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5. The Long, Bad Days Ahead

ON THE EVE OF WORLD WAR II, Admiral Johnson assessed his refurbished command. He felt that his old battleships were “not well fitted for the battle line” in wartime because of age, old guns, and lack of speed; hence, he thought that their best use would be for screening convoys against surface raiders. In his opinion, only the Ranger, his newly arrived heavy cruisers, and the PBYs and submarines seemed

to have a logical place in an Atlantic Squadron in time of war, granted it is conceived as an instrument adequate to . . . turn back a sudden raid into the Caribbean pending the arrival of reinforcements from our West Coast. In fact, the Atlantic Squadron as now organized is not a logical task force. Rather it is a remnant of the former Training Detachment plus a division of heavy cruisers and a carrier, these latter ships the nucleus of a proper Atlantic Squadron.

After noting the continuance of such old problems as shortage of personnel, especially radiomen and signalmen, and lack of torpedoes for the destroyers and modern fire control for the old battleships, he added: “The real difficulty encountered in connection with enlisted personnel is the extensive turnover. The Squadron is used as a reservoir from which personnel is drawn for the entire Navy and is a repository for men awaiting transfer to newly commissioned units. This transiency is a serious bar to contentment. . . .”¹

Meanwhile, the President was contemplating work for Admiral Johnson’s small command. The idea of an Atlantic Patrol was a favorite of the President. On 20 April 1939, he told the Cabinet that he intended to establish “a patrol from Newfoundland down to South America and if some submarines are laying there and try to interrupt an American flag and our Navy sinks them it’s just too bad. . . .” To the Secretary of the Treasury, this meant: “In other words, he is going to play the game the way they are doing it now. If we fire and sink an Italian or German . . . we will say it the way the Japs do, ‘so sorry.’ ‘Never happen again.’ Tomorrow we sink two. We simply say, ‘so sorry,’ and next day we go ahead and do it over again.”²

That summer, after two months of negotiation, the President prevailed upon the British to lease seaplane-base sites at Trinidad and Bermuda to Pan American Airways, which would develop the bases for use by the American Navy. In the thirties, the British Caribbean islands were racked by sporadic paroxysms of violence, bred by the vicissitudes of the Great Depression and racial animosities of long standing. The Colonial Office feared that the Yankees, with their recklessly high wages and unsettling notions of democracy, would subvert the authority of the Crown and pave the way for American annexation. But the Foreign Office, anxious to make powerful friends in parlous times, was more realistic, and the President’s overtures were accepted. However, the outbreak of war in September caused the plan to be dropped; to build bases on belligerent islands might involve the nation in war by accident.³

Shortly after the war began, on the morning of 6 September, the President’s press secretary announced that the Navy would establish a patrol two or three hundred miles off the East Coast to report the presence of belligerent ships. Designed to keep the war away from the Western Hemisphere, the project allowed the nation a sense of participation in grand events without committing it to grave burdens or risks. The President hoped to prevent German submarines and German merchant vessels refitted as auxiliary cruisers and submarine tenders from operating in the western Atlantic, for it was feared that the first wolves would come forth in the raiment of lambs. A line was installed between the White House and the desk of the Director of the Ship Movements Division, and a large wall chart was set up in the President’s office so that he could keep a plot of the Atlantic Squadron’s divided forces. Admiral Johnson’s old battleships and destroyers were still conducting summer training cruises, and the “order from the White House came as something of a shock” to the Navy.⁴

Immediately, the ships of Destroyer Squadron 10 rushed back from training cruises and were hastened out of upkeep status in the yards; the destroyers loaded fuel and provisions to capacity, took aboard live ammunition allowances, and, as the President’s press secretary, Steve Early, was announcing the Patrol, took up their stations along the major trade routes off the coast. The four-stackers were undermanned, having crews of 56, instead of their full peacetime strength of 106; 13 of the 17 destroyers had no torpedoes or warheads, nine had no AA machine guns, and one had no depth charges. On 6 September, about a hundred miles east of Nantucket, the British merchantman Aquitania was looked over by a four-stacker of DesDiv 21, thus opening the store for the Neutrality Patrol.⁵

