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They are but a memory now—small ships bearing great names: Paul Jones, Preble, Dale, Decatur, to mention only a few. Our Navy’s first destroyers, they were close to 20 years old when the United States entered the European war. Although dwarfed by the new 1,000-tonners and the even newer “flush deckers,” they played an active part in World War I from beginning to end. On at least two occasions, the old-timers were the only destroyers screening the Atlantic Fleet in wartime maneuvers offshore. This narrative is, in general, about all of that first class of dfestroyers. In particular, it is about the destroyers of the old Pacific Fleet. In detail, it is drawn from experiences in command of the USS Stewart (DD-13) and prewar service in several others of the breed.
From 1907 to 1916, these old ships comprised the Destroyer Force of the Pacific Fleet. Then an organizational change rated them down to coast torpedo vessels. But, by whatever name called, their destroyer characteristics remained the same: 400-450 tons displacement, two reciprocating engines in line and two propellers, four boilers, and a speed of 28-30 knots. Their armament consisted of two 3-inch/50-caliber and five 6-pounder guns, two twin torpedo tubes, and, when fitted for war service, depth charge racks on fantails. In appearance there was a noticeable difference. Some had whaleback bows, some high bows. The latter were rated bettef sea boats. In heavy weather, all were wet.
Below decks there were no fore-and-aft passageways. To get from one compartment to the next, you climbed out of one hatch and down another. In heavy weather, an opened hatch let water pour into already uncomfortable living spaces. To keep men from being washed overboard, lifelines with traveling grab loops were rigged the length of the open deck. Except in the smaller Macdonough (DD-9) officers quarters were aft: a wardroom and four or five singk staterooms. The Macdonough's wardroom and cap-
j-air> S stateroom were forward. Junior officers slung amrnocks in the dome-like space beneath the j- whaleback bow. The head in all of them was practi-
t, CaHy at sea level, so there was no drainage. The lid
n Was clamped down to make a watertight joint, and rapid, vigorous strokes of a handpump drew up sea- si VVater to flush out the bowl. There was no shower, ig 0n*y a mini-tub.
c The normal complement of these ships was three ■s c°rnmissioned officers and about 100 men. As war le neared, two or three additional officers were at- ached, drawn from the Naval Reserve, state naval
militias, and National Naval Volunteers. Some had had sea experience, many had not. A National Naval Volunteer, old enough to be a lieutenant commander of that day or a captain now, complained because he was not immediately promoted. His ignorance about keeping a watch at sea was appalling. He had heard of the rules of the road but did not want to bother with them. Rejecting the suggestion that he study them, he said, “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” These old ships were soon to be taught new tricks.
In February 1917, after President Woodrow Wil-
50 U. S. Naval Institute Proceedings, September 1977
There were no fore-and-aft passageways in /AeStewart. To get from one compartment to the next, one had to climb out of one hatch and down another. In heavy weather, water poured in any opened hatches or would sweep men overboard from the open, dangerous deck.
son broke off diplomatic relations with Germany, Division 1, Pacific Coast Torpedo Force, sailed from San Diego for Panama: USS Whipple (DD-15) Lieutenant Harry J. Abbett, commanding and division commander; USS Truxtun (DD-14) Lieutenant (j.g.) James G. Ware commanding; USS Stewart (DD-13) Lieutenant (j.g.) Harvey S. Haislip commanding. The ships were assigned to neutrality duty in the Canal Zone. It was a time of wild rumors: of dynamite caches established nearby to blow up Gatun or Miraflores locks; German submarine bases being established on Central American and Colombian shores; German vessels fitting out as raiders in Colombian harbors. The ships of Division 1 were assigned, among other duties, to investigate these rumors.
The Stewart's first assignment was to investigate the rumor that a German vessel was hiding 60 miles up the Atrato River in Colombia, ready to dash for the open sea when and if war came. In addition, we were to examine the coast eastward of Colon, to make sure that no prospective enemy was establishing a base. There were, or had been, a number of German settlements and trading posts along the Colombian coast. What were they up to, if anything?
This stretch of coast was San Bias Indian country. Some were loyal to Panama, some to Colombia. Each was an enemy of the other. The general chart showed a string of small islands and coral reefs protecting the beaches from the open Atlantic, but no detailed survey had ever been made. A pilot with local knowledge would be necessary. Fortunately, we were able to borrow a Canal Zone launch coxswain who had formerly sailed a trading schooner along the coast.
He was a Bahamian named Moxey and came highly recommended. He deserved it. Coasting along to seaward of the barrier reef, the wall of white water thrown up by the battering Atlantic looked impenetrable. Along its visible length we could see no break. Moxey insisted that we could get through, as we must if our investigation of the shoreline was to be of value. When he called for a change of course to head the ship straight in, we still could see no opening. Moxey, studying a range of palm trees on the hills beyond, seemed so confident that we complied. Then, as we stood straight in for what seemed dis
aster, when nerves could not have held the course much longer, a break in the wall of white water appeared. It was 400 yards wide, Moxey said. It looked more like 40. Once into that pass, there could be no turning back. A tense, strained, fearful silence gripped the bridge. Talking would have been no good, anyway; words would have been smothered in the roar of surf. Then, suddenly, we were through into water so smooth that the stem seemed to be shattering a pane of glass. The depths inside the reef ran from 9 fathoms to 9 feet, but shoals were clearly marked by changes in the water’s color. With that as guidance, and Moxey’s local knowledge, we seldom used the lead line while running close to shore.
