The plane hit a fuel bunker, and the explosion started a fire; but seawater flowed in to put it out. Since this was the bunker that was on line the boiler fires went out, and we went dead in the water. Shock knocked out all the ship’s communications, so we ran sound-powered phones to emergency steering stations in the stern, hooked up a battery to a radio so that we could report our condition, put a clean fuel oil bunker on line, fired the boilers, and got under way for Kerama Retto for emergency repairs. The total time that elapsed from when we first sighted the planes to when we got under way again was fifty-six minutes, according to the ship’s log. Our only casualty was the doctor, who suffered minor injuries when the concussion knocked him off his feet. Well, some of the men below decks did get shaken up somewhat, but not seriously. We had lived through a few more of the Sterett’s many magnificent moments, but once again I had been reminded that death and destruction could visit us without warning, and that we could not drop our guard for an instant.
A day or two later we were moored at Kerama Retto, getting a patch put on our side. The island looked as if a load of otherworldly rocks had been dumped there. Everything had a weird shape and color; there were unexpected crevices, a stone arch reaching down to the water, red and brown lichen-splotched stones, and practically no vegetation. In the morning and evening, the way shadows and colors shifted was fascinating. There were always some off-duty men standing mesmerized at the rail as they watched the scene. If a gnome or a kobold had hopped out and scurried around, no one would have been surprised; we might have said, “Well, what d’ya know, a gnome.” I can understand how the old windjammer sailors came back with their tall tales. . . .
We were at anchor watch at night in Tacloban harbor when word came that the Japs were moving down from the hills to swim out and blow up the ship, or to climb aboard and run amok. Our anchor watch had handguns, but some of the nearby ships had tommy guns and twitchy trigger fingers. My watch and I agreed that it would be best to lie flat on the deck and peer over the side. I don’t know if any swimmers showed up, but there was an awful lot of promiscuous gunfire.
Once when we lay off an island—Saipan, I think—some of the men were sunbathing, while others were just being lazy. But a few who had access to binoculars were watching some Marines who were backed up on a nearby point of land and engaged in a desperate firefight. (They did eventually win out.) Those of us who watched got a strong feeling of being disconnected from reality.
We swam in Sunlight Channel in the Russels with the ship’s gig on shark picket, tommy gun at the ready. The channel was just wide enough for two ships to pass each other and yet was deep water. The water was nearly the temperature of blood, and swimmers got so sapped that it became hard to climb back aboard.
For decommissioning we took the ship from Hawaii to Brooklyn via Panama. The convoy commander stretched things too far en route, and we had to refuel on the fringes of a hurricane. We popped hoses and sprayed oil all over our ship as well as the fueling ship alongside. It was so rough that we had to pump ballast to maintain our stability. It was miserable and dangerous. One moment we on the fantail would look up at the ship alongside as if we were staring up at a cliff, and the next moment we were level with the other ship’s weather deck. The helmsman had a rough time trying to keep the hoses from breaking—and trying to keep us from crashing into the fueling ship. I experienced a number of bad fueling attempts at sea, but this was the worst. At the time the Sterett’s topside weight was a big concern, and it made for a wild ride around Hatteras. We were on our beam ends most of the time until the convoy commander “got the word,” reduced speed, and changed course to quarter the seas somewhat.
When we sat around at officers’ clubs, one of our games was to spot the communications officer in a group of new arrivals. He usually looked pretty haggard.
When securing from general quarters, Ens. Otis Erisman would always begin to sing sotto voce: “Sunday school is over, and we are going home. Good-bye-y, good-bye-y, we are going home.” I don’t think he realized what he was doing.