A few destroyers and seaplanes operated out of Boston-Newport, Norfolk, Charleston, Key West, Guantanamo Bay, and San Juan, with two cruisers in local reserve at Guantanamo; the Ranger, three heavy cruisers, the old battleships, and several destroyers were based at Hampton Roads as a reserve striking force.⁶

The Navy Department issued only “broad and general” instructions to the patrol commanders, who were somewhat perplexed by the nature of their duties. Commander Bill Greenman, skipper of DesRon 10, told his men, “It is my opinion, lacking advice to the contrary, that our patrol mission . . . is to make every effort to contact, diligently trail and report fully on the acts of all belligerent and suspicious vessels within our areas.”⁷

Admiral Johnson limited the role of his ships to observation and reconnaissance. No one knew what action would be authorized if belligerent ships attempted to conduct active operations in the patrol zones, which were far outside the limits of American territorial waters. Franklin Roosevelt would decide that when the time came. Meanwhile, all that the Chief of Naval Operations could tell Admiral Johnson was, “. . . in all such matters obviously individual good judgment and common sense has to be exercised by the man on the spot.”⁸ With orders as flexible as these, the destroyer skippers feared that, in case of sudden trouble, they were indeed going to be “on the spot.”⁹

The Patrol was slow in getting under way because of lack of support facilities. Two of Greenman’s destroyers were sent to the Caribbean on one day’s notice and sustained themselves there for over a month without tender support. At Key West, the fliers had no messing facilities, no small boats, no gasoline-storage tanks, nor even moorings for their planes; there were no tractors, and the aircraft were manhandled ashore to be refueled from pump trucks which brought the gas in from Fort Lauderdale where it was purchased from private sources.¹⁰

Another problem was the shortage of ships. It took a long time for the reconditioned World War I destroyers to join the Squadron; in the expectation that they would not be needed again, the ships had been laid up in too thorough a manner.

At San Diego, Commander W.W. Bradley took command of Destroyer Squadron 31 on 4 September, hoping to have the four-stackers ready for sea in about a month. But the ships needed substantial repairs, as they had been decommissioned after hard service and at that time it had seemed prodigal to expend precious funds to overhaul them. A lot of machinery had been dismantled and spare parts and tools removed, and it took time to get replacement parts and such necessary items as ships’ boats and sonar gear from elsewhere in the country. Because ships’ papers could not be found, defects had to be discovered by the tedious process of trial and error. Dock space and facilities were limited. Then there was the eternal problem of too few people. The first enlisted men to report were just out of boot camp; their unfamiliarity with the innards of a destroyer did not fit them for the surgery at hand. The reservists called to active duty appeared in driblets, and some of them were physically unfit and had to be sent to the base hospital instead of to the ships, causing Commander Bradley to recommend that higher physical standards be set for the Naval Reserve. Inexperience lengthened the time required to perform tasks. Help came from “broken service” men—those who reenlisted after brief stints as civilians—but their numbers were small; other men were drawn from cushy billets in the Naval Districts. But these sources supplied only little over half of the eight hundred men required, and it was necessary to apply the leech to the forces afloat, evoking much lamentation from commands already anemic. It took seven weeks to man all the old destroyers.

The thin crews, assisted by destroyermen from the base and off ships in port, worked in pools on those ships scheduled to leave earliest; thus, some ships received scarcely any attention at all, and as the supply of labor was diminished by sailings, their crews had to ready them without help. Working long hours at oil-clogged machinery and old guns, swapping esoteric parts, and tracing unfamiliar pipes to their source, the sailors tried to make up in tenacity for what they lacked in knowledge. Though he distrusted their inexperience and polyglot backgrounds, Commander Bradley could not help but grow fond of his hard-working crews. They were learning early that things were never easy in the destroyer service.¹¹

At Philadelphia, Destroyer Squadron 30 was suffering similar adversity. Personnel was slow to report, hand tools were scarce, there were no check-off lists, and there had been excessive use of preservatives on equipment and machinery; for years, the Philadelphia yard had been a building yard, not a repair yard, and the workers were not skilled at reconditioning the four-stackers. But ample dry-dock space and good equipment and facilities were available, and the proximity of other East Coast yards made it possible to obtain essential equipment without frustrating delays. The first ships were recommissioned with crews of between 45 and 70 men. But the destroyers were not all in prime condition when they left the yard. The Ellis left for duty with her starboard shaft out of line, leaky heating coils on fuel tanks, dented hull plating, some corrosion on surfaces, and without some of her .50-caliber AA guns and her sonar gear.¹²

