THE STERETT RETURNED TO PURVIS BAY across from Guadalcanal on 7 August. On the ninth she entered Vella Gulf again on another offensive sweep with five other destroyers. On this run, she encountered several personnel barges. Because they were made of wood they did not appear on radar, and their presence was not disclosed until they chose to open fire on the Sterett with heavy machine guns. That was certainly a mistake from the Japanese point of view. The Sterett responded in typical fashion, lashing out with every weapon that would bear on the targets. Our ships made short work of these unfortunates, sinking two and setting four others on fire (they probably sank later).
Two days later, Lt. Perry Hall was transferred to submarine school in New London, Connecticut. Perry received his orders several days before the Vella Gulf action but delayed his departure in order to get in on the fight. He was frustrated by the fact that Destroyer Division 12 got to fire its torpedoes first, but even so he managed to fire one of his fish into a burning enemy vessel, helping to finish it off. He had made a significant contribution to the Sterett legend and would be missed by everyone on board.
After the Vella Gulf engagement the men of the Sterett enjoyed a brief period of justifiable pride and satisfaction, but it lasted for only a few short weeks. In that time they became more aware of the influx of new Fletcher-class destroyers. The production pipeline delivered these new ships to the South Pacific at a steady pace. The Sterett’s sailors welcomed the evidence of America’s industrial strength because it confirmed what they had always believed: if they held the line against the Japanese Navy during the critical phase, reinforcements would arrive and make victory inevitable. The downside of this scenario was that the most challenging assignments went to the new destroyers—they were bigger, more heavily armed, and better equipped to do the job. As a result the Sterett and her prewar sisters, veterans who had won the right to play on the first team, were assigned to less glamorous, less exciting roles. Life became a routine series of escort duties between the Solomons, Espíritu Santo, and Nouméa, and morale started to erode.
Then the high command demonstrated that, contrary to popular view, someone on the staff (perhaps Admiral Halsey himself) understood the needs and concerns of its sailors. In early October the Sterett was ordered to Sydney, Australia, along with the Cleveland (CL 55) for ten days of rest and rehabilitation. The news came as a wonderful surprise. With the exception of the three months spent at Mare Island in early 1943, the war had occupied practically every minute of the Sterett’s time since her departure from San Diego in June 1942.
The reaction of her crew members was predictable: the mood of boredom and frustration quickly became one of anticipation and excitement. Sydney was world-famous as a liberty port, and the Sterett’s sailors planned to make the most of their opportunity. Some planned sightseeing excursions to various places of interest, while others imagined new conquests in the arena of romance. (Doc Lea repeatedly warned the men about the risks of the latter activity.) During a brief stop in Nouméa, a few high rollers purloined a 50-gallon drum of gasoline—in case a car materialized for their use in Sydney. This was optimism at its highest level, and it suggests the kind of imaginative planning that went on in some sailors’ minds.
The executive officer at this time was Lt. Comdr. David C. Miller, USNR, a Naval Academy graduate (class of ’34). Dave had gone into the Merchant Marine after graduation and returned to the Navy after the attack on Pearl Harbor. He relieved Herb May (who was the “acting” exec after my detachment in June). Seeking to improve his professional skills, Dave took the opportunity offered by the Sterett’s trip to Sydney to attend a special training course somewhere in the area. J. D. Jeffrey recalls that
Dave’s temporary absence left an interesting situation aboard ship. Herb May and I were the next senior officers, very close in rank. Under existing rules it was not precisely clear who was senior, although it seemed Herb had the edge. Some months earlier, when the exec’s job was vacant for a short time because of Cal’s departure, Herb had very ably filled in. Now, in Dave’s absence, Herb insisted that I have the opportunity. Of course, it was not Herb’s decision, or mine. Very obligingly, Captain Frank decided it was time I got my feet wet, figuratively, and I was delighted. Navigation with its precision had always interested me; and although I had previously worked out navigation problems alongside the exec and chief quartermaster, I now got the job for real, temporary though it was.
But the new navigator found the heavens to be uncooperative. Australia’s barrier reef demands special navigational care, but the sky remained cloudy day after day—celestial navigation was simply impossible. The Cleveland was no better off than her escort in this respect, and each day she asked the Sterett for her best estimated position.
J. D. was worried. He knew that Frank Gould, who had done so much of the Sterett’s navigating while he was exec, was concerned about their inability to obtain a fix. But on the last day of the voyage the sun broke through the overcast for a few minutes. J. D. was ready for it, and he was able to get a sight. That single sun line indicated that the Sterett’s dead-reckoning position was accurate, and landfall occurred precisely as planned. A day or two later J. D. learned that the Cleveland’s navigator had missed the sight and used the Sterett’s data for his entry. Frank Gould must have been pleased.
