Tom Brokaw recounts in his superb book, The Greatest Generation, a story his mother told him of the day Gordon Larsen came into the post office where she worked. Larsen was usually a genial and popular member of their community, but that day he had stopped in to complain about the rowdiness of the teenagers on Halloween the night before.

Brokaw’s mother was surprised at his tone and asked him in good humor, “Oh Gordon, what were you doing when you were 17?”

Gordon had looked at her squarely in the eye and replied, “I was landing at Guadalcanal.” He then turned and left the post office.

How many men and women, who walk among us, now in their eighties and nineties, can say “I was at Normandy” or “I was in the first wave at Iwo Jima”? Brokaw’s book has helped us to recognize the valor and sacrifice of these veterans of a war unlike any previous war or any since.

It was a generation united by a common purpose and also by common values – duty, honor, economy, courage, service, love of family and country, and, above all, responsibility for oneself.

In this issue we salute all of these valiant warriors with the abbreviated recollection of a few.

 

Captain Charlie Nelson, USNR (Ret.)

It was a pitch black night with intermittent rain on Thanksgiving Eve, 1943. Charlie Nelson’s ship, the Claxton, was ordered to the North Solomon Islands to prevent Japanese destroyers from moving personnel to Rabaul, a strong Jap naval base on New Britain Island. “Our commodore ordered us to attack but after launching the torpedoes, our radar detected a second group of enemy ships,” says Nelson, now in residence at Croasdaile Village in Durham.

“After sinking one destroyer and damaging another that later sank, we were off in hot pursuit of the second Jap destroyer group.”

Suddenly the Claxton made a hard turn at 37 knots, wreaking havoc on deck and chaos in the galley. The cook had put some turkeys in the oven before the battle. The five-gun salvo shook the ship so hard, the oven doors opened and the turkeys slid to the galley floor. The cook returned the turkeys to the oven; all went well until the next five-gun salvo. “The oven doors popped open again and out went the turkeys as the ship made radical turns at high speed. The turkeys slithered back and forth across the deck with the cook chasing them down.

“With the turkeys back in the oven, the cook, covered in turkey juice, came screaming at me. ‘Tell that captain to knock it off. I’m cooking turkeys down here and his playing games is raising hell with my turkey dinner.’”

PS: “We sank three ships, tagged a fourth and maybe a fifth. One of the destroyers that got away was the one that ran over PT 109, commanded by a young navy lieutenant, John F. Kennedy.”


THE BATTLE OF CAPE ST. GEORGE

There is no rest for the weary during a hot war. We were winning, and despite the exhaustion, smiles spread across the faces of proud sailors as all hands turned to, making the ship ready for battle once more.

We were beginning to feel invincible. We had taken the enemy’s best shots, and we were winning!

One can begin to feel invincible; pounding away at the enemy shore installations, shooting down his aircraft, and torpedoing his ships. In addition, we had the best damn destroyer squadron commander in the whole navy in Captain Arleigh A. Burke. And he loved to run fast and furious!

A feeling actually began to exist on the Claxton that the Japs couldn’t touch us. We were invincible!

The squadron commander received orders from Admiral Halsey to have the squadron proceed to a point between Buka Island, Northern Solomon Islands, and get athwart a line between there and Rabaul, the strong Jap naval base on New Britain Island in the Bismarck Archipelago. Admiral Halsey added the remark, “You know what to do.”

Intelligence had learned that since the airstrip at Buka Island had been bombarded by us, and bombed by aircraft into uselessness, the Japs were sending a group of destroyers loaded with reinforcement troops, and to take valuable personnel off the island and take them to Rabaul.

It is appropriate to remark here that the dispatch orders sent by Admiral Halsey revealed a great deal of confidence in our commodore and our squadron that was conspicuous by the absence of detailed battle instructions. Normally, theater commanders exercised more direct control over situations that portended battle.

We would have a “Black Cat” Catalina flying boat attached to us for aerial reconnaissance.

From Destroyer Division 45, Ausburn, Dyson and Claxton were to comprise the van division that was expected to gain first contact with the enemy force. Commodore Burke was embarked in Ausburn as COMDESRON 23 and wore the second hat as COMDESDIV 45.

The second division of Destroyer Squadron 23 was commanded by CDR Bernard Austin in Converse and would include Spence and Stanly. DesDiv46 would be deployed to the rear and act, primarily, in the early stages of the battle as backup support—with the possibility of also making first enemy contact and to be in position to attack Jap destroyers who might turn and run their way once the battle was enjoined.