Here and there, native huts marked small villages; the rising land inshore was lush, green jungle. We anchored off Isla Grande, the largest village along that stretch of coast. Moxey told us that the high chief of the Panama tribes lived there. There was no need to question the chief about warlike activities; we had seen enough to know that there were none. But we did want to borrow a pilot for the Colombian coast, since Moxey had not traded beyond Panama.
When our boat landed, children were playing on the beach. There was no sign of a woman, and the children scampered away to hide when they saw us- But we could feel eyes watching us as we walked to the council hut where the high chief received us. He and his retinue were straight out of a comic book. They were small men with big bare feet. They kept their heads covered with little felt hats, much too small, perching on top of long, coarse, black hair- Highwater pants hit them between ankle and knee; their shirts hung outside, reminding us of the Filipino homhre we used to sing about in the armored
J
chief
in the eyes of his people if we fired guns to
ho:
blank
saluting charges, we explained. But we would
0vv the whistle in his honor when he left the ship return ashore—four long blasts. That would be
cruiser squadron. They spoke a mixture of broken English and Spanish, and, with Moxey fairly fluent ln the San Bias tongue, we had no difficulty communicating.
When we got around to the matter of borrowing a P'lot, the chief gave a firm negative. His people were Jt war with the Colombian San Bias, he said. If one °f his men were caught on Colombian soil, they w°uld kill him. No amount of promising not to let his man go ashore, and to bring him back safe and s°und to Isla Grande, moved him. So, having invited rhem all to visit the Stewart, we returned aboard.
They came out in a long canoe, and even the six Peddlers were wearing the funny little hats. First, they were given a tour of the ship, then taken below t0 the wardroom to enjoy freshly baked cookies and c°ld lemonade. The chief seemed so pleased with the attention he was getting that we again broached the matter of a pilot. But his interest was on the ice in ’Te lemonade pitcher; he seemed not to hear the offer °f an increased money payment. We saw an opportunity in his interest in ice. In addition to the wages, We told him, he, as number 1 chief, would receive a special gift of a cake of ice just out of the wonderful ,ce machine. He shook his head.
Two cakes and a renewed promise to see that no ‘lrrn came to his man? The chief considered it over more cookies and lemonade. He had been to Panama lt:y> he said, where he had seen ships fire guns to salute an important person. He would be a very great
n°r him. It was our turn to say “no.” We had no bf to
h°°d, he agreed, but not good enough. He must ^ave guns to impress his people. What harm would e done to the ocean if we fired bullets into it?
In the end, we reached agreement. Besides the money payment, he would receive two large cakes of Ce> four long blasts on the whistle, and one round of gunfire. We fired a 3-inch shell out toward the reef, "Tile the number 1 chief, squatting in the stern sbeets of his canoe, shut his eyes, and stuffed fingers ln his ears.
With the San Bias pilot on board, the Stewart left Te reef-locked waters of the Panama Coast for the arien-Atrato area to smoke out the rumor of a ^erman ship. The Colombian shore along this Stretch of coast had been inhabited by a number of erman traders, but we found their trading posts abandoned. Storehouses were locked, loading tracks rusting, wharves decaying. Natives told us that the ^erman cruiser Mecklenburg had visited the coast a
year or so before, and, soon after that, the Germans began leaving. Since then, no German man-of-war had been seen.
The Atrato River—along with the Isthmus of Panama and a route using Lake Nicaragua—had been considered as a possible location for a transoceanic canal. Rising in the Cordilleras, flowing northeastward into the Atlantic, its course at one point lay close to another river that flowed westward into the Pacific. With a minimum amount of digging, proponents claimed, a ship canal could be built, connecting the two rivers, and, thus, the two oceans. Perhaps. But it would take unlimited and unceasing dredging to keep a big-ship channel open through the Atrato delta, where inestimable tons of silt, pouring down from the hills, blocked all entrances. Even our ship’s boats could not find a channel deep enough for crossing. We could confidently report, upon return to Colon, that no ship of any size had, in recent years, found shelter in the Atrato.
The Stewart had varying assignments over the next several months, including investigation of an unfounded rumor that a trading schooner was secretly bringing in and storing large quantities of dynamite, supposedly intended to destroy the canal locks. During this period, the remaining four destroyers of the Pacific Fleet arrived in the Canal Zone to reinforce Division 1. The fleet itself went through the canal also, reportedly on a goodwill, flag-showing tour of South American ports. More likely, it was to get the armored cruisers into the Atlantic before damage to the canal might require a cruise around Cape Horn.
On 6 April 1917, the United States declared war on Germany. The Stewart's first assignment was to keep an eye out for the German ship Prinz August Wilhelm, then in a Colombian port. We stayed at our assignment for more than week. Then, in the predawn darkness of the tenth morning, when the amount of coal remaining on board had become critical, a large ship was sighted to seaward. She had the silhouette of a man-of-war, and she seemed to be steaming back and forth. She might, of course, be waiting for daylight to enter the harbor. Or she might be the Mecklenburg or some other German cruiser called in to give the Prinz August Wilhelm safe escort to a German port. Circumstances at this point seemed to demand staying out of gun range until the situation became clear.
