Down to the Sea (15 page)

On November 10,
Spence
in company with other destroyers and several aircraft carriers headed farther westward across the Pacific. One evening during this leg of the journey, Water Tender 3rd Class Charles Wohlleb, twenty, who had been on
Spence
since May 1943 and had gone through all the exploits of the Little Beavers, finished his watch in the after fire room. Coming topside on a “pitch-black” night, he went to the engineering division's berthing compartment near the fantail—right above the twin turbine-powered propellers that drove the ship—and found fifty or sixty guys off duty, shooting the breeze and playing poker and games of checkers. “All of a sudden, the screws stopped.” It was not a noise Wohlleb had often heard at sea, as it meant the ship was dead in the water. Then the ship was thrown into “full reverse” and “the whole boat shuddered.” Wohlleb and the others “looked at each other,” jumped up, and rushed topside to see “what the hell was going on.” Scaling the ladder to the deck and emerging through a hatch, Wohlleb was alarmed to see a “huge shadow” looming close in front of
Spence
. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he was shocked to see an aircraft carrier—darkened per wartime regulations and not showing a single light—crossing silently in front of their bow.

The skipper had been at the conn, Wohlleb found out, and “almost hit” the carrier
Wasp
(CV-18). Andrea had ordered an emergency stop and reversed the engines to avoid ramming
Wasp,
and barely succeeded in doing so. Wohlleb had never seen anything like it, not in the eighteen months he had been aboard and all the tight spots
Spence
had been through. Their old skipper had always had a deft hand at the conn no matter the situation. Now Wohlleb “got to thinking” about Andrea, who hailed from the same Jersey town (West New York) as he did, although they had not known each other. It dawned on Wohlleb that the new skipper, whom he thought was a “nice, regular guy,” had demonstrated he “just didn't have the experience.” Added to this was the fact that they also had a new executive officer; two weeks earlier, shortly
before leaving Pearl Harbor, Lieutenant Frank V. Andrews had taken over as second in command and navigator. That meant
Spence
's two highest-ranking officers were new at their jobs, along with a majority of the other officers and crew.

Wohlleb and some of the old hands in the engineering division talked it over. Their young commanding officer had made his “first mistake,” and it had been a close call. No matter how pleasant the new skipper, they begrudgingly agreed they would, if they could, trade him for Henry “Heinie” Armstrong—that “tough bastard” who had “gotten us through a lot” and “never did anything stupid” such as nearly hitting another ship. What in the world would happen, the sailors wondered, if things got really rough?

Early on September 27, 1944, fires were lit under
Monaghan
's boilers. By noontime, all preparations had been made for getting under way from Puget Sound Navy Yard to conduct engineering trials following a six-week overhaul.

In the Strait of Juan de Fuca that afternoon, engines were brought up to full power—and in short order a “gasket blew in boiler #2.” The boiler was secured and other tests continued, including the firing of new 20 mm and 40 mm antiaircraft weapons. By evening,
Monaghan
was dockside again, and the shipyard was presented with a list of final fixes to be made.

Monaghan
ran another full-power test the next day to determine any new handling
characteristics after the overhaul, such as how much the ship heeled over during turns at certain speeds and how long it took to recover from turns of varying degrees. A sister
Farragut
-class destroyer,
Dewey
(DD-349), also wrapping up an overhaul, was in the seaway at the same time undergoing similar trials. Among experienced personnel on the bridges of both ships there was the recognition that “something was wrong.” Long considered top-heavy, the prewar destroyers had always been prone to steep, slow rolls even in relatively calm seas. The officers and enlisted crew who had served on
Farraguts
were “very aware of their lack of stability,” and it was a “matter of constant concern.” However, the ships now seemed even “more sluggish than when they first entered the shipyard” a month earlier. In turns as moderate as 10 degrees, they “lurched awkwardly and heeled over about fifteen degrees.” Failing to “snap back” normally, they hung precariously to one side for “a long time” before slowly righting themselves. It made for serious questions about their seaworthiness in strong winds and high seas.

