Down to the Sea (13 page)

The next day, Stealy reported back to the ship and went to work on rusty decks and railings with a metal scraper and wire brush. Before long, he was asked by a petty officer what kind of work he'd done before. He proudly answered, “Sheet metal,” thinking there might be similar work aboard ship.

“You're an oil tender now,” the petty officer said.

“What will I be doing?”

“Feeding the boilers down in the fire room.”

Stealey didn't like the sound of that. “Is it hot down there?”

“Yeah, but you'll survive.”

Stealey could not possibly know all that would entail.

After fighting “the nearest thing to a perfect naval battle produced by World War II” in the “utterly one-sided” Battle of Cape St. George in November 1943—in which three Japanese vessels were destroyed and upward of 1,500 enemy died, with no U.S. losses—
Spence
and the Little Beavers under Captain Arleigh “31-Knot” Burke had stayed exceedingly busy.

To Torpedoman 3rd Class Albert “Al” Rosley, nineteen, of Frostburg, Maryland, who had worked in a sawmill before joining the Navy six days before his eighteenth birthday in November 1942 and who had been aboard
Spence
since her commissioning, it seemed as if “we were into something every night.”

The turn of the calendar year to 1944 marked
Spence
's first anniversary. In the year
since her commissioning, the destroyer had steamed 67,050 miles. Although still a “young ship and a young crew,” they were now wily veterans of the Pacific campaign, with battle stars to show for it. “We have proved our worth more than once and will do it again when necessary,” wrote Chief Yeoman Harold L. Bryant in the ship's monthly newsletter,
Ye Olde Dis-Spence-er
, which included features such as “Man of the Week” and “Captain's Corner.” “We have a name now, let's enlarge it until it fairly rings on everyone's lips.”

For the Little Beavers, the new year began with escort duties and antisubmarine patrols, followed by operations in the Bismarck Sea, ringed with formidable enemy bases such as Rabaul and Kavieng. On February 18 the destroyer squadron undertook the first bombardment of the Kavieng airfield on the northern tip of New Ireland, “plastering” a supply dump and a fuel dump and hitting aircraft and runways. Enemy shore batteries opened up, and salvos landed “uncomfortably close on both sides and astern” of
Spence
. “By radical maneuvering the ship escaped damage,” reported
Spence
commanding officer Henry Armstrong, “though she used up a few of her lives.”

Four days later, the Little Beavers came upon
Nagaura,
a Japanese merchant vessel of 5,000 tons “engaged in evacuating aviation personnel” from the Bismarcks. As they approached bow on bow—making visual identification difficult—the enemy captain evidently assumed the destroyers were friendly because Allied shipping had “not dared penetrate these waters.” Burke fanned out his five destroyers in echelon formation and closed before hoisting the international signal flag demanding surrender. The merchant ship's reply was the chattering of deck-mounted machine guns. On Burke's command, the destroyers turned “their full broadsides simultaneously” on the ship.
Spence
shot eight booming salvos from her 5-inch guns in a minute, then ceased firing as the “target listed to starboard smoking heavily from many hits.” Four minutes later, the ship sank.

Assigning two ships to screen against submarines, Burke directed the other destroyers to search for survivors, many of whom swam away rather than be picked up by U.S. ships. Nevertheless, seventy-three
survivors were boarded. Burke then gave a curious command for warships operating in enemy waters: in an “act of respect the rescued Japanese appreciated,” the U.S. sailors held a one-minute prayer service for the “gallant enemy captain” who had “opened ineffective fire against overwhelming odds.”

The day's fighting was not over. Burke's destroyers moved in for another strike on Kavieng, again finding the return fire withering. To avoid the incoming shells,
Spence
started “salvo chasing”—steering for where the last splash hit the water on the theory that the next salvo would land elsewhere—and “thanks to judicious fishtailing and changes of speed” was able to avoid several “straddling salvos.” Without continuous efforts to “keep clear,” reported Armstrong,
Spence
would have “quite possibly been hit repeatedly.” At dusk, the marauding destroyers overtook and sent to the bottom a minelayer, and after nightfall they sank a small freighter and several barges—all filled with Japanese reinforcements and supplies.