Dawn showed the stranger not a suspicious vessel, but a large, six-funneled cruiser flying French colors. Signal flags identified her as the Gueydon, and a string of international code flags read, “Come close. 1 have dispatches for you.” We closed and lowered a boat, and the Gueydon dropped a Jacob’s ladder
overside. The French captain, clad in tropical khaki and carpet slippers, was waiting on deck. As we introduced ourselves, I caught a whiff of barnyard and a glimpse of livestock—a cow or two, pigs, chickens—quartered in the “manger,” forward on the main deck.
The captain’s quarters were something else: delicate Louis XV chairs, a carved, spindly-legged dining table, a gold-brocaded chaise longue. He explained that a radio message from Paris directed him to cruise in the vicinity of Cartagena, Colombia, and “send away” two American destroyers that he would find there. When told that we were there to watch Prinz August Wilhelm and deal with her as the circumstances might demand if encountered outside the 3-mile limit, he interpreted his orders to mean that he should take over. Thus relieved, the Stewart set course for Colon.
During the succeeding three months, the ships of Division 1 operated individually, sometimes on the
Pacific side of the canal, sometimes on the Atlantic’ We were inspecting incoming vessels, checking more rumors of enemy activity in the vicinity of the canal, and carrying out other special assignments’ Meanwhile, U-boat sinkings in the eastern Atlantic and along the French coast were increasing at such an alarming rate that the Atlantic Fleet had been stripped of nearly all destroyers in order to establish an escort group at Queenstown, Ireland. Early in July, Division 1, augmented by the USS Preble (DD' 12), Lieutenant (j.g.) Albert R Mack commanding- received orders to report to the Commander in Chief- U.S. Atlantic Fleet. Thus ended our Canal Zone duty.
In mid-July, Division 1, Pacific Coast Torpedo Force reported to the Commander in Chief and be' came Destroyer Division A, Atlantic Fleet. No more nonsense about coastal vessels. We were destroyed again, far ranging. The remaining “West Coasters, arriving from Panama, were joined by the Mai' donough, Lieutenant (j.g.) Robert M. Hinckley, an^ the Worden (DD-16), Lieutenant (j.g.) Joseph M.B- Smith. They became Division B.
The battleships and fleet train supply ships were then practically immobilized behind antisubmarine nets in the Norfolk area. The precaution was not sO far-fetched as it may sound. In October of the previ'
I
°us year, the U-53 entered Newport Harbor to de- 1‘ver a message, it was said, to the German Ambassador. More likely, the message was intended for the United States—“Don’t count on the Atlantic Ocean any longer as a barrier to U-boat operations along y°ur shores.”
In mid-August, the fleet shifted base from the 'fork River to Long Island Sound. During the transit north, the destroyers guarded the front of the Battleship Force, engaged in tactical maneuvers, and Watched for ■nemy submarines which had been reported as far west as 54° West longitude. After the maneuvers, Division A was to be detached and report t0 Commander Azores Detachment for duty.
during the seven days of maneuvering, which involved a good deal of high-speed steaming, it became necessary to enter Bermuda for coal in order to complete the shifting of the fleet base. The first visit almost became the Stewart's last. Before leaving Nor- |olk, we had tried to get harbor charts of Bermuda, ut none was available, probably because the islands Were belligerent territory. They were governed by rules for operating in Allied-defended waters, a little ’’ooklet issued by the Royal Navy. The booklet sPecified that vessels must take a government pilot whose orders as to courses and speeds must be obeyed. The booklet explained that this was neces- Sllry, because sometimes courses must be steered that Would not be taken in ordinary navigation in order to avoid uncharted defensive mine fields. The govern- nient pilots knew where these dangerous areas lay.
Coaling was to be a dawn-to-dusk operation—get ln' coal, get out, and back to the fleet as soon as Possible. Dusk was nearly on us when the last coal Was struck below. The Truxtun, already topped off ,lnd with a pilot on board, cleared the dockyard and e:'ded to rejoin the Whipple, now seen coming out ’ rorn Hamilton and heading toward St. George Channel. The Stewart, as yet, had no pilot, but the dockyard commander came aboard to tell us that one Was on the way over in the Hamilton Ferry. He ^ould be on board in time to take us through St. v>eorge Channel before dark. The channel was long and winding, laced with coral reefs, and the naviga- *on marks were unlighted because of war.
The pilot from Hamilton looked competent I en°ugh, except for the small pair of opera glasses ^at hung from his neck on a piece of white cord, ^hey did not match the man. A big native Bermudian, he was courteous, almost courtly, on the downhill side of 60, at a guess. He, too, was ^°ncerned about getting through St. George Channel emre dark. “Hurry, please, sah,” he urged, his v°ice distinctly British. We had been hurrying all day; dusk was at hand, and St. George—our dragon, from all the talk—was 10 miles away. Ready to proceed, the pilot set the course and asked for 16 knots, again mentioning the need to get through the channel before dark. The time was logged as 6:12 p.m., 75th Meridian.
