A few US Navy “can” sailors gathered at the Punta Gorda Veterans Memorial Garden the other day to commemorate shipmates and a unique class of ships that helped win the battle of the Atlantic North in World War II.
Having briefly and proudly served in the Destroyer Escort fleet, I attended the ceremony to share memories: convoys, encounters with German U-boats and test cruise mishaps.
World War II began in 1939 with the German invasion of Poland. None of the allies were ready. France surrendered. Russia and Great Britain withdrew. The United States prepared for war production to help beleaguered nations.
The most immediate need was the protection of ships carrying munitions to Britain, an island country accessible only by sea. US President Franklin D. Roosevelt “loaned” him 50 surplus destroyers to protect wartime shipping.
It also began an intensive program to build “destroyer escorts”. This new type of combat ship, designated DE for Destroyer Escort, was smaller, thinner-skinned, powered by slower diesel-electric engines, and carried less topside armament.
However, the DEs were equipped with the latest anti-submarine equipment and could be produced in eleven months for a third of the cost of a normal destroyer.
The ships varied slightly in dimensions, but were generally 308 feet long, 36 feet wide, and 12 feet draft. The average complement was 15 general officers, 20 warrant officers, and 180 ratings.
In total, 563 DEs were built. Seventy-eight were transferred to Great Britain. Three were delivered to China, six to the Free French Navy, and 12 sold or leased to Brazil. The latter maintained a critical staging area in Recife for convoys to Dakar and the Allied North African campaign.
Blackmail
As new DEs were completed, crews for them transferred from other duties, or from training camps, to six weeks at the Norfolk Destroyer School to familiarize themselves with the details of a particular ship.
Thus, it was a green crew that took possession of the USS McCann DE-179 at the Brooklyn Navy Yard in October 1943.
As Petty Officer, Yeoman First Class, I was one of three assigned to prepare and safeguard the mountain of logs required for a modern fighting ship. My battle station was the bridge. My duty was that of “Captain’s Talker” to relay orders via an intercom system to stations beyond the bridge.
DE 179 was commissioned, “given life” by Navy custom, on November 10, 1943. We immediately put to sea for a test cruise.
Those of us who had never seen the ocean were in awe of the beautiful dark blue color of the deep sea. We arrived at the Bermuda Fleet Range and Range for battle practice. “Piece of cake”, we said to ourselves.
Our drills were shortened to carry out our first task: escorting a disabled Liberty Ship freighter to Norfolk. We were on top of our cargo in the early afternoon in the midst of an oncoming storm.
At moonless midnight we were fighting for our lives in the worst storm on record in the North Atlantic. 13 ships were reported to have sunk. We lost sight of the Liberty Ship and never learned her fate.
Our bridge was open to the elements: an inexpensive but damned uncomfortable arrangement for the sailors who were supposed to be on duty there. The bridge breastwork was 65 feet above the waterline and we were taking waves to the bridge.
Each Navy ship during fit-out is tested for its capsizing point as measured by a plumb bob hanging on a protractor. The roll of the McAnn was 47 degrees.
We overcame the capsize several times, once “losing feet” which is a creepy, floating sensation that indicates a capsize. We saved ourselves by sliding down the back of the wave.
In the fury of the storm, our entire electrical system went down: lights, intercom, radio, radar, SONAR, depth finder, gyro compass, everything. The only navigational aid available was our magnetic compass and hand-held sexton.
In daylight, we determined by sexton that we were well to the south and east of our intended route. The captain ordered west 270 degrees to find the shoreline. All hands held battle stations, four hours on, four hours off.
As we proceeded at half speed, the forward lookout reported, “Object just ahead.”
“Yes, yes,” the deck officer acknowledged as he turned his binoculars forward.
For half an hour we watched the object, a huge 40 foot sea buoy, as we got closer. The helmsman became alarmed and kept asking for the course to be repeated. Each time the answer was “Stable as she goes”.