It was hoped that the best of the scheduled thirty-six recommissioned ships would be available for duty at about the end of the first week in October. However, the first of the Philadelphia ships did not report for duty with the Atlantic Squadron until the third week in October, and the last of the destroyers did not arrive until 22 November. The first of the San Diego vessels reported on 24 November; the last did not arrive until 15 December.¹³

At first, the Neutrality Patrol was fairly named. Admiral Johnson warned his ships:

. . . do not make report of foreign men-of-war or suspicious craft sighted immediately on making contact or while in their vicinity. This is for the purpose of avoiding performing unneutral service. . . . Do not give belligerents the opportunity of utilizing their interception of your radio transmissions for obtaining information useful to them.¹⁴

The patrolling ships were to report all belligerent warships, except convoy escorts, by radio. In the event of a submarine contact, “the movements of the submarine shall be observed and a surveillance patrol maintained in the general area . . . .”¹⁵

As there were no German warships in the western Atlantic, the Patrol was routine work; sea and air patrols were limited in bad weather to avoid needless risks. Nevertheless, Captain Louis E. Denfeld’s division of new destroyers took some scars from the elements in its Grand Banks sweeps. Heavy seas wrecked boats and damaged bulwarks and lockers; it proved “almost impossible” for the men, who slept aft, to reach forward stations in rough weather. The Benham and Ellet sustained cracked plating and minor equipment failures; the gun ports in their forward turrets were not watertight, so tarpaulins were lashed across the turrets, restricting the guns. Both ships were docked for repairs, but the Davis and Jouett hung on.¹⁶

The patrol craft encountered many ships and a variety of temperaments. Some masters willingly provided their ship’s name and destination when hailed, and sometimes a little information about vessels seen during the passage. Often, ships poor at reading signals had to be chased and harried at close quarters to make them respond. Some merchant skippers observed the traditional independence of their calling and refused to cooperate; if the destroyermen were unable to make out a flag or read a bow name, a PBY was called to buzz the hardhead. Sometimes distance or weather precluded identification. In October, 1,072 vessels were identified; 136 were sighted, but not identified. In November, 1,924 were identified and 178 remained unidentified. In December, 2,648 ships were identified, and 241 were not identified. In the three months, about fifty PBYs from Patrol Wing 5 flew 7,070 hours, 740,000 miles, and scanned 15¼ million square miles of sea; and their commanding officer reported that planes and men were in better condition than before the start of the Patrol. The destroyers kept a few rounds of ammunition in their ready racks, but no shot was fired across the bows of an unidentified ship.¹⁷

Nevertheless, the President was not satisfied with the scope or intensity of the Patrol. He had recently appointed his old friend, Admiral Harold R. “Betty” Stark, as Chief of Naval Operations. Stark’s white hair, blue eyes, pink cheeks, and rimless spectacles softened his solid, bulldog features and betokened both toughness and gentleness. A calm, reserved man, his honesty and fairness were respected in the service, although some felt that he lacked decisiveness and fire. A careful and thoughtful planner, he had a sound grasp of strategy. But, because he had little aptitude for playing on the fears and ambitions of subordinates to make his purposes their own, he was not always able to coordinate in common effort the sundry independent fiefdoms of the vast naval bureacracy; embarrassed by petty bickering, he sometimes tended to back away from sticky issues, and so was not always a sufficiently forceful administrator. And, despite their friendship, he and the President did not always understand each other.