Dewey
's skipper of only four days, Lieutenant Commander Charles R. Calhoun, who had previously commanded the fast minesweeper
Lamberton
(DMS-2), a converted destroyer, was so alarmed at the instability of his new ship that he decided against executing “radical turns at speeds in excess of twenty knots” because doing so seemed “imprudent.” His urgent request—upon returning to the shipyard—to have the vessel's “serious stability problem” more extensively tested was “beyond the scope of local authority,” and it was passed along to Washington. In response, the Navy's Bureau of Ships conceded that the
Farraguts'
“stability might have undergone some reduction” due to the added weight of new equipment installed topside, but claimed they were still “basically stable.” It was also pointed out that “in light of pressures from the operating forces to deploy all available destroyers to the western Pacific as a matter of urgency,” no further shipyard delays for these vessels were “feasible.” Calhoun and the officers of other
Farraguts
had little choice but to accept the opinion of the Bureau of Ships that the over-
hauled ships were stable, and “went about the business of getting ready for sea.”
*

Since the launch of the
Farraguts
in 1934–35, many newer destroyers had been built—more than 250 during the war. These newer classes of destroyers were equipped with better armament and communications and more modern engineering systems. Notwithstanding the
Farraguts
' documented stability problems, the remaining seven destroyers of the class were needed in the war effort, as fleets tended never to have enough destroyers to screen and protect larger ships.

In the days preceding
Monaghan
's departure, the usual sense of excitement and anticipation was palpable throughout the ship at the promise of getting under way, no matter what the destination. When
Monaghan
departed on October 1—in company with
Dewey,
escorting the battleship
North Carolina
(BB-55) down the coast to San Pedro, California—the ship “mustered the crew on stations” that morning and found two “absentees,” both young seamen who would be reported as AWOL.

From San Pedro,
Monaghan
steamed to Pearl Harbor, arriving October 10. For several weeks in Hawaiian waters, the destroyer trained her crew—many of them right out of recruit training—in gunnery, torpedo-firing runs, and antisubmarine warfare. Everyone knew what to expect next.

Gunner's Mate Joe Guio, who had written home in 1943 announc
ing that the president of the United States was sending them to San Francisco for Christmas, now wrote a different message to his folks in West Virginia.

Toward the end of October, a kind of “miracle” happened to Water Tender Joseph Candelaria, who had been aboard
Monaghan
since shortly after the attack on Pearl Harbor, and who had figured during the Battle of the Komandorski Islands in the Aleutians that he and his shipmates were all goners.

Candelaria was one of three senior water tenders eligible for transfer to three-month boiler school in Philadelphia, which would include leave to go home—but only one man could be sent. The other two candidates, Joe “Mother” McCrane and Water Tender 2nd Class William D. Weaver, were both married. Candelaria was single, and at first he said one of the other two should go. Besides, he had spent all his money on liberties in Seattle, and going home broke didn't seem like a good idea. On decision day, however, Candelaria received a letter from his hometown sweetheart, Alvina Holguin, in California. She told him she had joined the WAVES and expected to be leaving shortly for training. Candelaria thought it might be a good idea, after all, to get home. Chief Water Tender Martin Busch stood on the quarterdeck before the three men with a hat containing folded slips of paper; two said “no” and one said “go.” After all reached into the hat, Candelaria unfolded the “go” slip. His luck amazed him; he had quit gambling because he “never caught a lucky break.”

Just before Candelaria left the ship a couple of days later carrying his seabag and with new orders in hand, two buddies—Boilermaker 1st Class Frank A. Cain and Water Tender 3rd Class Leonard R. Bryant—tried to talk him out of leaving so they could enjoy more liberties in port together. In addition, Candelaria had been offered “over $200” to sell his “go” slip, as each of the married water tenders tried to outbid the other. As much as he could use the money, Candelaria knew he would have to work with the fellow who didn't get to go. Although he would miss his liberty buddies, he decided to punch his lucky ticket off the ship and get back to the woman he hoped one day to marry.

Candelaria said his goodbyes and boarded the whaleboat to be taken to the fleet landing. Casting a last look back at the old destroyer on which he had spent the last thirty-three months, he started his long journey “back to the States.”

His shipmates, Candelaria knew, would be heading in the opposite direction: toward the war and whatever fate awaited them across the Pacific.

 

L
IEUTENANT
C
OMMANDER
Charles Consolvo was relieved of command on October 2, 1944, with
Hull
still dockside undergoing a major overhaul at Seattle's Todd Pacific Shipyard.

Consolvo had been skipper for ten months, a period of time that placed him in line to rotate to a new assignment. He had performed well in his position, not only in the opinion of his crew but also according to Consolvo's squadron and division commander, who had rated Consolvo in his latest fitness report a 3.9 (out of 4.0) in three categories: present assignment, ability to command, and ship handling. Another comment was “Commander Consolvo is an excellent officer in every respect. He is conscientious, energetic, and sincere.” When asked for his preference for his next duty station, Consolvo had written: “No change.” Still, the Navy had decided it was time for him to move on, and had a special job in mind for him: Consolvo was headed to Annapolis to teach future officers.