The commodore’s battle plan was to let the Jap ships take aboard all the personnel from Buka Island and be loaded to the gunwales with transient personnel before making contact on their return run to Rabaul.

Trying to describe a sea battle fought in the total darkness with reduced visibility from light, intermittent rain is very difficult. That is how it was that Thanksgiving Eve in 1943, running wide-open, looking for Jap destroyers we knew were departing Buka Island, headed for Rabaul, loaded with valuable aviation personnel.

On making radar contact, Commodore Burke ordered Des Div 45 to close the enemy and attack with torpedoes. During the time we were approaching the contact, radar information established three surface contacts. On arriving at our firing positions, all the ships launched torpedoes and turned to avoid possible torpedoes that might have been fired at us, and to avoid detection.

At about the time torpedoes were launched, a second group of enemy ships was detected by radar.

The night lit up with the explosions resulting from our torpedo hits. At that moment, the order was given to commence firing with the five-inch battery.

Surprise, surprise! The enemy did not know we were there until our torpedoes struck home!

After firing torpedoes, sinking one DD and damaging another that later sank, we took off in hot pursuit after those that were trying to get away. It was breathtaking to watch our five-inch rounds slam into one of the escaping DDs we sank with gunfire. I am reminded of how it might have been like the Indians surrounding a wagon train during the settling of the Old West with all three of our ships running around banging away at the damaged DD. What a rush of adrenaline to see the tremendous explosions every time a salvo found its mark.

Then off into the dark night again, chasing the two ships that were running hell-bent for Rabaul and safety.

Naval engineering experts will tell you that it is impossible for a battle-loaded Fletcher-class DD to make thirty-nine knots, especially in the hot water near the equator. Believe me, Captain Stout ordered the safety valves lashed closed, if necessary, in order to get every ounce of steam possible. I was told that the log showed thirty-nine knots a time or two while we were chasing the escaping DDs. I am a believer.

During that stern chase, the after guns could fire only when we zigged or zagged to avoid gunfire or torpedoes. As a result, the forward guns did most of the shooting and soon ran out of flashless powder.

Incidentally, I can say without fear of contradiction that I have seen a five-inch .38 gun barrel glow red in the night from the heat of rapid, continuous firing. The gun captain in mount 51 bragged later that his gun was firing at the rate of 21 rounds per minute!

At this point, bridge and gunnery personnel were being blinded by the flashes from the forward guns. As the Damage Control Party, we were the only group free to move about the ship. I got orders from Captain Stout to have the repair party go to the after gun mounts and bring the flashless powder forward.

Try to imagine the situation on the main deck of a Fletcher-class destroyer at that moment. At the speed we were running, from amidships aft, the decks were almost below the surface of the ocean. The bow wave she made was over our heads, standing on the main deck, amidships, in that pitch-black night. Suddenly, the ship would wrack itself into a hard turn at thirty-seven-plus knots, and immediately, all three after guns would come free from their stops and fire blindingly right in your face. Sailor, grab hold of something strong or over the side you will go. Greasy cork particles would get in our eyes, nose, and mouth as the sudden pressure from the gun firing forced itself into our lungs. Ears were blasted too.

That damage-control crew didn’t even pause when I told them what we had to do. Run aft, grab a couple of five-inch powder canisters, one for each shoulder, and run, yes run, forward as best you can. They busted elbows, knees, shins, and butts, but that ammo went forward as they slipped in the slosh on deck, holding onto that ammo for dear life.

Somehow, our supply officer had managed to get some turkeys well in advance of Thanksgiving, the next day. The cook, one Joe Smith, had put the turkeys in the ovens before the battle began. They were cooking away when a full five-gun salvo shook the ovens so hard the oven doors popped open. Turkeys shot out all over the galley deck. Smith begrudgingly gathered his turkeys and put them back in the ovens. All went well until the next five-gun salvo.

Bam! The oven doors popped open. Out went the turkeys, and with the ship making radical turns at high speed, they slithered across the deck; back and forth with Smith, frustrated to the limit, chasing them down.

When he got the turkeys back in the ovens, he came out of the galley covered all over in turkey juice and went into damage control central where he knew we were in communication with the bridge. He screamed at me, “Tell that captain to knock it off. You tell him I’m cooking turkeys down here, and his playing games is raising hell with my turkey dinners.”