Stark was restrained and logical; he never confused what was desirable with what was possible, and he trusted in methodical planning and precise thinking. The President, however, was glib, impulsive, and optimistic; he left it to others to work out the contradictions and impracticalities of his sudden inspirations. He distrusted the restraint imposed by fixed plans, and complained that his military advisers were “always conservative,” ever ready to provide myriad technical reasons why something could not be done. Stark’s reticence in argument, sense of propriety, suspicion of the President’s grandiose schemes, and awe of the politician’s flair for words, limited communication between the two men. The President mistook Stark’s thoughtful silences for approbation of his sweeping designs.¹⁸

Late in September, when Stark and Roosevelt were discussing the ubiquitous problem of bases, the President abruptly turned to his wall chart of the Atlantic, took up a pencil, and made a sweeping boundary mark along the meridian of 60 degrees west longitude. The line began between Newfoundland and Nova Scotia and ran south all the way to the tip of British Guiana, passing 270 miles east of Bermuda. Roosevelt jubilantly asked Stark, “How would the Navy like to patrol such a neutrality zone?” The line extended a thousand miles east off Charleston; the Navy already had all it could do to maintain a token 200-mile patrol. Stark answered that such a patrol would require a very large number of ships and planes. The President seemed satisfied with the cautious rejoinder and turned to other matters.

Then, on 27 September, Assistant Secretary of State Adolf A. Berle asked the Navy for the details of its plans for the expanded security zone and of its method of dealing with the German merchant-ships stranded in hemisphere ports. Department spokesmen said they did not know anything specific about the zone, to which Berle replied that he thought Admiral Stark and the President “had thoroughly discussed the question.” When Berle referred to an immense patrol of the scope that the President had seemingly hypothetically marked on his office chart for the bewildered Admiral Stark, the shocked sailors denounced the concept as “fantastic and impossible.” They warned that the plan was not logistically feasible because of the lack of adequate bases in the Caribbean, and, even if it were, to carry it out effectively would require 290 ships and from 3,000 to 4,000 planes—virtually the entire surface fleet and some three times as many planes as the Navy possessed. Berle reassured them that, for the time being, the President would settle for a “token” patrol; there was no use exposing weakness by trying to do too much. The sailors, not appreciably cheered to learn that they were pregnant with merely a “token” white elephant, unhappily accepted the idea in principle, as the President flayed the Navy Department with critical memoranda. But they remained fearful of what would occur if and when the President ordered the full-blown patrol; since the vast majority of contacts were made close to shore, the sailors continued to believe the extended patrol wasteful and superfluous.¹⁹

But on 9 October, the President exploded again, writing:

I have been disturbed by:

(a) The slowness of getting the East Coast, Caribbean and Gulf Patrol under way.

(b) The lag between the making of contacts and the follow-up of contacts.

(c) The weakness of liasion between Navy, Coast Guard and State Department.

It is, therefore, necessary to make the following orders clear:

(1) The patrol operations will be rushed to completion. . . .

(2) When any aircraft or surface ship sights a submarine a report thereof will be rushed to the Navy Department for immediate action. The plane or surface ship . . . will remain in contact for as long as possible. On the disappearance of the submarine, immediate steps will be taken ... to try to pick up the submarine again at dawn . . . and during the night endeavor to patrol such area as the submarine might use for a refueling operation from a tanker.

(3) On establishing contact with any suspicious surface craft of any nationality which might conceivably be carrying oil or supplies for a submarine, such surface craft will be followed day and night. . . .

(4) Planes or Navy or Coast Guard ships may report the sighting of any submarine or suspicious surface ships in plain English to Force Commander or Department. In this whole patrol business, time is of the essence and loss of contact with surface ships cannot be tolerated.

FDR²⁰

Accordingly, a Galveston patrol was set up in November, although in the absence of naval facilities, a private firm, Todd Shipyards Corporation, had to service the destroyers. The Gulf Patrol was a response to the large number of German merchant ships hiding in Mexican ports preparatory to making a dash for home. The President’s “plain language” dictum was aimed at the German vessels, for it was they who behaved suspiciously by steaming evasively, showing no lights, and altering prominent design features. Allied merchantmen, far removed from the presence of their foes, had no need for subterfuge.²¹

On 30 September, in a routine transfer, Rear Admiral Hayne Ellis replaced Admiral Johnson as commander of the Atlantic Squadron. Ellis was a competent older officer, pleasant, forbearing, and settled in his ways; like Johnson, he ran a sensible, efficient command, but lacked fire. He commanded, but did not lead.²²