Once in Sydney J. D. had to shift gears and concentrate on his role as executive officer—specifically, his responsibility for maintaining discipline and order. He knew that his sailors had been under stress for many months, with no chance to relax or blow off steam. Now they had arrived in one of the most sophisticated liberty ports in the world, and he waited for some sort of explosion. But it never came. Only relatively minor infractions were reported. There was one instance of a Sterett sailor really losing his self-control, getting into a fight, and returning to the ship late. J. D. figured that a hard-line response would send the right signal to the rest of the crew. So the sailor was deprived of his liberty for the remainder of the visit—a punishment that (as J. D. put it) “would seem the substantial equivalent of a year in jail ashore.” But the acting exec’s hard line came unglued when Doc “Tex” Lea took an interest in the case.
Lt. Austin W. Lea, USNR, reported aboard the Sterett a month before her visit to Sydney. He took a broad view of his responsibility for the welfare of the crew, playing the combined role of physician, chaplain, and defender of the helpless with a prevailing philosophy of fairness and compassion. Now he interceded on behalf of the sailor who had fallen from grace. He pleaded his case in the privacy of the acting exec’s stateroom, pointing out that forgiveness in this case would have a salutary effect not only on the culprit but on the entire crew. J. D. bought Doc’s argument and allowed the accused to go ashore during the rest of the visit. He behaved himself, and the impact of the decision on the crew appeared to be positive. The leadership of the Sterett had demonstrated that in return for their dedicated service they would receive fair and compassionate treatment.
When the ship left Sydney on 18 October, the men of the Sterett were relaxed, refreshed, and ready to get back to the grim business of the war. They returned in time for the landing on Bougainville and the first raids on Rabaul and were soon back in the cycle of escort duties, at-sea fuelings, air raids, dawn alerts, submarine contacts, and shore bombardments. From an unidentified Sterett history—marked only as “Enclosure B”—comes the following account:
On 1 November 1943 the Sterett escorted the Saratoga on her memorable raid when her air group stopped the Japanese from making a counterattack on our beachhead at Bougainville. The Sterett returned from this raid in time to fuel and go back up in company with the Essex and Bunker Hill. On 11 November, while making the second raid on Rabaul and Bougainville, the formation was attacked by at least fifteen torpedo planes and dive-bombers of a reported sixty-plane raid. The Sterett shot down one of those unassisted and another aided by another destroyer.
It was at this juncture that Lt. J. D. Jeffrey decided it was
time to move on. He had experienced just about everything one could expect to face on a destroyer, and he wanted to go to Pensacola and earn his wings as a naval aviator—and of course he wanted to get back to his bride. All of us shared the desire to get home; we missed the warmth and companionship of our loved ones and wondered how they managed to cope with the problems of parenting, rationing, budgeting the money we were able to send home only at irregular intervals, and worrying about our safety. But J. D. wanted to become a naval aviator, something he certainly could not do as long as he remained aboard the Sterett. (I spent three years and eight months on the ship and did not want to leave her, but in my case that was consistent with my objective: I cherished the earnest hope that by some fluke I could become her skipper.) In his two years aboard the Sterett J. D. gave of himself in large measure, and his contributions to the efficiency and morale of the ship were worthy of special commendation.
In the hectic scramble from place to place Ens. Roy B. Cowdrey, under orders to join the Sterett, somehow managed to catch up with her. He reported aboard on 24 October 1943 after trying unsuccessfully to join her in Sydney (so for the next two years he had to hear, “Remember when we were in Sydney?”). He promptly took up his duties as torpedo officer and soon was sent ashore to attend gunnery school at Espíritu Santo, a move that had the full support of the incumbent gunnery officer. J. D. was laying the groundwork for his eventual departure by ensuring that there was a qualified replacement on board. Then came the news he had been waiting for—an Alnav (a message addressed to all ships and stations in the Navy) requesting applications for flight training from officers of his class. To apply, one had to offer proof that one was physically qualified for aviation duty. Understandably, Dave Miller was not enthusiastic about losing J. D. and was not about to expedite his departure. However, during a brief stop in Espíritu a few days later Jeffrey noticed a seaplane tender in port on which he could get the necessary flight physical. This is what he remembers: “It was unfortunate that at the exact time of my scheduled physical exam, a ceremony was also scheduled at which Frank Gould was to receive his Navy Cross and Chief Hodge, Harrington, Burris, and myself commendations for the Vella Gulf action. Dave was militantly insistent that I attend the ceremony, but I was not to be denied. Frank and I had been through Vella Gulf. This ceremony, though important and impressive, was the pale aftermath.” So it is clear that Jeffrey’s battle performance, as well as that of Hodge and the others, was duly noted by Frank Gould.
To quote again from the Sterett history:
Shortly after the Rabaul raids came the invasion of the Gilberts, which was relatively uneventful from a naval point of view despite bloody Tarawa. The Sterett operated with Task Force 58 during this invasion and for the next ten months continued to screen Task Force 58, picking up pilots, driving off air attacks, and doing the various jobs that come a destroyer’s way.
On 9 December the Sterett participated in the first neutralization of Nauru, one of many to come.
