Doc Lea’s reputation as a doctor was good from the start, but it was greatly enhanced when he performed an emergency appendectomy on the wardroom table in very rough weather. Champ conned the Sterett out of formation and took a slower, more comfortable course while his medical officer did the surgery. The patient recovered nicely, and the crew’s confidence in both the doctor and the captain skyrocketed. Doc Lea was also a perennial wardroom treasurer—an important job, but one that few people ever wanted.
On several occasions Doc observed that one of the mess attendants was habitually belligerent, surly, uncooperative, and abusive in language as well as manner. Doc’s solution was to speak to “Big Willie,” who by that time had become the chief mess attendant. He told Willie that his subordinate was a troublemaker and that his reputation as a leader was hurt by his apparent inability to discipline him effectively. The next day the doctor confronted a new problem—Willie had broken the “undisciplined” mess attendant’s jaw. Doc had to take the man to a dental surgeon aboard the battleship Massachusetts to patch him up. Apparently the culprit made the mistake of reacting to Willie’s reprimand with his fists. From that day forward the troublemaker’s attitude improved markedly. Doc would never have countenanced the use of violence to enforce discipline, but when he learned that the chief had acted only in self-defense he supported Willie’s response. He had solved a troublesome problem, and his messmates appreciated his efforts.
In April 1944 the Sterett escorted the Mississippi and a couple of cruisers to a Seattle shipyard, and Herb May (who was the doctor’s roommate) was sent ahead to arrange the repair schedule. Herb called Ellie—Doc’s “one and only”—from San Francisco and urged her (without telling her why) to take the train to Seattle on the twenty-fourth. The ship would be in port for only five days, and without advance notice she could not have arrived in time. Champ convinced the local authorities to waive the waiting period usually required for a marriage license, enabling Doc and Ellie to get married in the Bremerton Navy Yard chapel. Herb May was the best man, and “Pete” Cowdrey (Roy’s wife) was the matron of honor. The Leas held a reception for the officers in their hotel room. Doc recalled, “I had brandy, a quart of Three Feathers, and a quart of Schenley Black Label, all from my medical supplies.” The tiny brandy bottles were clearly marked “U.S. Navy Medical Corps”; if Champ noticed, he maintained a discreet silence.
To judge from the comments made by his Sterett shipmates, Champ never slowed down. His era was marked by repeated volunteer actions:
“Unless otherwise directed, I am leaving the screen to investigate and identify surface radar contact.” It turned out to be two downed, wounded Japanese pilots.
“Unless otherwise directed, I am leaving formation to take safe course and speed to permit the doctor to perform emergency surgery.” As we already know, the appendectomy was successful.
“Unless otherwise directed, I am proceeding to search for and recover survivors.” Frequently, the Sterett was successful on such missions. Champ had promised when he relieved Frank Gould that he would maintain the ship’s reputation as a superb fighting unit. There can be no doubt that he did. The Sterett was in action of some kind almost without pause during every operational assignment while he had command. Many of the air attacks that her crew fought off during this period were fiercely fought multiplane raids. The Sterett always seemed to have her rabbit’s foot at work—but in reality, her secret was a combination of relentless training schedules and dedicated men.
Nearly everyone who wrote about his memories of this ship mentioned the contributions of “Big Willie,” “Wee Willie,” or “Sylvester,” as he was variously called. Champ told of the many times he went into the water, harness and line over his shoulder, to bring a pilot or some other helpless survivor back to the ship’s side, where by reason of his great physical strength he was able to lift the man on board. His performance as the first loader of gun number two was already legendary when I served on board, and he continued to perform in that capacity with increased skill and grace for the remainder of the Sterett’s actions. Willie was also a talented musician, and on afternoons when we were not at general quarters he would bring his saxophone back on the fantail and (together with Pomerance, who played the clarinet) entertain his shipmates. Sometimes he also acted as the ship’s barber. I have been unable to locate Willie. He should be honored at some future Sterett reunion; in Doc Lea’s words, “He was enormously well liked and respected by both officers and crew.” Admiral Blouin recently echoed those words and added his own commendations of Willie’s outstanding performance.