A dusky light lay across the water, reducing visibility somewhat, but, aside from hand steering — which resulted from a parted tiller rope—all was well. Ahead, slightly on the starboard bow, what appeared to be a white can buoy was visible. We would round it, the pilot said, leaving it to starboard, and head for the next channel buoy. We were not quite up to this turning mark when the pilot, peering through his opera glasses, yelled, “Right!” and immediately, “Hard right!”, waving an arm in a gesture of urgency. His order immediately went aft; one engine was sent full astern to hasten the swing, and the other stopped. Within a few seconds, the stem began swinging in answer to helm and engines. But a few seconds were too many. The pilot said, “We are going aground, sah.” Both engines were full astern now, and a jiggle of the telegraphs urged the engine room to pour it on.
At 6:17 p.m., having been under way for only five minutes and still within shouting distance of the dockyard she had just left, the Stewart nearly hurdled a coral ledge at something only a little less than 16 knots. The white can buoy was actually a tide gauge on a coral reef that carried only four feet of water across it at low tide. The gauge stood at high! The pilot sat down on a chest and held his head in his hands. Poor man! Straight from the pages of Joseph Conrad, he had sailed these waters for many years, taken ships in and out of Bermuda many times. But he had come to the end of the tether. His vision was found to be only 4/20.
With our engines creaming foam across the reef, and the dockyard tug Powerful on a line from our stern, we tried to back off. Heavy with coal and stores for the Atlantic crossing and thus deeper than her usual draft, the ship did not move an inch. The line to the tug parted.
It was black night by this time, and the tide was falling. The ship was balanced across the narrow reef at a point about one-third of her length from the stem. As the tide fell, the stern became airborne; soon the bow would be unsupported. The dockyard put lighters alongside, and it was all hands and the captain shoveling coal. We shoveled all night and got every movable weight out of the ends of the ship, lest her back be broken where she hung across the ledge.
I
On a rising tide the next forenoon, we were ready
to try again. HMS Caesar, a battleship, got into position astern, ran a 41/i-inch wire, and, with anchors down on a long scope of chain, kept a steady strain as the water rose. High water came; the Stewart had not moved. The Caesar now pulled with main engines, too. The wire parted. Another wire was run. It parted. The tide was now running out.
The weather changed. Grassy Bay—not grassy at all, but coral strewn—turned rough. Light as the ship now was, she began to pound. Transverse frames under the forward engine room, near the fulcrum, began to buckle, rivets to pop, water to seep in. HMS Caesar sent working parties to help our exhausted men to further lighten ship. As the next high water neared, we had everything out of the ship except the main engines, shafting, and boilers.
Captain C. R. Foot of HMS Caesar was “Senior Naval Officer,” a British designation which gives the holder command of all British naval forces present, including shore stations. He called me aboard to make further plans. The Stewart must be got off at the approaching high water, he said, or, with a storm coming, she would not be worth getting off at the next. Therefore, we must accept the risk of pulling her apart if she continued to be stubborn.
The Caesar would run double wires around the after deckhouse and the 3-inch gun foundation. With these wires slack, at high water the Caesar would go full speed ahead on both engines—jerk her off, in fact, rather than try the steady-strain method again. The tug Powerful would have a line from the Stewart's quarter to hold her into the wind when she came off, since she would have no power of her own, all boilers being cold and empty.
Darkness fell. The wind of the coming storm moaned through the Stewart's rigging, foretelling her fate if the storm caught her still on the reef. High tide came. White water boiled under the Caesar's stern as her engines went full ahead. The slack wires jumped out of the water, singing like plucked fiddle strings, set taut, and took a heavy strain. The Stewart moved a little, then, with a groan of crunching coral, slid off and was afloat again. The Powerful nudged the lifeless hulk into the dock the Stewart had left the day before. Now came the task of breathing life into the dead ship.
With the same energy they had shown in getting the Stewart afloat, the British turned to, making her fit for service again. Captain Foot ordered HMS Carnarvon , a big cruiser under repair for torpedo damage, removed from the floating dock temporarily so that the Stewart could be put in. Examination revealed that several transverse frames under engines and boilers must be replaced. Since replacements
were not available, strengthening by lap plates was all that could be done. Also, some side plates must be re-riveted. This would have to be done by hand, since no power riveters were available. In sum, the maximum that could be done without long delay would be sufficient only to make the ship seaworthy for returning home. The crossing to the Azores must be cancelled or postponed until permanent repairs could be made at a home yard.
When the repairs were completed at Philadelphia, the Stewart rejoined the Atlantic Fleet, which, by this time, had been stripped of all but six old coalburning destroyers. The Stewart made seven, all, except the Macdonough and Worden, former “West Coasters.” Demands for escorting battleships whenever they left net protection, patrols at the Tail of the Horseshoe in the Chesapeake Capes, a fleet dispatch vessel, and special assignments kept all seven either under way or in standby readiness. Liberty became a memory.