From Leonard Woods—
After being hit, we steamed slowly into Kerama Retto. I was detached and sent by air to the Puget Sound Navy Yard with all the data that shipyard personnel would need in order to decide (with some assurance of accuracy) exactly how to repair our damage. I arrived on 1 May, and the Sterett came in on the tenth. The yard was well prepared. They went right to work on the repairs and also removed our torpedo tubes; in their place they installed additional 40-mm guns in preparation for the kamikaze attacks that were expected to greet us when we invaded Japan. Fortunately, President Truman ordered the delivery of atomic weapons on selected targets to convince the Japanese military that further resistance was futile. We were sent to San Diego for trials and were there when Japan surrendered. We then went to Hawaii and spent about a month there. Next we were ordered to New York for Navy Day.
The Dictionary of American Naval Fighting Ships has this to say about the Sterett’s last days: “On 25 September, she set sail with Mississippi (BB 41), North Carolina (BB 55), and Enterprise (CV 6). Sterett transited the Panama Canal on 8 and 9 October, and after a three-day stay in Coco Solo, C.Z., proceeded north. She arrived in New York on 17 October and was decommissioned there on 2 November 1945. Her name was struck from the Navy list on 25 February 1947, and she was sold on 10 August to Northern Metal Co. of Philadelphia for scrapping.”
On 3 November 1945 Lieutenant Woods was ordered to supervise the stripping of the Sterett prior to her disposal for scrap. He carried out those orders until she was towed up the Hudson on the ninth to a reserve fleet anchorage. Of course, he did not live aboard—the ship was an empty hulk, without even the most rudimentary services. But one crewman did remain aboard until the end. Charles H. “Frenchy” LeFebvre joined the Sterett as an apprentice seaman on 5 December 1942. He had served his ship well as a radioman striker and later a radioman 3/c. He was officially detached on 2 November 1945. But apparently Frenchy decided that the ship was a better shelter than any offered by the streets of New York, and as of the ninth he was still sleeping on board. This is his account of his last day on the Sterett:
By this time there was only one person left—the captain. Me. Frenchy. This was good. I slept in, and had liberty any time. My time was my own. Guess what? That only lasted as long as my money held out. But, being captain, I held on. After each and every liberty I’d check the ship fore and aft. The damage from pilferers and vandals would be apparent each time. There were broken light fixtures, and many things were missing. All kinds of brass and copper fittings as well as piping and instruments and gauges were being removed. It sure made me feel bad, and it also made me mad. However, I had to stay with the old fighting ship. It had saved my life more than once, so I was going to try to save her life. At this point, I felt that she was all mine. I would like the world and all my shipmates to know that I did try to save her. One day, before I got up, I felt the ship rocking and moving in a way that told me we were no longer tied up. I went to the bridge, where a good captain should be when his ship is under way, and found civilians all over the bridge of my ship. With great authority, I asked, “Where are you taking my ship? What are you doing on my ship?” They ignored me—even laughed at me—and at that moment I knew I had lost her.
Even though Frenchy (whom I recall pleasantly from my days on the Sterett) wrote his account with tongue in cheek, I am sure he really did wish to save her from being cut up into chunks of metal and sold off to the highest bidder. It seemed like an ignominious end for such a heroic veteran.
Another Sterett sailor now appeared on the scene. Earl J. Andrews had come aboard as a fireman 2/c on the day the ship was commissioned, and he served with distinction as our log room yeoman while I was the assistant engineering officer. He remained aboard until after the Third Battle of Savo Island on 13 November 1942. His 1988 letter picks up the narrative where Frenchy left off: “When I was engineering officer of a Navy tug (ATR 8) in New York harbor I
was privileged to tow the Sterett, following her decommissioning, to her assigned nest of reserve ships at Jones Point, up the Hudson River. While we had her in tow, which was a matter of several hours, I wandered the ship with a flashlight and toured the spaces. What memories flashed back—what voices I heard—what smooth-running turbines and quiet machinery! It was all quite melancholy. That was the last time I saw the Sterett.”