I would be remiss if, in summarizing the Sterett’s history during World War II, I failed to mention those individuals who were specifically cited by Champ Blouin in his letters on personal actions and the performance of duty while he was in command. One such individual was Dan Poor, who came aboard on 25 January 1943 as an ensign and was detached on 14 June 1944 as a lieutenant. Admiral Blouin wrote, “I would like to make some complimentary comment about Dan Poor, who, as communications officer, was officer-of-the-deck at general quarters and did a magnificent job backing me up. A Harvard grad, with the broad accent of Boston’s prewar days, he adapted wonderfully to destroyer life in crumpled dungarees.” He continued: “Doc Lea was a tower of strength, both medically and in the critical area of morale. He must have been the crew’s most loved officer. And Herb May grew up on that ship; the Sterett gave him his first responsibilities, and he served the ship with distinction through just about the entire war. As my executive officer and navigator, he was just what I needed, and he kept it a happy ship.”
Other comments made by Sterett veterans about the Blouin era, while they do not amount to anecdotes, provide brief snatches of color and style. Leonard D. Woods, a graduate of the Merchant Marine Academy, reported aboard on 11 October 1943 and was the last crewman detached from the Sterett, on 2 November 1945. An ensign when he arrived and a lieutenant when he left, Woods was chief engineer for most of the Blouin era. He made the following remarks in a 1988 letter:
Sherman Pomerance was a close friend, and along with Big Willie he played the sax and the clarinet. They were very good and very entertaining. Sherm was transferred to the destroyer Bush, which was sunk at Okinawa. He was killed in an attempt to get some of his shipmates out of the water onto an LCI. The LCI was under attack; Sherm was last seen going into the ship’s screws.
One interesting experience came when we were nested with another group of “cans,” and Herman Wouk came over and visited us. If memory serves, we ended up in a poker game together.
Christmas of 1943 was spent in Efate (we were there to refuel and resupply), but for Christmas of 1944 we were in Leyte Gulf. It was one hell of a difference. I recall that 1944 Christmas, because we agreed to put the captain’s gig over the side and let each man enjoy two cans of beer. While the gig was away from the ship, we came under kamikaze attack. The beer was finished despite the Japs. The Sterett’s men knew what was important.
One of the strangest events occurred when we transferred the staff and belongings of an admiral from one carrier to another. Somehow his liquor supply turned up missing. Because of hangovers, a few members of the black gang had to find alternates for the watch. The black gang was also famous for the excellent turkeys they somehow managed to obtain and cook in the fire rooms.
At the Sterett reunion in Philadelphia in 1989, I met Leonard Woods for the first time. He shared many of his recollections of the ship and its people:
We had an excellent group in engineering. Any time there was an emergency they were always there, always equal to the situation. You just could not have assembled a finer bunch of people. I always appreciated the fact that the captain bent over backward for them when it came to leave and liberty. That really helped, because it was a rough life “down in that black hole,” as Cowdrey used to put it.
The reinforcement of Mindoro was one hell of an operation. Champ was the commander of the screen, and we had a number of sh
ips hit by kamikazes. Then that ammunition ship was hit, and the blast caused a tidal wave you could hardly believe. That was a very traumatic time, and as always Champ did a superb job. He ran the ship right up to the beach as far as he could go—any closer and we’d have run aground. The Sterett took out those gun emplacements on the ridge with deadly accuracy. I’d never seen the guns fired so fast for so long—they were red-hot. Once at Mindoro when we were alongside a destroyer that had been hit by a kamikaze another plane dove at us; the other ship took a second hit.
Woods asked if I knew Gordon S. Husby, who reported to the Sterett on 12 December 1943 as an ensign and was detached on 24 July 1945 as a lieutenant. Husby served as first lieutenant during his tour. His nickname was “the Bruiser”: he was a lineman at the University of Washington before the war and had played in the Rose Bowl. Shortly after he arrived on board he persuaded Woods to spar with him on the fo’c’sle one afternoon, “just for exercise.” Woods landed what he thought was a light blow to Husby’s face. In a split second, Husby reflexively connected with a right to the jaw; Woods suddenly found himself airborne and nearly sailed overboard. That ended Woodie’s availability as a sparring partner. The incident typifies the caliber and character of the men of the Sterett. They were tough, and capable.