In early December 1917, when the battleships sor- tied from Base 2 on the York River for offshore maneuvers, they were screened by only these seven. The Steivart, so recently rescued from death on a coral ledge in Bermuda, her skipper—recently promoted from lieutenant (j.g.) to lieutenant (T)—now the senior destroyer captain with the fleet, flew the square blue flag of the Destroyer Force flagship.
One day, we were steaming somewhere northwest of Bermuda, the battleships in four columns. The screen, deployed to guard the front and flanks, was spread thin, as a mere seven must be with a formation so large. Vice Admiral Albert W. Grant’s flagship Minnesota (BB-22) headed the left column. The Stewart was ahead and slightly on the flagship’s port bow; the Worden was abeam. An adjustment of the screen became necessary when one of the seven dropped out with a machinery casualty. The Steivart then took position where the Worden had been, and
full
As I ran for the bridge, the reason became clear. A r8e merchant ship, with no colors flying, had cut across the Steivart’s bow and now was between us and tJle battleship formation. She must have been in f’Rht for a long time and could have been driven off, but i
fie
ho
the Worden dropped back on the flank. This change stations lay within the authority of the screen commander; no permission was asked or given. Apparently it was not noticed. Certainly not by Ad- toiral Grant.
Destroyers, on these tactical maneuvers, were charged not only with protection against U-boats, hut with keeping merchant vessels from barging into rhe battleship formation. On this subject, the camPaign order issued to the screening destroyers said, among other specific instructions:
MERCHANT VESSELS: Destroyer nearest to a merchant vessel approaching formation, drive off such vessels. Use international signal OSG, firing a shot co windward if necessary.”
AM of the Stewart's watch officers were familiar with chis, and, presumably, other skippers had instructed cheir watch officers in this regard.
On this particular day, the sea was smooth, visibility unlimited. There was no strange sail in sight anywhere, and the battleships were steaming majestically on a steady course. It seemed a perfect day to have a hot lunch in the wardroom instead of sandwiches on the bridge. Having directed the officer of the watch to inform me at once of any changes ln course, speed, or formation; to report immediately any strange ship sighted; and to call me if anything nnusual developed either on board or elsewhere, I ^as enjoying lunch when the propellers beat up to
speed, and the ship heeled to hard-over rudder.
la
it was too late now. She headed straight for the et as if unaware of its presence. The battleships, wever, were quite aware of the intruder. Shrieking thistles rent the air: danger blasts, course changes, backing engines. White water of reversed propellers boiled under battleship sterns. White plumes of steam from roaring safety valves hung over ships "uth engines stopped. Ships scrambled to avoid col 1 i- Sl°n with the stranger and with each other.
The stranger steamed straight through the forma- tI0n and out on the other side, changing course Either right nor left, sounding no whistle signals, Secmingly unaware that she was throwing almost the entire U.S. Navy into disorder, arrogance displacing Majesty. Fortunately, there were no collisions. But a c°Uision between the screen commander and the vice admiral was inevitable.
It came soon after our return to base: a signal from cbe flagship: “Commanding officer report on board.”
It was a most unpleasant prospect. Vice Admiral Grant, acting Commander in Chief of the Atlantic Fleet during Admiral Henry T. Mayo’s absence abroad, was said to have a flaring temper, be given to profanity, and to boasting that he was the only real seaman left in the U.S. Navy. His chief of staff, waiting for me in the flag office, sent an orderly to announce my arrival to the admiral. “You may have to wait a little while," he told me. “The admiral is at lunch.” A delay, for any reason, was a reprieve. But no luck. The orderly returned. The admiral would see me in his cabin.
The admiral was not alone. The officers of his staff were members of his mess, and, in that day, all wore aiguillettes, not just those designated as aides. Worse! Before “cruppers” came into use, the aiguillettes were those now worn with dress uniform. It was a paralyzing sight—all that gold sleeve braid, all those gold-endraped shoulders, as, eating suspended, they glared at me, standing just inside the cabin door. There seemed to be about 20 of them. I probably had double vision brought on by nervousness.
Admiral Grant put down his knife and fork and gave me a hard look. His eyes flashed; his black beard seemed to bristle. My God! I thought—Ivan the Terrible! He’ll take away my command. He’ll give me a general court-martial.
That collision between a vice admiral and a lieutenant (T), only recently promoted from (j.g.), is not a matter of record, but it was an experience not likely to be forgotten. It went like this:
Admiral Grant: “Have you disciplined the commanding officer of the Worden?"
Lieutenant Haislip: (Mystified) “Worden, sir?”
Admiral: “Worden! Suspend him from duty; give him a letter of reprimand!”
Lieutenant: “Aye, aye, sir. (Recovering) What for, sir?”
Admiral: (Biting off his words) “For letting that God damned merchantman throw the whole Atlantic Fleet into disorder!”
Lieutenant: “Yes, sir. But it wasn’t . . .”
Admiral: (Interrupting) “Don’t contradict me, young man! I say it was the Worden!"
Lieutenant: “But it wasn’t the Worden, sir. It was ...”
Admiral: (Interrupting) “So! I don't know what I’m talking about! I saw the Worden there. Right abeam of my flagship.”
Lieutenant: “Yes, sir. She had been there, sir, but we had changed stations. It was the Stewart that let the merchant ship get through the screen. (Gulp). My ship.”