Summarizing his article “Sterett Revisited,” which records the experience of reading through the Sterett’s logs over an eight-day period in July 1988, J. D. Jeffrey remarks:
Upon first reading, the log of the Sterett’s final day, 2 November 1945, was disappointing. To go along with the necessary stereotyped phraseology, it seemed there should be some words of praise or perhaps regret, some accolades for feats accomplished and disasters overcome. On second thought, though, maybe the most appropriate entries were the simple ones made. “Moored starboard side. . . . Mustered crew at quarters, no absentees. Transferred [listed officers and men]. Decommissioning board number two came aboard. . . . Commission pennant and colors hauled down. . . . Sterett decommissioned.” The record speaks for itself.
The Sterett handled everything the Japs could throw at her. I choose to think that, having proved herself a proud first-line warship, she was spared the indignity of old age and a second-class existence in an alien peacetime Navy.
So ends my history of the USS Sterett; in the words of Secretary of the Navy James Forrestal, she was “a gallant fighting ship, superbly handled by her officers and men.” The description was penned to characterize her conduct on 13 November 1942 in the Third Battle of Savo Island, but in reality it applies to the Sterett’s performance in each of her actions against the enemy. She repeatedly demonstrated magnificent courage, and—like everyone who was privileged to serve her—I am proud to have been a Sterett sailor.
EPILOGUE
THE STERETT. OR AT LEAST HER REPUTATION AND HER PEOPLE, continued to influence events in my life long after my detachment. It started with Watso Singer, who visited me in Espíritu Santo a few days after my arrival at the hospital on 10 April 1943. He said he would speak with the commanding officer of the hospital and determine when I was to be evacuated. That same afternoon I received a note reporting the results of his inquiry. I was scheduled to depart two days later aboard the Pinckney (APH 2), a hospital transport. No doubt my Sterett shipmate had a hand in effecting that early departure.
After a short voyage to Nouméa, New Caledonia, I was transferred to the hospital ship Solace (AH 5)—a welcome change from the austere facilities at Espíritu Santo. The ship’s entire surgical team had come from the University of Pennsylvania Hospital. The medical care was excellent, as were the living conditions. In late May I was one of several Solace patients to be transferred to the Matson passenger liner SS Lurline for the return trip to the United States. She stopped briefly en route at Melbourne and Wellington to pick up two thousand Marine ambulatory patients; then she proceeded to San Diego at a comfortable 21 knots, under clear and sunny skies. It was a pleasure cruise by comparison with my four years of destroyer duty.
The Lurline arrived in San Diego in early June and delivered her patient-passengers to the San Diego Naval Hospital. Among the doctors who greeted us on our arrival was a Navy captain (Medical Corps) who had sailed with us on the Sterett’s shakedown cruise. A friend of Captain Macondray, the doctor was a plastic surgeon. Reminding him of his cruise aboard the Sterett, I asked if he would examine Ensign Blackwell, a friend and fellow patient whose ship—the oiler Kanawha (AOG 31)—was sunk in the same attack in which I was injured. “Blackie” had suffered disfiguring wounds to his face. The doctor gladly accepted Blackie as a patient and expertly repaired the scars, so that they were almost invisible. Again a Sterett shipmate had played the role of the good Samaritan. A couple of weeks later, with the same doctor’s assistance, I managed to transfer to Oak Knoll Naval Hospital in Oakland. My family then lived in Santa Cruz, and I was able to stay at home and commute to Oak Knoll as necessary for physical therapy.
A letter from Frank Gould and a visit to Santa Cruz in August by Ens. Perry Hall, en route to submarine school in New London, Connecticut, enabled me to keep up with the Sterett’s experiences. From Perry I learned of the Vella Gulf battle and Frank’s Navy Cross. I could not have been any prouder of my old ship, or wanted to go back to her more. There was no chance of realizing that desire, but still the Sterett’s esprit de corps was very much a part of my consciousness. It was a supplemental tonic to my own mood and outlook.