Meanwhile, “submarine” sightings were coming in. They had begun on the very first day of war and continued thereafter. U-boats were reported being refueled off Cuba, and empty gasoline drums washed ashore on the Haitian coast spurred rumors of similar activity there; a German submarine was said to have refueled from a merchant ship in the Gulf of Mexico and transferred demolitions to be used for sabotage. Although Admiral Raeder as early as 1937 had considered the possibility of Germany sustaining naval operations against the United States from bases in Mexico and South America, it soon became obvious that this was impossible. Germany lacked the naval power, and Hitler lacked the inclination to challenge the U.S. Navy in the western Atlantic. There were no German submarine operations in the American patrol zone. Nevertheless, the sighting reports were usually lucid, quite detailed, and the work of sober, responsible individuals; but they were all false.²³

Early in October, the four-stacker Borie investigated several eyewitness “sightings” at various ports in the Virgin Islands. She made an extensive, thorough search, but found no U-boats. As a cruiser officer caustically told the Borrie’s skipper: “The local inhabitants are very accommodating about furnishing rumors of submarines if that is what you want ... If there are German submarines in these waters they are making no attempt to sink British and French shipping, and it would therefore appear to be a very wasteful employment of German forces.”²⁴

In December, the four-stacker Twiggs shadowed the British destroyer Hereward in Yucatán Channel, discreetly observing as the British ship refueled from a “G”-class cruiser. In the same month, the Twiggs and Evans and the heavy cruiser Vincennes trailed the Royal Australian cruiser Perth in Yucatán Channel, repeatedly asking her to identify herself; but the Perth persistently refused, responding vaguely, “British warship.” Her skipper, Captain H.B. “Fighting Freddie” Farncomb, searching for a German merchant ship, was annoyed at the presence of the Americans. Angrily he roared, “Queer ideas of ‘neutrality’ these Americans have!”²⁵

The British were not pleased with the Neutrality Patrol because they feared it might protect German vessels in the western Atlantic from attack, and more importantly, because it symbolized America’s desire to remain aloof from the war. As the neutrality zone was too vast to be effectively patrolled, the British reserved the right to pursue German ships inside the zone. Thus, in December, three British cruisers chased the Graf Spee into Montevideo, where the luckless pocket battleship was scuttled. The State Department’s half-hearted protests were, the British felt, made strictly for the record.²⁶

At the outbreak of the war, there were about eighty-five German merchant ships in hemisphere waters; approximately thirty-two eventually made it back to Germany. On a worldwide basis, however, the Germans were more successful; by 1940, about a hundred ships had reached Germany safely, while about twenty-six were lost as they attempted to return. The British were preoccupied with the hunt for important raiders like the Graf Spee and German auxiliary cruisers, allowing many of the German merchant ships to escape.²⁷

The liner Bremen was in New York, and the President directed that State Department personnel make a thorough search of the ship for concealed ordnance; the investigation took three days, and included a one-by-one count of all the life jackets aboard! The President hoped that the Perth and HMS Berwick would be able to intercept the liner, thanks to the delay. But the Bremen, aided by fog off Newfoundland and a wise choice of route, reached Germany safely.²⁸

In the fall, the tanker Emmy Friedrich was taken by British naval units shortly after leaving Tampico; Ranger planes also searched briefly for her. Transmission of contact reports by the destroyer Truxtun helped French ships in the pursuit of fleeing German merchantmen Wangoni and LaPlata. In January, the freighter Konsul Horn, although sighted by a PBY out of San Juan, evaded the British picket ships and made it back to Germany. In the same month, the Bahia fled Brazil and thanks to a tricky route made it safely home. In March, the tanker, Hannover was captured in Mona Channel by a British cruiser and Canadian destroyer after an attempt to scuttle failed dismally.²⁹

The Navy tried to keep a close watch on the Mexican ports, because the patrol was much less effective in the open Atlantic than in the cul-de-sac of the Gulf; most contacts were made within two hundred miles of the coast. The ten PBYs at Guantanamo and San Juan flew 8,000 miles daily, but admitted that the flights were “efficient only for vessels passing from the Atlantic into the Caribbean.”³⁰