Admiral: (Pounding the table with a clenched fist)
56 U. S. Naval Institute Proceedings, September 1977
En route to Philadelphia from Norfolk to fit out “for distant service," five destroyers were caught in the great blizzard of December 1917. When the ice-encrusted Stewart reached Philadelphia, she was without her chief gunner's mate, last seen at daybreak chopping ice off the after 3-inch gun.
“God dammit, young man! Are you saying that I can’t recognize one of my own ships when I am looking right at it?” He hadn’t, that was clear. The Worden had a whaleback how; the Stewart a high, forecastle bow. But he was mad enough already. Why make it worse?
Lieutenant: “No, sir.”
Admiral: “Then get out of here and obey my order!”
I obeyed his order, partly—I got out. But no letter of reprimand went to the commanding officer of the Worden, and the only officer suspended was the Stewart’s incredibly negligent officer of the watch.
Before destroyer divisions A and B screened another fleet maneuver, orders came to proceed to Philadelphia to fit out for distant service. Our turn had come at last. Five of the seven, the Stewart leading, sailed from Hampton Roads at the end of December 1917. Two, away on special assignments, would proceed independently. Snow was falling as we got up anchors; by the time we reached the net off the Tail of the Horseshoe, it was so thick we could hardly find the net gate. When we cleared the Capes, though midafternoon it was dark as night. Through snow so thick that it seemed black, we barely caught the blink of Cape Henry Light. There had been warnings of a storm off the New England Coast, but our orders were urgent, and there was a good chance that we could reach the shelter of Delaware Bay before the storm got that far south. Besides, there was a war on, so what of a little thing like a storm? We were enthusiastically driving into the great nor’easter of 1917, a blizzard that would be talked about along the Atlantic Coast for a long time.
The wind kept rising; barometer and snow kept killing. It blotted out the running lights of the ship next astern. Still, we drove into it, whistle sounding, formation speed reduced by radio. Formation? At daybreak, the Stewart steamed alone. Through the night, driven spray froze where it struck. Upper- works, the foremast to the crow’s nest, rigging, guns, and torpedo tubes wore a thick coat of ice. We looked more like a white Christmas tree than a ship.
1
Daybreak also brought tragedy.
After a hard night, a man does not willingly skip breakfast. When our chief gunner’s mate did not show up in the CPO mess, messmates went looking for-him. When a thorough search did not find him, they reported him missing. He had been seen soon after daylight, chopping ice from the after 3-inch gun. That was all. We reversed course and searched for several hours. But in the sea smoke of driven wavetops, and spray sheeting over bridge and lookouts, there was little chance. Reluctantly we abandoned the search, consoling ourselves with the knowledge that he could not have suffered long in that icy sea.
Entering Delaware Bay, we met a sea of ice outward bound on an ebb tide—sheet ice and floes. We dodged the floes, following leads of open water whenever we found one pointing in the general direction of Philadelphia. During that day, we did a good deal of traverse sailing without gaining much over the ground toward our destination. By dusk, we were off Marcus Hook, only a short distance inside the bay, above Cape Henlopen. On a bluff, a drab cluster of buildings and a flag flying on a tall staff indicated a government establishment. So we worked
r
I
our way through ice that lay between us and an unoccupied wharf at the foot of the bluff.
An Army officer came down to ask what we wanted. Permission to stay there all night and get a little rest was all we wanted. We could try, he said, hut we wouldn’t get much rest, and he would be surprised to find us there in the morning. Ice coming down the Delaware, boosted along by an ebb tide, would sweep the wharf clean. Even so, that risk kerned less than cruising through the dark of night, Probably ramming more ice floes than we could
dodge.
We got out all the mooring lines we had on hoard, rigged heavy planking over bow and quarter t0 fend off ice floes, kept sea watches and steam at the throttles, and listened all night to ice bumping and scraping alongside. In the morning, the Stewart Was still there.
Under way again, we plowed our way up the Delaware, sometimes caught in a lead that, like a rail- r°ad track, carried us into danger, forcing us to back °ut and look for another. By good luck, we tagged along in the wake of a large ship—a perfect 'cebreaker—as far as Wilmington. Before dark on that second day in the ice, we reached the Philadelphia Navy Yard. Over the next two days, the other ships straggled in. Two, having turned to run before the storm, were blown far south of the Chesapeake Capes before they could turn and come back.
The navy yard found the phrase “Fit out for distant service” imprecise. Did it mean do everything needed for the Atlantic crossing, to arrive on the °ther side in fit condition to join the battle against C-boats? Or did it mean to give us a quick going °Ver and start us out, hoping for the best? Naval operations settled the question in a message to the Stewart:
“Destroyers urgently needed in European waters and delay in fitting out may defeat the object of these orders. Department expects a hearty response from Destroyer Divisions A and B. Department desires as many destroyers as possible of this detachment to sail within one week for service in French waters. Stewart inform Department names °f destroyers that can leave Philadelphia when ice clears, and date when others will follow.” fr reply, after conferring with the other skippers and yard officials, the Navy Department was informed that the Stewart, Warden. Paul Jones (DD-10), Lieutenant (j.g.) Leo H. Thebaud, and Hopkins (DD-6), hieutenant (j.g.) Arthur S. Walton, would sail W|thin ten days. The Hull and Preble would require a longer stay, and the yard was to report the date when ^ork could be completed. The Macdonough could not steam from Bermuda to the Azores, even with a maximum deckload of coal. The department approved. The Macdonough was to sail with our detachment, but not to proceed beyond Bermuda. The next large Navy ship crossing would tow her part way to the Azores.