By the end of their Bismarcks operations, the Little Beavers had added to their “remarkable record” as a group of destroyers that often worked independently. By March 1944, however, opportunities for such small-scale naval operations by destroyers and cruisers would be limited, with the war spearheaded by the mighty force of U.S. aircraft carriers as it “conquered its way across the Pacific.” Through no choice of his own, Burke would be part of it—unexpectedly transferred (even though he was not an aviator) from destroyers to chief of staff for one of the Navy's top carrier commanders, Admiral Marc A. Mitscher, in charge of a fast-attack carrier division that was to take part in nearly every major battle remaining to be fought in the Pacific. Upon first learning the news, Burke was “devastated” and said angrily: “Somebody's trying to railroad me out of these lovely destroyers.” But he had no choice in the matter, and with the transfer would soon come a promotion to rear admiral. On March 27 Burke climbed into a high-line chair to be transferred at sea to the carrier
Lexington.
Trying to “conceal the emotion that his moist eyes betrayed,” Burke told those around him he would “al
ways keep track” of the squadron. “Tell the boys if any of them ever is in Washington where I live to look me up. They'll be welcome. Goodbye now—and for God's sake don't drop me in the drink.”

In April 1944,
Spence
conducted antisubmarine screening for aircraft carriers as they struck targets on New Guinea in support of landings at several locations. At the end of the month, the carriers struck enemy shipping and installations at Truk, the Japanese bastion in the Caroline Islands.
Spence
then returned to the naval base at Majuro for a period of routine upkeep. The first week of June found
Spence
again in action with a carrier group for the assault on the Marianas. As aircraft struck various islands,
Spence
and other ships bombarded enemy positions on Saipan and Guam in preparation for landings. At the “Marianas Turkey Shoot” in June,
Spence
was a plane guard for carriers during flight operations, rescuing several pilots down at sea.

Lieutenant ( j.g.) Alphonso S. “Al” Krauchunas, twenty-four, of Kalamazoo, Michigan—he had been born in a Wisconsin farmhouse to Lithuanian parents—came aboard
Spence
in April 1944. A supply and disbursement officer, he was in charge of “S Division,” which had become the “pride and joy of the ship's crew because of the excellent food provided them daily by a dedicated group of cooks and bakers,” and he was also the ship's paymaster. Those duties made Krauchunas popular; in fact, his nickname among other officers soon became “Pay.” Beyond his dispensing food and money, all hands learned that the husky officer—five foot ten, 200 pounds—was a stalwart shipmate.

A graduate of Western Michigan College (later Western Michigan University) in Kalamazoo, where he starred as a hard-hitting, smooth-fielding shortstop, Krauchunas was drafted by the Chicago White Sox and played second base for their farm team (batting .284) until “the war interrupted his dream to play professional baseball.” He enlisted in the Navy in February 1942 and went to boot camp as an enlisted man before receiving an ensign commission in the supply corps. His “athletic training”—a physical education major, he was “a strong swimmer” and competed in basketball, too—played a role during the
Marianas campaign when Krauchunas twice “dove off the ship and swam 75 to 80 yards to assist floundering Navy pilots.” The second time he did so he “narrowly missed being attacked by a shark.”

At 8:00
A.M.
on July 8, while moored at Eniwetok Atoll in the Marshall Islands,
Spence
“executed colors.” Following the raising of Old Glory at the fantail, the crew was called to general quarters for drills. They went through their paces under the watchful gaze of a special guest who had been aboard for two days to learn the ship and observe the crew: the next skipper. At 9:15
A.M.
, the crew was “mustered at quarters and marched to the forecastle,” where “pursuant to Bureau of Personnel dispatch orders” Commander Henry J. Armstrong was relieved of command. The “impressive ceremony” was short—less than fifteen minutes. After a brief speech to the crew praising their accomplishments, Armstrong, who had shown an inclination for being “taut in all things pertaining to duty,” stepped back. The new commanding officer stepped forward and read aloud his official orders to command the vessel. Afterward, he made an about-face, saluted Armstrong, and said, “I relieve you, sir.” Armstrong returned the salute, and with that the deed was done. Armstrong, forty-one, was widely respected by the crew, who considered him a “very good captain,” “all business,” and “not afraid of anything.” After a round of goodbyes and a final meal with officers in the wardroom, Armstrong headed down
Spence
's gangway for the last time. “I trained the crew to go to war,” the seasoned skipper said before departing, “and we went to war.” Gone was the man who had turned a new ship and her neophyte crew into decorated combat veterans, keeping them alive and well in the process.