Among those disappointed to see the popular skipper depart was Storekeeper 3rd Class Kenneth L. Drummond, twenty, of Jamesport, Missouri, where all nineteen boys in his twenty-seven-member high school graduating class were in military service. A strapping six-footer with a mop of black curly hair, Drummond joined the Navy six months after graduating from high school in June 1942. Aboard since early 1943, he considered
Hull
“a very good ship” with “high morale.” He found the crew to be a “tight-knit group and very close,” and agreed with the consensus that
Hull
was a “lucky ship” for having gone through so much without loss of lives. Drummond also liked his own duties: as storekeeper, he always had “plenty of food” close at hand. His battle station was on the bridge as a captain's talker over the ship's sound-powered phone system, and he liked being “aware of all that was going on” during the action. With his bridge duties, Drummond had the opportunity to get to know many of the ship's officers. They were, he thought, uniformly competent, as well as friendly toward enlisted men. The officers had all been trained as underway watch officers by Consolvo, and Drummond witnessed how they had been given plenty of time at the conn under his watchful eye and instructive hand.

Drummond considered Consolvo “the very best”—an excellent ship handler who could “lay a ship against a dock with precision the way some people park a car and never bump the curb.” He had been standing near Consolvo when
Hull
was shelling the beach of an enemy-held island and suddenly a rain squall came up and “visibility dropped to almost nothing.” Moments later, everyone on the bridge looked up to see the bow of the battleship
New Jersey
“almost upon us and very close to ramming us amidships.” Consolvo ordered full speed ahead and hard left rudder, and
Hull
swung up alongside
New Jersey
like a harbor tugboat. Everyone on the bridge “breathed a sigh of relief.”
New Jersey
's captain signaled by light: “How does our bow look?” Consolvo signaled back: “Second link in your anchor chain is rusty, sir.”

An incident Drummond thought revealed Consolvo's true character happened as they were heading stateside for overhaul. Drummond
was at the fantail with several other enlisted men having coffee and shining their shoes, which were lined up in front of them. When the skipper approached, everyone started to stand, but Consolvo said, “No, sit down.” Consolvo seated himself alongside them, picked up a rag and a scuffed shoe, and began polishing. The skipper, who had been a “private in the U.S. Army for a year before receiving his appointment to Annapolis,” didn't leave until the enlisted men's shoes were all shined.

Drummond appreciated the way Consolvo “took care of his crew” in ways large and small. During a stopover at Pearl Harbor some months earlier, Consolvo had purchased black baseball caps for all the crew. The caps “kept the sun off your forehead and out of your eyes” and made it easier to wear the sound-powered phone headsets. While the caps “made a lot more sense in the Pacific than the regulation white sailor hats,”
Hull
's crew did get some “strange looks from other ships” when they were spotted in the baseball caps.

In the course of going through the change-of-command procedure, Consolvo took his relief on a tour of
Hull
, introducing him to officers and enlisted men alike and endeavoring to explain the ship's little quirks and his tricks for handling them. Normally, they would have spent time operating at sea, with Consolvo showing how the vessel handled, but there was no opportunity to do so with the yard work still going on. Likewise, they could not hold the usual general drills—battle stations, fire, collision, abandon ship, and such—with all the civilian workers aboard. The new commanding officer would have to do that on his own when the yard finished its work—conducting the first full-power runs after the overhaul, and testing all the new equipment installed and repairs made. Consolvo tried to cover everything else the regulations required, and whatever else he could think of that would be useful.

During the tour, Consolvo introduced his relief to Sonarman Pat Douhan, explaining that the petty officer was “changing his rate” to yeoman because he was doing so much clerical work these days, including typing the ship's daily log. The new commanding officer said abruptly, “I don't go for this change-in-rate business. Too many men
want to do it.” Consolvo looked at the younger officer as if taking his measure. “Douhan didn't ask for this,” said Consolvo, a discernible edge in his voice. “I asked him to change rates.”

At 1:40
P.M.
, the change of command was complete, with Consolvo “detached as commanding officer”—and not long after, Douhan, be-mused and bewildered, was typing up the new skipper's first set of general orders to the crew, in which he decreed there would be “no profanity aboard this ship.” Knowing that the general obscenity and blasphemy for which sailors were well known would not stop on demand, Douhan wondered how long it would be before someone was written up for cussing, which would turn a few heads.

From where he stood on the foredeck, Storekeeper Drummond was amazed by the new commanding officer's first speech to the crew. The first words out of his mouth were about how they were “going out to win the war” and “make history together.” The new skipper, young-looking for a destroyer captain, went on: “We're going out there to fight, and we might die together.” Eyeing some of the ship's veterans exchanging furtive glances, Drummond thought
Hull
's good luck might have just run out.