this point I got back on my feet and found Harry Nyce at my side. He took me by the arm and led me forward to the wardroom. I reclined on the starboard transom while he examined my wound.

  He assured me that there was no bone damage but said that there
was a hole about the size of a 45-caliber slug in the underside of my right upper arm. I felt no pain and asked him to dress the wound so that I could get back out on deck. He told me to wait until he had taken care of three other wounded men, and said that when he returned he would take me to sick bay and try to remove the bullet. Then he poured me a tumbler of his best medicinal whiskey and told me to “work on it” until he returned. The tumbler was empty by the time he reappeared about half an hour later.

  In sick bay he opened the wound and probed with his scalpel for another thirty minutes, searching for the slug. Finally, he said, “Cal, I’m doing more harm than good. I haven’t been able to find any fragments”—he thought there were as many as three—“so I’m going to close this up and wait until we can get you to a hospital.” He walked me back to the wardroom and examined my hand and the surface of my arm with a pin to determine the extent of any loss of feeling. It was quickly apparent that I was insensitive to pain from the tips of the fingers on my right hand all the way up to the site of the wound.

  “Well, old man,” Doc said, “how would you like to go home?”

  I thought he was kidding. “Come on, Harry, for a little thing like this?”

  “It isn’t just a little thing. You’ve severed the radial nerve, and unless you can get to a neurosurgeon very quickly you could lose the use of your right hand. I’m going to transfer you to MOB Three. They have an excellent neurosurgeon there. They can repair the nerve, and then they’ll send you home, because this will take at least a year to regenerate.”

  It was hard to believe that I would be sent home. While I was pleased with the prospect of being reunited with my family again, the thought of leaving the Sterett and my shipmates really distressed me. That afternoon we learned that the air attack had caught and sunk the old oiler USS Kanahwa and our friend the USS Aaron Ward. The Kanahwa had to be abandoned almost immediately, while the Aaron Ward stayed afloat for several hours. Both ships suffered heavy casualties, and we were all concerned about the welfare of our friends aboard.

  The Sterett returned to Tulagi that night and made another run to the Russel Islands base, again witnessing a dogfight on the way back. On 9 April we left for Espíritu. I had tried to collect and organize my belongings in preparation for my transfer, and when I left the ship the next afternoon Harry Nyce, Tiny Hanna, and Harold Jervey accompanied me and helped to carry my seabag, which contained all of my worldly possessions. Tiny delivered it to the hospital’s master-at-arms; I never saw it again.

  It was hard to say good-bye, and as I watched their boat pull away from the landing I silently prayed that they would survive the war. (They all did.) Now I was on my own. I walked back into MOB Three’s receiving ward and down the road to recovery.

  CHAPTER 9

  VELLA GULF

  JUST BEFORE I LEFT the Sterett I told Frank Gould that I thought Herb May could do a good job as executive officer. He was next in line in seniority, extremely popular, a natural leader, mature, and industrious, and I knew Frank Gould liked him. Within the hour he moved into my now-vacant stateroom. When Harry Nyce, Tiny Hanna, and Harold Jervey returned to the ship after dropping me off at MOB Three, they found the new Gould/May leadership team in charge. It was apparent that the operational style and routine administration of the ship would not change much because of my departure.

  J. D. Jeffrey was by this time quite comfortable in his role as gunnery officer, and since the Sterett’s departure from the States he had shared a room with Doc Nyce. They saw eye to eye on most aspects of shipboard life and were a positive force on wardroom morale. J. D. counted on the same nucleus of star performers that had rendered such outstanding support in the past. Chiefs Hodge and Chapman, Byers, Gibson, and the other veterans of the Guadalcanal Campaign all continued to turn in the kind of sterling performances that had become their trademark. The Sterett’s crew did not deviate from the routine of drills and practices that had kept the ship in the “expert” category in gunnery. Ever since the attack on Pearl Harbor, training was the number-one priority aboard the Sterett. Meanwhile, she took on some of the least glamorous assignments in the theater, escorting the logistic supply line to our troops on Guadalcanal and the Russels. The crew watched with envy as the new “cans” (Fletcher-class destroyers) dashed up the slot to Munda, Rendova, and New Georgia, where the action was now furious.