Spence
's future now rested with Lieutenant Commander James P. Andrea, thirty-one, of West New York, New Jersey, for whom taking command of his own ship represented the pinnacle of his naval career. Five foot nine, 160 pounds, with thick dark hair, brown eyes, and a ruddy complexion, Andrea was one of eight children born to Teresa (Favoino) and Michele Andrea, a cement mason; both came from the same region on the east coast of Italy, although they had not met until migrating to America. Growing up on the Jersey side of the Hudson River, Jim
Andrea “wasn't a natural student but he studied hard and got good grades” and was his class salutatorian in high school, where he also “distinguished himself as a basketball player.” After graduating at age sixteen and unable to afford college, Andrea went to work for Macy's department store for two years until receiving an appointment to the Naval Academy. Congenial and with a “keen but gentle sense of humor,” Andrea made friends easily at Annapolis. “An actor on the side,” he spoke several languages, loved Italian opera, and was known to sing impromptu arias. He was playfully dubbed “the Dorothy Dix of the Academy”—after the popular author of the syndicated “Dear Dorothy” advice column—due to his willingness to “listen to everyone's story.” At Annapolis, Andrea did not rise to the top academically, finishing near the bottom of the class of 1937, ranked 281st out of 323 graduating midshipmen. Andrea also “almost didn't graduate” because he “couldn't swim very well.” In his last Christmas home while at Annapolis, he told family members he was considering “going into the Marine Corps” after graduation, perhaps in the hope of staying on solid ground. In spite of his difficulties at the Academy, “the Navigator,” as he was called by his fellow Middies for his tireless efforts to learn navigation, was described heartily in the
Lucky Bag 1937,
the annual of the regiment of midshipmen:

Following his graduation from the Naval Academy, Andrea was assigned to the battleship
Pennsylvania
(BB-38). For three years he served as assistant engineering, division, and gun turret officer on the dreadnought, which took part in tactical exercises, battle practices, and fleet maneuvers in the Pacific and Caribbean. In early 1940, Andrea was transferred to the
hydrographic survey ship
Sumner
(AG-32), then charting areas in the Caribbean and along the west coast of South America. Crew members on
Sumner,
where Andrea soon took over as gunnery officer after being promoted to lieutenant ( j.g.), found him to be “all Academy” but also thought “you couldn't find a nicer guy…also shipmate all around.” In fact, Chief Gunner's Mate John O. Hill “named one of his sons” after the friendly young officer. In receipt of secret orders to Surabaya, Indonesia,
Sumner
was en route in early December 1941 when she put in briefly at Pearl Harbor. When the first bombs fell during the Japanese attack, Andrea was dressing in his small cabin to attend morning mass. At the sound of roaring airplanes and a loud explosion, he raced up on deck to direct the gun crews. One of
Sumner
's .50-caliber machine guns soon scored “a direct hit” on an enemy torpedo plane that was “making an approach” on Battleship Row. The aircraft “disintegrated in flames and sank in fragments” and its torpedo “sunk without exploding.” In rage and frustration that morning, Andrea was “seen firing his Colt .45” sidearm at an enemy plane as it flashed by.
Sumner
spent the next year and a half surveying new anchorages throughout the Pacific at places such as Samoa, New Caledonia, Tonga, the New Hebrides, the Solomon Islands, and New Guinea. In July 1943, Andrea was detached from
Sumner
and ordered to new construction/destroyers—a highly prized assignment among junior officers. He was to put into commission and serve as executive officer of the
Fletcher
-class destroyer
Mertz
(DD-691), a new “Bath boat” about to be launched. After a shakedown cruise off Bermuda,
Mertz
headed for Pearl Harbor. The destroyer began convoy escort duties in March 1944 and within weeks saw her first action: attacking in a hail of 5-inch shells and sinking an enemy merchant ship. In May,
Mertz
returned to Pearl Harbor to prepare for the Marianas campaign, which Andrea was to miss. On May 25, after six months as
Mertz
's second in command, he was ordered to
Spence
after attending a short technical school for prospective commanding officers.