As they were about to collide head-on, the deck officer ducked behind the breastwork, buried his head in his arms, and yelled, “Oh my God!”
At this time, the captain came to the bridge, saw the problem, and shouted: “Turn right!” I was only a half syllable behind the captain in repeating the order, and the helmsman was only a half syllable behind me in obeying.
The ship veered far enough to slide sideways into a direct collision. However, she took an oblique hit from the buoy which left a dent and a long red streak on our hull.
The unfortunate officer, who was previously a pay officer at a land base, said he was afraid to change the captain’s order to a 270-degree course. The captain reprimanded him with a wide range of explicit language and confined him to his quarters.
The next morning we encountered a dense fog. The captain ordered idle, bells and sharp watch. Pretty soon the stern lookout reported that our screws were “kicking mud.”
“All engines stop,” ordered the captain. “Throw a line of lead.”
There was barely a foot of water under the keel. As we pondered the situation, we heard a rhythmic rowing noise. Out of the mist came a fisherman in a skiff, his back to us.
“Ahoy,” our captain yelled. The fisherman turned his head and did a double take at the sight of our huge boat. “We’re disabled. Which way to Norfolk?”
After receiving instructions, the captain slowly backed the McAnn into deeper water and waited for the fog to clear. With clear visibility, magnetic compass and sexton, our navigator set course for the Norfolk area to try to reconnect with Liberty Ship.
We sailed all day and well into the night. Around 3 am, a lookout reported a beam from a headlamp. The navigator was called to the bridge to match the beam pulse to the descriptions on the charts.
In the dark, and too far out to sea, we passed Norfolk and reached Cape May, New Jersey.
“To hell with that,” said the captain. “We’re going to Brooklyn for repairs.
The chief petty officer established a pool of $1 for the exact moment our Union Jack at the bow passed below the leading edge of the Brooklyn Bridge. One of the cooks won $154.
We arrived at night and signaled with light flashes for a pilot. He took us to a T pier where we anchored after four hectic days. The captain changed into his white dress uniform and disembarked to report to the shipyard’s commanding officer. Distracted and in the dark, our immaculate captain walked a short stretch of the pier.
“Help, dammit!” the Scream.
The gangway guard brought it out, flecked with green algae; but he did not seem grateful.
submarine chase
Our equipment was repaired and the restricted officer was transferred back to shore duty. We were sent back to Norfolk to join a high priority convoy of Marines and munitions on its way to the Pacific.
DEs from the North Atlantic brought the ships to the Panama Canal. DEs from the South Pacific on the other side escorted the ships to their destinations.
As we approached Palm Beach, Florida, all the ships headed for headquarters. The stretch of waterway beyond that, and beyond the Keys, was “U-Boat Alley”. German U-boats waited there, silent and motionless, to torpedo passing ships.
Not far south of Miami, our SONAR operators detected a submarine. We chased him as the convoy moved on. We made two runs over the target, surrounding it with depth charges with roller racks, side launchers and forward-launching “hedgehogs”.
In the second run, the submarine’s engines fell silent. We also stop. The convoy commander ordered us to float for 24 hours to make sure the sub wasn’t playing cat and mouse.
As the convoy moved over the horizon, some 15 miles away, one of the rear echelon ships exploded in a tremendous ball of fire. This indicated an ammunition ship rather than troops. However, the deaths of the crew must have been horrible.
Our quarry didn’t budge for 24 hours, so we scattered a few more depth charges for good measure and headed back to Norfolk for more orders. We were credited with a “probable” death.
The McAnn made two trips to Recife without incident and was later sold to Brazil. Crew members were transferred to other ships. I was assigned to the USS Eagle 27 frigate at the Key West submarine base. We help train SONAR operators by playing electronic hide-and-seek with Free French submarines.
My duty at sea was tame, but many DEs were in the midst of the most intense fighting.
July 2, 2000
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