For 27 January 1945 the Sterett’s log entry states: “1127—Pursuant to BuPers dispatch 201239, dated 19 October 1944, Comdr. Francis J. Blouin, 72447, USN, was relieved as commanding officer of USS Sterett (DD 407) by Lt. Comdr. Gordon B. Williams, 81170, USN.” The transfer was completed by high line from the USS Morris (DD 414) in Lingayen Gulf during the early phase of the invasion of Luzon. Troops were headed ashore; carrier aircraft patrolled the skies above; battleships, cruisers, and destroyers bombarded Japanese positions; and a multitude of landing craft, ship’s boats, and other vessels moved across the water’s surface at a hectic pace. It was a busy scene, and an appropriate setting for the Sterett’s change of command.
The Blouin era had come to an end. I wish I could have had a part in it. The Sterett performed with great distinction in one of the most dangerous periods of her career: a full year of almost continuous combat operations. As was always the case, the commanding officer had imbued the men of the Sterett with the essence of his character. His achievement showed in the crew’s cheerful, enthusiastic, and aggressive performance, and it added another chapter of bold and courageous action to the ship’s proud history.
CHAPTER 11
THE FINAL ACT
“GORDY” WILLIAMS AND I BECAME FRIENDS AT THE NAVAL ACADEMY, where we were classmates. Watching him perform as a “B” squad stalwart on the gridiron, I admired his guts and his sincerity. In 1944 Lt. Comdr. Gordon B. Williams was the executive officer of the destroyer USS Wedderburn (DD 684) in the western Pacific. In early December he received orders to take command of the Sterett. He was detached from the Wedderburn and spent the next several weeks engaged in a common activity in those days—chasing around the Pacific on whatever transportation was available in an effort to catch up with the ship to which one had been assigned. Gordy hitched a ride aboard the Morris from Hollandia, New Guinea, and learned that both the Morris and the Sterett were slated to participate in the invasion of the Philippines, with landings scheduled to take place on Mindoro on 15 December and on Luzon on 9 January. Gordy busied himself on the Morris, acting as the squadron commander’s chief of staff, until the two ships finally met on 27 January. He transferred to his new command by high line on that date. Champ Blouin then crossed to the Morris by the same method for the first leg of his journey to his new command, the destroyer Ingersoll (DD 652).
The Sterett’s new skipper found that he had inherited a well-trained ship’s company, with a core of veterans from many engagements in the southern and central Pacific. He spent his first several days at the helm on shore bombardment missions in support of our ground forces, now fighting desperately to gain control of their objectives, and on screening assignments for our transports, which were so vulnerable to attack by either submarines or aircraft. The invasion plan proceeded on schedule, and on 30 January the Sterett was ordered to escort a fifty-ship convoy (a mix of merchant and navy craft that had already off-loaded their cargoes of troops and supplies) safely out of Lingayen Gulf. As soon as they reached the Philippine Sea the convoy was dispersed, and the Sterett was sent into an area she was very familiar with—the bays and sounds of the Solomon chain from Guadalcanal to New Georgia. There a concentrated period of training and rehearsals had begun for the huge force that would soon invade the Ryukyus.
Captain Williams proved to be a stern and uncompromising teacher. He refused to allow the men of the Sterett to rest on their laurels. He was well aware of their skills and of their outstanding record in past actions. But he was also keenly aware of the tendency of championship teams to become so enamored of their own prowess that they lost their focus and thus their hard-won titles. He was not about to allow that to happen to the Sterett. For the next several weeks the ship engaged in all sorts of training exercises—not only those intended for the individual ship, such as damage control, fire-fighting, man overboard, gunnery, torpedo, and antisubmarine drills, but also those involving the entire amphibious strike force, with practice landings and naval gunfire support of ground forces.