Occasionally, the Atlantic Squadron’s prosaic duties resulted in memorable events, such as the pursuit of the North German Lloyd liner Columbus. The 32,500-ton ship left New York on 15 August for a tourist cruise in the West Indies. The crew sensed the probability of war and speculated worriedly over their uncertain prospects. At Barbados, the ship received news of the deteriorating diplomatic situation and Captain Wilhelm Daehne decided to top off his fuel bunkers at Curaçao. En route, the Columbus met the British light cruiser Orion; her crew did not regard the encounter as a matter of chance. At Curaçao, the Dutch officials were casually rude; the German flag was not an esteemed one amongst men who lived beyond the range of the Wehrmacht’s arms. The Dutchmen refused Daehne’s request for oil and threatened to search the liner for clandestine arms. The ship went on to Havana to put ashore complaining passengers, angered by the interruption of vacations. But the Columbus’ reception in Cuba was not cordial and, desperate for oil, Daehne decided to make for Mexico. The Columbus skulked out past Morro Castle on a dark night, running close along the Cuban coast. On 4 September, she arrived safely at Vera Cruz. Although the war was only a day old, Captain Daehne understood that it was already over for him.

But at the end of October, the German consul in Vera Cruz told Daehne that the Columbus had been ordered by Berlin to run the blockade. Daehne protested, arguing that he had been fortunate to reach Mexico. He advised that the liner be sold, even for the pittance in Mexican currency that she would bring under the lamentable circumstances. The diplomat told him that the order was irrevocable; a successful escape would have a salutary effect on the Latin neutrals, encouraging them to withstand the diplomatic and economic pressure of the Allies. Besides, the consul said, there was no danger; the British would not attack inside the American neutrality zone. The Columbus would have to sail. “Sie muessen fahren,” he insisted. “Sie muessen!”

Heartsick, Daehne felt that the loss of his ship was inevitable; but he was determined to preserve the lives of his men and keep the liner from being captured by the British. He took a long time to get the Columbus ready for sea. The ship was painted over and slightly modified to alter her appearance, the crew moved amidships, lifeboats and safety gear were checked, “abandon ship” drills were held; salons once redolent of perfume and liquor smelled of paint and sweat; bandages and dressings were arrayed incongruously on polished dance floors, and men lugged sandbags and mattresses into stately cabins for splinter shields. For two full weeks, specially trained parties practiced the swift destruction of the liner; buckets of gasoline were placed so that they could quickly be emptied down ventilation shafts, and drums of oil, gas, and benzine were stored near rags and other flammable wastes. The British would not take the Columbus.

Despite the consul’s assurances that the two American destroyers patrolling offshore would probably escort the liner safely through the security zone, Daehne was worried by them. The ships were the Lang and Benham, the latter glad to be in calm Gulf waters after her rough stint off the Grand Banks.

Columbus refueled from a Mexican tanker, and on 13 December, edged toward the channel entrance. The green sea was running high, and she began her venture under a gray sky; the expectations of the men inside her were as gloomy as the day. The Lang fell in behind the ship, to be relieved the first night out by two four-stackers. The weather remained dreary, and at night, the destroyers had to close to within six hundred yards of the liner’s stern quarter, one on each side, in order to maintain visual contact. The American ships ran fully lighted, as always when patrolling at night, but they sometimes approached so close that Daehne reluctantly elected to keep on one of his own night lights. At times, when the destroyers were very near, his ship barely had room to turn or maneuver. He felt like a “dog on the leash.”

The destroyers were replaced by a fresh pair, venerable Cole and Ellis, off Cape Canaveral. The Columbus cleared the dangerous Florida Strait in safety, but was consuming 450 tons of fuel per day; Daehne felt compelled to reduce speed to an economical 16 knots to save a hundred tons of fuel daily. The liner stayed close to the American coast until she was abreast of Cape Hatteras and in more crowded waters, then she swung east, out to sea, to make her break for Germany.

Cole’s skipper was Lieutenant Commander Paul F. Dugan; his four-stacker was one of those recently recommissioned. She was old and short-legged, but Dugan was fond of her; he remembered that after World War I she had set a record by once making over 42½ knots. Pride is born of small things, and Dugan’s men gave their best to the old Cole and made her a welcome friend in any melee at sea. Now, Dugan watched the liner thrash into the moderating seas, listening sadly as the Ellis sent out a position report in plain language every four hours. He was sorry the Cole had drawn this wretched duty. Certain that the transmissions would be picked up by the Royal Navy, Dugan felt that the American vessels were giving the “kiss of death” to the liner.