Meanwhile I was anxious to get out of the hospital and back to sea duty. My buddies were all out there fighting a war, and I wanted to join them. But my doctor at Oak Knoll did not think I was ready for sea duty and made it clear that he would recommend against it. As far as I could tell, my only physical deficiency was a wrist-drop in my right arm, and the only negative aspect of that was a very limp salute. It certainly did not affect my capacity to make decisions or issue orders. When I pressed my point, the doctor made a small concession: he would be willing to recommend my assignment to limited duty ashore. Any kind of duty that would get me out of the hospital was a welcome prospect. I asked if I could appear before a Board of Survey to determine my fitness for return to active duty. The answer was yes, and I was scheduled for examination by the board the following week. Meanwhile, my doctor conveniently went on leave.
When I went before the Board of Survey, the Sterett’s reputation preceded me. All five board members had heard of the destroyer and its encounter with a Japanese battleship. They were not concerned about my injured arm—they wanted to hear an account of the Third Battle of Savo Island. When I finished, the senior member of the board asked what they could do for me. I told him I wanted to be ordered to full active duty at sea, in a command billet if one was available. Presto! The answer was definitely in the affirmative. The Sterett’s aura was still with me.
As I drove away from the hospital that afternoon I filled the car with hitchhiking sailors, all hospital patients on their way into town. One had his arm in a sling, and all wore the ribbon of the Purple Heart. We had gone only a hundred yards when I recognized a lone sailor on crutches standing along the roadside. Bringing the car to a stop, I said, “OK, fellas, I have to ask one of you to get out. This sailor is an old shipmate, and he takes priority.” To a man, they realized that this might be a special moment. They all piled out, saying that they understood. Two of them helped the new passenger into the car. It was Hawkins. The last time I saw him he was being carried down the accommodation ladder in a stretcher, bound for the Solace in Espíritu Santo. Now he wore a patch over his blind eye and walked with crutches, although he had been fitted with a new leg. His face was one big smile as he came into the car, and I reached over and gave him a hug. He was in very good spirits and gave me a rundown on everyone who had left the ship with him. They had all survived and had been transferred to hospitals near their homes. He was about to be transferred to the Naval Hospital at Philadelphia, where amputees were usually sent to learn how to use their new artificial limbs. I drove him to his destination in Oakland and dropped him off with a handshake and my best wishes. The encounter brought back a flood of memories, and I marveled at the caliber of the young men who were fighting for America’s freedom. They asked for nothing in return.
My orders to sea duty came in early January. I went to Oak Knoll to check out for the last time and had just completed the departure process when I recognized the ward doctor who had told me I was fit only for limited duty. He was walking directly toward me. My heart sank. Would he now interpose some objection to my release? He greeted me pleasantly and asked, “Where are you off to?”
“I’ve been ordered to command a high-speed minesweep, and I’m on my way to join her in San Diego,” I told him.
“Well, that’s just fine,” he said. “Best of luck to you.” I thanked him and, with a sigh of relief, walked away. Apparently he had accepted the Board of Survey’s recommendatio
n without question.
In short order I was on my way to the USS Lamberton (DMS 2), my first command. The reputation of the Sterett had paved the way. On 14 January 1944 I relieved Lt. Comdr. B. M. McKay as commanding officer of the minesweeper. Because I was only a lieutenant, the men of the Lamberton probably thought that the Navy Department had just downgraded their ship to some kind of second-class status. Their new skipper, however, was very happy to be chosen for a command billet, no matter what type it was. The ship was a converted World War I destroyer—a durable old veteran—and her company took pride in her as though she was the newest destroyer in the fleet.
The Lamberton was under the control of the Training Command of the Pacific Fleet, led by Rear Admiral Braisted. I made a courtesy call on the admiral in San Diego. He explained that our role was to provide target services for any and all fleet units, and that although the duty was not glamorous it was important. After serving on the Sterett I understood the importance of this task perfectly. The Lamberton towed targets in the San Diego area from January to March, and in April she was ordered to Pearl Harbor.
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