  The Sterett toiled away the summer months, aware that Rear Adm. “Pug” Ainsworth’s cruiser/destroyer force, Task Group 36.1, was intercepting and doing battle with just about every Japanese force that attempted to reinforce their garrisons in the central Solomons. These actions included the Battle of Kolombangara, in which we lost the cruiser Helena and the destroyer Gwin and suffered damage to the cruisers Honolulu, St. Louis, and Leander (a New Zealand ship). In exchange for these losses the Japanese cruiser Jintsu was sunk, sending Admiral Izaki and some 483 of his shipmates to join their ancestors. Four facts were clear to Frank Gould and his crew of veterans: Japan’s desperate efforts to bolster its strength in the Solomon chain continued without pause; they were parried successfully by Ainsworth’s cruisers and destroyers; the cost in lost and damaged ships (and American lives) mounted steadily; and there was still plenty of fighting to be done. The crew of the Sterett wanted badly to get into the game. Everyone on board believed that she could take whatever the enemy could throw at her. Consequently, no one put in for transfers to newer ships. J. D. questioned several of his petty officers on that point, and they made it clear that they did not want to transfer anywhere. They felt that their ship was special—and because they felt that way, their conviction became a reality. But it seemed that the high command had relegated them to the second team. The men of the Sterett wanted a shot at real surface action—the kind they proved they could handle in November 1942.

  On the morning of 6 August 1943 the Sterett completed an uneventful escort mission to Rendova. As she rounded Savo Island and headed toward Tulagi, where her crew could relax (even the slow convoy escort assignments required them to remain at battle stations all night), five U.S. destroyers appeared several miles to the east, steaming westward at high speed. One broke off from the formation and headed directly for the Sterett to deliver a secret, priority message from the commander of Task Force 31, Rear Admiral Wilkinson:

  Comdr. Moosbrugger in Dunlap with division Able One and Able Two less Gridley and Wilson depart Tulagi at twelve-thirty [on the] sixth and proceed Vella Gulf via route south of Russels and Rendova Island to arrive Gizo Strait at twenty-two hundred same date. Make sweeps of Vella Gulf. Avoid minefields on line Vanga Vanga to Makutu Island. If no enemy contact is made by zero two hours [on the] seventh return down slot at maximum speed to Purvis. Warfield’s Peter Tares will remain in port. All times love. Sterett acknowledge.

  This was exactly what the crew of the Sterett had wanted. Frank Gould and his officers pieced together the context of the sally: Army and Marine troops on New Georgia Island had almost captured Munda after weeks of fierce combat, and the Japanese must have realized that they were about to lose their airfield there as well as the island of Kolombangara. So they probably planned either to evacuate or to reinforce their garrison that very night, and our intelligence unit had learned of their intentions (perhaps from coast-watcher reports). The after-action report by the commander of Task Force 31 attests to the accuracy of this ship-level analysis:

  From contact reports of vessels in the Rabaul area and from other indications, it appeared that a “Tokyo Express” might run on the night of 6 August, presumably to reinforce the Kolombangara garrison with men and supplies. These indications became apparent on 5 August. At that time there were eight destroyers available to Commander Task Force 31 in the Guadalcanal area. Of these, two were obligated on escort duty, but the remaining six were free for use to intercept the suspected enemy. There was not adequate time for a cruiser task force to reach the area and no request for additional forces was therefore made by CTF 31, particularly since, unless the enemy appeared
in great strength, six destroyers were believed adequate for the purpose.

  In other words, only six ships were available in the Guadalcanal area to counter the Japanese threat, they were all destroyers, and the good old Sterett was one of them. Now that the chips were down it did not matter that she was not brand-new, that she had only one stack and four 5-inch guns, that she was slightly smaller than the more modern Fletcher-class ships. She was there. More important, she was commanded by a highly competent naval officer—and he and his executive officer, gunnery officer, first lieutenant, chief engineer, communications officer, medical officer, key chief petty officers, their principal assistants, and at least half of the seamen and firemen in the crew were veterans of the Third Battle of Savo Island. They were anxious to prove that they were up to any challenge. The Sterett could still be counted on to take her place in the first-team lineup and to perform like a pro.

  American ground forces actually took Munda on 5 August. In the terse language of the secret message quoted earlier, Rear Adm. T. S. Wilkinson (who had relieved Rear Adm. Kelly Turner as commander of amphibious forces in the South Pacific on 15 July 1943) handed a tough task to Comdr. Frederick Moosbrugger, commander of Destroyer Division 12 and a new arrival in the Tulagi area: stop the Tokyo Express in the Vella Gulf. But tough tasks were routine for Freddie Moosbrugger. A former destroyer skipper (the McCall) who had seen plenty of action against the enemy and had performed with distinction, he was soon to write his name in the pages of naval history as a brilliant and heroic tactician. Moosbrugger was told what to do, but how to do it was left entirely up to him. Daylight fighter cover would be provided, and the small force of American PT boats (“Warfield’s Peter Tares” ) in the Blackett Strait area had been ordered to remain in port so as to stay out of the way of Moosbrugger’s six destroyers. These included his own division, consisting of the Dunlap, Craven, and Maury, plus Destroyer Division 15 (less the Wilson): the Lang (flying the pennant of Comdr. R. W. Simpson), Sterett, and Stack.