At Bermuda, the four that would make the crossing without big ship assistance filled bunkers and took deckloads of sacked coal. January was too early to expect hurricanes, but midwinter storms on the Atlantic could be expected. Furthermore, a tropical disturbance was reported south of Bermuda. But, remembering the Navy Department’s expectation of “. . . a hearty response from Divisions A and B,” and that, “a delay . . . might defeat the object of these orders,” we took a calculated risk and sailed.
We kept clear of the storm center, but the fringes were bad enough. We planned to use the deckloads first, in order to clear the decks as soon as possible, and to be sure of using the coal before it got washed overboard in heavy weather. The plan went wrong. The second night out of Bermuda, rough seas cleared the decks of most coal that had not been struck below. The Hopkins signaled that she had lost so much that reaching the Azores was doubtful. Besides, she had sprung a number of leaks. So she requested permission to return to Bermuda. What else? She would not serve the war effort drifting in midocean or sinking! Permission was granted. She was ordered to report her arrival at Bermuda and condition to the Navy Department and to await further orders. An hour or two later, the Pan! Jones signaled the same story. Permission was granted. She was to overhaul the Hopkins and proceed in company.
Then came the Stewart’s agony. Loose coal from the deckload, clogging feed pump strainers, cut the flow of boiler feedwater to the danger point. We had to haul fires. We had been steaming on two boilers, the economical condition. The two cold boilers were now lighted off. But, while dead in the water, waiting for steam to form, the ship rolled so deeply that seas poured down the stacks, flooding firerooms, extinguishing the fires under the boilers which had just been lighted off.
Most of that day, the struggle went on: clearing pump strainers, bailing out firerooms, lighting off again to get steam up. In the end, the Stewart and Worden reached Ponta Delgada, but both ships were sweeping bunkers to keep steam enough to reach the anchorage, and the Stewart steamed most of the way with her boilers heavily salted.
The rear admiral commanding the Azores base was glad to see us, but he turned grumpy on learning that we would need several days to wash and clean
58 U. S. Naval Institute Proceedings, September 1977 boilers and repair storm damage. He had not had a destroyer to support his submarines, he said, since they took lVhippie and Truxtun from him, and he expected us out on patrol without delay. When his attention was called to the fact that our orders were for French waters, he said that he gave the orders here, and that we could forget about France. When we protested, he said that he would get the orders changed. But Admiral William S. Sims gave him a positive negative. The Stewart and Worden were ordered to Brest. There we found the Whipple and Truxtun, so the three that had sailed from California together were together again in France.
Of the other West Coasters, the Paul Jones and Hopkins, having got home safely from Bermuda, were kept, along with the Hull and Preble, in home waters to combat U-boats that, by this time, were mining harbors and sinking ships along the American coast. The Macdonough, towed part way across the Atlantic, joined the Brest group.
Our principal duty was escorting merchant convoys, which, upon arrival from the other side of the Atlantic, were brought into the Rade de Brest, a body of water large enough to accommodate the navies of the world. The narrow entrance—the Goulet de Brest—made it impervious to U-boats. Here, convoys were split up for distribution of ships: north to channel ports, south to French Atlantic ports and the Mediterranean. At the Spanish border, off St. Jean de Luz, ships for the Mediterranean were taken over by escort groups from Gibraltar, among them old coal burners, part of the Asiatic Fleet brought through Suez to base at Gibraltar.
It was on the southern run along the French coast that U-boats were most active. In one month alone, before the first American escort group began operating from Brest, 24 cargo ships were sunk. The first group, consisting of armed, oceangoing yachts, was inadequate because yacht speeds were little greater than those of the ships they were escorting. Their greatest value lay in picking up survivors. The old destroyers were sent across to reinforce them, providing at least one fast combatant ship with each convoy.
Most attacks along the coast were made at night by surfaced U-boats. To combat this, night steaming was abandoned as far as possible, and courses were laid in shoal water to prevent a deep dive after launching torpedoes. As an added hazard to U-boats, courses were laid inshore of the numerous islands and rocky outcroppings along this stern, rockbound coast.
Captains of escort vessels soon became expert coastal pilots, although a French pilot sailed on board a leading ship of each convoy. Ships sometimes strayed and had to be piloted into safe harbor by one
of the escorts. Two anchorages were most frequently used, Quiberon Bay and Pertuis d’Antioche. Narrow, rocky entrances and shoal water denied these waters to U-boats, and both locations offered plenty of anchoring ground. Also, their proximity to the destinations of many cargo ships made them good distribution points—-St. Nazaire and Nantes from Quiberon, La Rochelle and La Pallice from Antioche.