During the Marshall campaign the Sterett continued to operate with Task Force 58. Preliminary to the main bombardment of Roi Island, the Sterett, Lang, and North Carolina were directed to conduct intermittent bombardment the night before the landing in order to harass personnel and to prevent repair of damage inflicted on the airfield by air strikes conducted the previous day. This bombardment was most effective and accomplished the purpose intended. The next day the Sterett supported the landings with a bombardment, along with the battleships of Task Force 58.
The Sterett spent Christmas anchored in Efate, where there was a large mansion set on a hill and surrounded by lush tropical foliage. It looked like the planter’s plantation in South Pacific, and the Navy (with its typical good sense) had converted it into a very nice officer’s club. It was here that Jeffrey and Max Dolson, the assistant gunnery officer, chose to spend Christmas Day. Max was a former college tennis star, and J. D. was a tennis enthusiast who had never had much time to play. Despite the disparity in their skills they spent an enjoyable day on the court that adjoined the club. Although away from home and their loved ones, they counted their blessings: they were alive and healthy, they were on solid ground, and for that day at least no one was trying to kill them.
In the weeks afterward J. D. settled back to await his orders. Frank Gould had endorsed Jeffrey’s request for flight training shortly before he was relieved of his command in early January 1944. J. D. was truly sorry to see him go. He and Frank had shared many hair-raising days of deadly combat, and each had acquired a high degree of respect for the courage and professional competence of the other. J. D. was also apprehensive about having to weather the initiation period of a new commanding officer. The Sterett had her unique qualities and her idiosyncrasies, and not every skipper would find them compatible with his own precepts and expectations.
As it turned out, the personnel detailers achieved a new standard of excellence when they selected Frank Gould’s replacement. Lt. Comdr. Francis J. (“Champ”) Blouin hit the deck running when he assumed command of the Sterett, and J. D.’s reaction to him—as well as a description of his own detachment a few weeks later—is summarized in these comments from a recent letter:
In the short time I served under him, I concluded that the Sterett was indeed in good hands and would continue to be a happy and efficient ship. The only action I recall while Champ was skipper was a shore bombardment in which the Sterett was one of a number of ships participating. Riding the Sterett was yet another Destroyer Division 15 commander, one Charlie Stuart. This particular action involved saturation bombardment of an island (its name now forgotten), and the Sterett was assigned a certain square of beach as its target. During the course of the bombardment, a large explosion occurred in the enemy-held interior well away from the Sterett’s assigned area. Commodore Stuart, seeing our area quiet and hoping maybe for a home run, ordered the Sterett to shift fire. Alas, to our knowledge we caused no havoc ashore. This, probably my last action as the gunnery officer of one of the now-numerous ships of the fleet, showed how far our Pacific fighting power had come. The United States had overwhelming ship superiority, able literally to pound enemy-held islands at will. That the amassed ships could not wipe out all enemy shore resistance prior to beachhead landings did not detract from the magnitude of their numbers and the enormity of their firepower.
Orders to flight training came in due course, with detachment in March 1944. The detachment location was appropriate, reflecting some form of progress in the twenty-five months I had been aboard. I joined the ship while she was in the frigid waters of Casco Bay, Maine; I was to leave it halfway around the world in the tropical port (not tropical paradise) of Espíritu Santo, New Hebrides, South Pacific. The details of my departure also seemed appropriate. I was to fly out on 15 March. I thought I would spend one last night on board and take a boat to the air terminal the next morning. But on the afternoon of 14 March the ship received sudden orders to get under way. With unceremonious dispatch, my possessions were hurriedly assembled, dumped into a whaleboat, and deposited (along with myself) ashore. The next morning, as I was about to board the big Mariner seaplane transport for takeoff, I scanned the ships in the harbor. The Sterett, of course, was not there—she was off for yet another mission.
CHAPTER 10
THE BLOUIN ERA
LT. COMDR. FRANCIS J. “CHAMP” BLOUIN reported aboard the Sterett in Pearl Harbor on 13 January 1944, a Sunday. He relieved Frank Gould as commanding officer the very next morning, a fact that spoke volumes about his innate sense of trust and his self-confidence. There was no time for an inventory of classified publications or an inspection of the ship’s physical condition. Frank Gould had assured him that all of the publications were accounted for, that the Sterett was in excellent shape, and that there were no critical personnel deficiencies. Those assurances from a brother officer were enough for Champ. He said, “I relieve you, sir,” and assumed the heavy responsibilities of command. The ship was scheduled to get under way that v
ery day, and he was determined to take her out as his ship.
Francis J. Blouin, USNA ’33, graduated in the upper half of his class. He had five years of destroyer experience aboard the Overton, Monaghan, and Cole. In 1941 he was posted as a Navy Department communications watch officer in Washington, D.C. It was the last place in the world he wanted to be when the nation found itself at war on 7 December of that fateful year. It was late 1943 before he could extricate himself from shore duty: it was next to impossible for such a valued member of that communications team to leave, but somehow Champ managed to do it. The Sterett was the beneficiary of his efforts.
Tin Can Sailor Page 19