I remember that we sank three ships in the first element we intercepted. I also remember our tagging a fourth with gunfire but can’t be sure about a fifth. However, just about dawn, I remember distinctly that we intercepted a message from the Black Cat reconnaissance airplane that was working with us, that he was observing a ship on fire fairly close to the approaches to Rabaul, and that it finally sank. Which ship this could have been, I do not know.

I realize that all of this may not agree with some of the accounts that have been recorded by historians. I was not on the bridge, not in CIC, and not in radio. I have to relate what was said in the wardroom after the battle by those who were in a position to know. I have seen the movie that the Naval War College produced on the subject.

Surely, the Japanese battle documents have a record of how many ships they sent on that mission, and how many returned. Year 1944 is a long time ago, and my rememberer has been conditioned to believe that what I think is correct. I wish I had kept a diary. I started one and got sidetracked by having to learn a totally new profession under pressure of senior officers, and the desire to return my scared-stiff fanny home to Mother. The diary ended after a very few entries.

As the Little Beavers approached our base at Purvis Bay, Commodore Burke sent a flashing-light message to all ships, telling them he would make some flag-hoist signals that were to be ignored.

The entrance to Purvis Bay had a set of antisubmarine nets that were opened and closed when ships were allowed to go through. Speed through that opening was restricted to five knots, barely more than steerageway.

As the squadron approached Purvis Bay, Commodore Burke ran up on the starboard signal halyard the signal, “Slow to 31.”

During the battle, Burke had sent messages to Admiral Halsey, keeping him informed. For communication security, padding in the form of superfluous verbiage was added before and at the end of the message. The padding Commodore Burke used was cowboy lingo, e.g., “Hi Ho Silver! Another Indian bit the dust,” etc., in keeping with the Little Beaver identity. In one message he put in the padding, “Proceeding at 31 knots.” This actually was the case since Spence had a boiler problem that restricted her speed to thirty-one knots.

Admiral Halsey then sent a message the padding of which said, “Thirty-one knot Burke,” preceding the message that said, “Get athwart the Buka-Rabaul line. You know what to do.”

Thus, a famous nickname was born that followed “Thirty-one-knot” Burke throughout his life.

On our arrival in port, as we slowly proceeded to our assigned anchorages, the cruisers of Task Force 37—Columbia, Cleveland, Denver, and Montpellier—had all hands topside, manning the rail. As we passed, they rendered honors to us and gave us the traditional three cheers, “Hip, hip, hooray! Hip, hip, hooray! Hip, hip, hooray!”

What a thrill!

After taking on oil, ammunition, and stores, Claxton anchored. Ausburn and Dyson came alongside to port and starboard, nesting with their bows snubbed in close aboard each side to form a large space forward with the decks of the three ships.

The task force chaplain came aboard to conduct a service commemorating our battle and giving thanks for our deliverance. Men from the other ships taking part in the battle came aboard for the service.

The most remarkable thing about the battle was that we were credited with sinking at least three Japanese destroyers, and there was no damage to any of our ships and no casualties.

The Japanese lost at least three destroyers and hundreds of air personnel who were passengers, as well as the crews of those ships.

We had learned that the depth control mechanism in our torpedoes was faulty, causing them to run too deep, passing under the target. We had set the depth on our fish to run at six feet deep.

As good as the “Long Lance” torpedo was and as good as the Jap destroyers were able to deploy it, sometimes, at least one time, it failed.

During the battle, Converse personnel reported a loud bang on the port side, underwater, near the engine spaces. On being dry-docked after the battle, word got around to take a look at the port side of Converse.

I managed to get a boat to take me over to the floating dry dock that held Converse suspended on her keel blocks.

Lo and behold, there below the waterline was the irrefutable evidence. Converse had a dent in her hull that matched the size of the twenty-seven-inch, huge “Long Lance” above water launched Japanese torpedo. It had left its imprint, but for some reason, it did not explode or penetrate the hull.

After calculating the distance to the Japanese ships at the time the “bang” was heard, it was concluded that the fish was at the extreme end of its run with just enough force to make contact and not activate the exploder mechanism.

During the battle, Commodore Burke had ordered “turn together” maneuvers for Des Div 45 when he thought the Japs might have had a chance to fire torpedoes. Com Des Div 46 did not order turns, and Converse was hit.

One of the Jap destroyers involved in the Battle of Cape St. George, the one that got away, was the ship that ran over PT 109 that was commanded by a young navy lieutenant named John F. Kennedy.

We did not find this out until after the war when Japanese war diaries were made available to us.