Yet, in Quiberon Bay, where ships could anchor safely, the Florence H., a fine new ship operated by the U.S. Shipping Board, armed and carrying a Navy gun crew, met her end. She was one of a large southbound convoy escorted by several steam yachts and the fast escorts Whipple and Truxtun. The ships had anchored after dark, and their anchor lights were plainly visible from the Stewart’s bridge as she entered the anchorage from the south with a northbound convoy from La Pallice. The Stewart was making full speed on that convoy’s flank to take station for herding the merchant ships to their night anchorage.
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It was dark and cloudy, but suddenly night was turned to day as a column of silvery-white light shot hundreds of feet into the air. In its brilliance, the wide reaches of Quiberon Bay, the rocks and islets to seaward, and the ships of the anchored convoy stood starkly, as if a giant photo flash had gone off. The hght died down momentarily, leaving eyes blinded for a few seconds by returning darkness. It shot upward again, brighter and higher, and at its base was a ship, dwarfed by the immensity of the tower of hght above it to appear no more than a toy. Then, only a few minutes later, the sides at the forward end °pened out, melted by the fierce heat, perhaps, or Mown out by the gasses, revealing the ship’s ‘uterior—a white-hot furnace, surely the crematory °fall hands in that forward end.
The Stewart was less than 1,000 yards away when tbe ship blew. Already making full speed, she took but a few minutes to get close enough to assess the s,tuation. The Florence H.’s stern still held together The water to leeward was covered with large boxes, lafer learned to contain smokeless powder. Some Were smoldering, some were afire. Every few sec- °nds, one would blow up with a whoosh, and a sPurt of white flame would erupt like the tail of a r°cket. Among these boxes were men. Non- j^imrners clung to boxes, injured men clung to 1Qxes, and when a box exploded, men were burned Deyond description, if not blown apart. As the Stewart cut close under the stern, we could hear the v,ctims’ cries.
The Stewart’s lowered lifeboat, poling its way into tbe floating boxes (oars were useless in that jam), rescued a few survivors, but it was clear that not u^any could be saved in that fashion. To get to the [°en in the middle of that floating carpet of burning °xes, the ship must break through where boats c°uld not. So in we went, snatching up survivors as passed. Men hung over the side—their feet held y others on deck,—snatching up a survivor without st0Pping, much as a moving train used to catch a bar>ging mail sack.
Meanwhile, on the far side, the Whipple and Trux- l,<n, again under way, lowered boats to join the resCUe- Yachts, too, joined in, but only a steel-hulled ^estroyer dared make way through that burning, exploding mass. In the flickering light of burning °xes that might explode at any second, we saw a Man, apparently injured, not struggling, just hang- Mg on. We were his only chance of survival. But Maneuvering the ship in that jam of boxes was as difficult as maneuvering in the ice of Delaware Bay, anfi much the same. No amount of backing one en- K'ne against the other, no radical shifting of the rudder got the ship close enough to heave a line to him. And there, so close yet not close enough, the ship stuck. Must we back out the way we came in, leaving him to die? Men on the Stewart's forecastle had other ideas. Two, with double heaving lines around their middles, eased themselves over the side. Swimming where there was an open lead, scrambling across smoldering boxes where there was none, in constant danger of being on a box when it blew up, they reached the man. Quickly, then, all three were hauled to safety aboard. The task then was to get the ship to safety.
As the Florence H., only a burning remnant of a ship, settled to the floor of Quiberon Bay, only topmasts and the tip of her stack remaining in sight, flooding water extinguished the flames. Thus, a fine ship died. As for her crew, the three destroyers and the boats from escorting yachts could feel sure that no living soul had been left to die among those exploding boxes.
Of this disaster, Vice Admiral Henry B. Wilson, Commander, U.S. Naval Forces in France, having listed the ships taking part in the rescue, wrote:
“The conduct of the officers and men attached to these vessels was in accord with the best traditions of the Service, and by reason of their heroic efforts thirty-four survivors of a crew of seventy- five were rescued under conditions in which it appeared that all on board the Florence FI. must perish. Due to the prompt and gallant action of these vessels it appears that all who were not killed in the flames of the Florence H., were rescued.”
On this occasion and on many others in many places; by day-in, day-out protection of merchant ships and cargoes, fair weather and foul, these old destroyers earned a place in the annals of World War I destroyer operations. Unlike the old National Naval Volunteers ensign who said, “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks,” these old ships, truly the sheep dogs of many a harried escort commander, had learned new tricks and learned them well.
a Graduated from the U.S. Naval Academy in 1911, Captain Haislip was Commander, Northern California Sector, Western Sea Frontier in 1943-1944, and in 1945 until war's end was Assistant Chief of Staff (Operations), 12th Naval District. The author of four historical novels, Sailor 'Named Jones, The Prize Master, Sea Road to Yorktown, and Escape From Java, his play, "The Long Watch,” was produced on Broadway. He also wrote the narration of the Byrd Expedition, "The Secret Land,” which won an Academy Award for the best full-length documentary movie. He has had numerous writing credits for major motion pictures, including "Flight Command,” "Thunder Afloat,” “Stand by for Action,” and "The Guided Missile.” He has had two previous articles in the Proceedings.
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