About a hundred miles out, two other American destroyers appeared, swaying slightly against the horizon. Dugan told his signalman to blink out “bon voyage” to the German, and the Columbus sent back a similar signal. The Cole then swerved away from the big ship’s quarter to make room for her replacement, and set course for Charleston. At sea, it was hard to think of Columbus’ men as pawns of a vicious ideology; they seemed simply sailors working hard to save their ship, and Dugan hoped that none of them would die because of anything that he had done. It was a thoughtful trip home for the Cole.

Not long afterward, the heavy cruiser Tuscaloosa swung in behind the Columbus, dipping her flag politely and blinking out good wishes in bright, yellow flashes. But Captain Daehne grumbled, “What the devil does this all mean? Is he protecting us or shadowing us?”

The 19th was a mild, clear day. The British destroyer Hyperion, cruising about 320 miles northwest of Bermuda, picked up transmissions between the Tuscaloosa and another ship; Hyperion radioed the American cruiser, “What ship are you escorting?” Captain Harry Badt of the Tuscaloosa did not identify the Columbus, but the suspicious circumstances alerted the Hyperion to investigate, and Captain Badt had no orders to warn her off. An hour later, Hyperion sighted Columbus and signalled her by flag hoist to halt. The liner radioed her position and circumstances, in order to alert Berlin to her fate. Captain Daehne looked to the Tuscaloosa for help; his ship was about 425 miles off Cape May, and he thought her still inside the vaguely defined American security zone. He hoped to see the gun turrets of the cruiser swing to commence tracking the smaller British warship. But instead, the Tuscaloosa decreased speed to stand by about a mile away. The Hyperion fired twice in a single rumbling roar, and two high spouts of white water rose up off the liner’s bow. Daehne ordered the Columbus stopped, and most of her crew, with a calm born of long practice, went to the lifeboats. Three officers and two score men roamed the vessel, spilling drums of petrol into the passageways, then firing Very pistols to send rivers of orange fire coursing through the insides of the liner. They opened seacocks, smashed skylights, and set fire to oil-soaked rags. Twenty-three minutes later, they went over the side.

On the bridge, Daehne watched the Hyperion with a numbed detachment; like all captains who have lost a ship, he suffered from a sense of guilt. It is this feeling, rather than the lure of tradition, that impels skippers to go down with their ships. Daehne flung the weighted bag containing the ship’s code books and secret documents overboard. Hot flames twisted nearby metal, and it occurred to Daehne that his immolation would serve no high purpose. He swung down a rope into a launch manned by sailors off the Tuscaloosa, who by training and inclination did not readily concede the life of any man to fire or water.

From the scattered boats, the seamen of three nations watched the blazing Columbus settle into the blue swells, as spirals of brown-black smoke formed a bleak, sooty cloud over the liner. Finally, a young American sailor said to Daehne, “Isn’t war awful, sir?”

With the slight accent that had charmed many a female tourist in happier times, the German answered, “It’s the vorst there is!”

The scuttling cost the Columbus but two of her 557 men. The survivors were taken to the United States and, as “distressed mariners,” were freed.³¹

The President was not inclined to have the work of the Neutrality Patrol publicized, so Admiral Stark radioed Captain Badt to give the impression that his ship had come upon the German liner by accident and, fortunately, just in time to pursue her humane role; he was to state that the British ship had not appeared ready to commence an action. As Stark noted, “we do not desire you to make public the details of the work of our . . . patrol.” However, accurate accounts of the affair were soon in print, but they caused no sensation. As long as the President worked to eliminate belligerent vestiges from the hemisphere, the nation was not disposed to debate his tactics.³²