By 27 March 1945, when she sailed from Ulithi as part of the Fifth Fleet’s amphibious task force to participate in the Operation Iceberg invasion of Okinawa, the Sterett was again at peak combat-readiness. The task force arrived in the vicinity of Naha before daylight on 1 April. It was Easter Sunday: Okinawa’s D day. The Sterett was relieved of her escort duties and assigned to patrol the transport area. She was also made available for shore bombardment missions on call.
It quickly became apparent that the Japanese had abandoned their beach defenses and concentrated their troops along the Shuri Line, which ran across the island from the Hagushi beaches to Naha. Gen. Simon B. Buckner’s ground forces exerted heavy pressure against the defenders. For the first five days the situation remained relatively quiet, but aboard the Sterett Gordy Williams and his shipmates were under no illusions. They were aware that Okinawa was uncomfortably close to the Japanese home islands, that it was strongly fortified, and that it would be defended with courage and determination. But they did not know that in planning Operation Iceberg Adm. Kelly Turner had thought it prudent to station destroyer pickets at about twenty designated geographic points around the island to provide early warning of approaching enemy aircraft. The preliminary design was submitted for review and coordination to Adm. Marc A. Mitscher, then the commander of Task Force 58. Mitscher’s chief of staff at this juncture was Capt. Arleigh Burke, who had drawn up the blueprint for the Vella Gulf engagement. Burke saw that Turner’s plan called for single destroyers at the picket stations around Okinawa. He pointed out to Mitscher that these ships would inevitably become prime targets for the kamikazes and that no one destroyer could defend itself successfully against simultaneous attacks by as many as four or five planes. (As it turned out, this was a conservative estimate: the picket destroyers Evans and Hadley were attacked by as many as twenty-three aircraft.) Burke suggested that the destroyers be stationed in clusters of up to four ships so that they could render mutual gunfire support to one another; Turner apparently considered the idea incompatible with his order of priorities for destroyer operations. Soon, however, the wisdom of Arleigh Burke’s recommendation would become abundantly clear.
A preview of what was to come occurred on 6 April at radar picket station number one, located fifty miles north of Okinawa and occupied by the destroyer Bush (DD 529). She had been subjected to several kamikaze attacks over the previous two days and had repelled them. But her luck was about to run out. By noon on the sixth she had downed one attacker and avoided three more. Then they literally swarmed all over her. For another three hours she was able to avoid a direct hit and even scored another kill, but shortly after 1500 a single plane came in low, penetrated a hail of antiaircraft
fire, and struck the starboard side between the stacks. The explosion it caused in her forward engine room was devastating. The destroyer-transport Colhoun (APD 17) moved over from her picket station to protect the crippled destroyer. The struggle to keep the Bush afloat continued until 1700, when a fresh wave of thirteen Japanese aircraft attacked both ships. The Colhoun was struck first. About fifteen minutes later the Bush absorbed a second hit that almost cut her in two. At 1745 she received a third hit. It was too much. She sank about forty-five minutes later, with eighty-seven sailors on board. The Colhoun also went down some six and one-half hours after she was hit, taking thirty-five men with her.
Down in the objective area sixty miles away, the Sterett was on patrol. What had started as a calm, peaceful morning turned tense as radio reports of the attack on radar picket station number one made all hands aware that combat was not far off. At about 1000 a large number of enemy aircraft were reported to be approaching from the north. The entire combat air patrol (CAP) was sent out to intercept them. Despite many confirmed kills CAP simply could not contain all of them, and more than two hundred kamikazes penetrated the transport area. The lumbering transports got under way as quickly as they could, while the Sterett and her companion escorts opened fire on the attackers.
Gordy Williams had gone to general quarters as soon as the approaching raid was reported. He increased speed to 25 knots while the bogies were still ten miles away and started shooting as soon as they were within effective range. First the 5-inch and then the 40-mm and the 20-mm guns joined the harsh and deafening battle-chorus. The sky was filled with tracers, exploding shells, Japanese planes (some falling in flames, others homing in on their targets), and the smoke ascending from our damaged ships. The Sterett’s skipper conned his ship with extra care and skill. He had experienced a similar melee during the Battle of Kolombangara in July 1943, while he was engineering officer of the destroyer Woodworth (DD 460). She had collided with one of her companions, and Gordy was determined at least to spare the Sterett from that fate.
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