Meanwhile, another German vessel made a break for home. On 14 December, the freighter Arauca left Vera Cruz to attempt the long run to Hamburg with a cargo of sisal, phosphates, hides, resin, and pepper. She was trailed by the ubiquitous American destroyers, Truxtun’s transmissions alerting French warships to the general whereabouts of the fleeing merchantman. The Arauca steamed northeast until she was about 150 miles off the mouth of the Mississippi, thence southeast toward the Dry Tortugas and along the Florida coast, only five miles offshore, making cautiously for Florida Strait. However, on the morning of the 20th, she was intercepted off Oakland, Florida, by the British cruiser Orion. At 1056, the warship fired a warning cannon shell, which splashed in the water off the freighter’s bow, and signalled the German to turn seaward. Instead, the Arauca headed toward the nearby shore, steaming into American territorial waters to be protected by the shadowing four-stackers. In the afternoon, a small party off the destroyer Philip boarded and checked the cargo ship; then the Arauca moored in Port Everglades. The Orion continued to patrol relentlessly offshore, a hungry cat at a mousehole. But the Arauca did not sail again. Occasionally, Floridians went out in small boats to the British cruiser, bringing candy, cigarettes, and good wishes, but they were soon informed by representatives of the Justice Department that such acts were in violation of the nation’s neutrality laws!³³

Few German merchant ships stirred that winter and spring, and for the most part, the long vigil of the Atlantic Squadron was uneventful. In January, planes and ships on patrol contacted about 2,005 vessels; in February, the number of contacts was 1,592. As more ships joined the Squadron, and as weather improved and the Allies’ war needs led to more trade with America, the number of contacts increased to 3,420 in March and to 3,647 in April.³⁴

Bill Greenman observed in March:

All . . . has been accomplished under the pressure of a declared emergency, and this stimulant has boosted morale to a high degree. Now . . . the emergency has become routine, and the patrol is a matter of scheduling vessels to cover a given area day after day. The monotony of the patrol is obvious, and therefore if it is to be maintained for the day when it must demonstrate its value, (and it’s sure to come if the war continues) variations must be injected.³⁵

The patrol became grinding and wearying. The ships lost many experienced hands to new construction vessels; thus, as the destroyers filled out crews to their allotted 106-man complements, they were inundated with inexperienced men. Skippers, accustomed to the skilled work of veteran professionals thoroughly trained in their jobs by years of slow advancement, had to condition themselves to tolerate adequate performances and acceptable solutions from men and officers. Steady patrolling made it difficult to provide essential training for green men, and with the ships dispersed, integrated tactical exercises were impossible. In northern waters, rough seas precluded many drills, and the long-uncared-for guns on the four-stackers froze and could not be used even for simulated firing.

The Hale’s skipper reported that “a large percentage” of his crew “had never seen a gun fired.” The Philip’s gunnery officer was untrained in that specialty and only one year out of the Naval Academy. One-third of the MacLeish’s crew had never participated in a gunnery practice. The Badger’s gunnery department was decimated by an “unexpected transfer of personnel.” The Claxton and Breckinridge, back from frigid climes, reported worn and broken parts, green men, frozen guns, and heavy seas that made it “almost impossible for the men to stay on a target when the ship rolled even a few degrees.” The Decatur’s skipper found his men willing, indeed “outstanding in view of their lack of experience.”³⁶

Captains soon found the youngsters and reservists to be “damn good men,” who qualified for most important duties about as quickly as Academy-trained novices. While naturally not as qualified as the veteran professionals, the newcomers quickly “developed enough confidence and judgment to know what they did not know, and could call for help.” The good squadron officers called their key people together and gave them the word. Greenman told his men:

It looks as though we may get into this war. You are receiving—and will continue to receive—a lot of new officers and men as a portion of your experienced people are detached to man newly constructed ships. You, and all your officers and senior petty officers, must see to it that these newcomers become proficient in the shortest possible time. The attitude of the older officers and men toward the reserves will be particularly important. Treat them for what they are—a selected bunch of men who have volunteered to join us and whom we are lucky to get. Give them responsibilities at every safe opportunity. Train them at every opportunity. Encourage rather than heckle them. Make it clear to your officers and chief petty officers that their ship, and perhaps their lives, may depend on these reserves becoming good officers and men.³⁷

The skippers were determined and confident; as one recalled, “I used to think I could make a sailor out of the devil himself.”³⁸ With demanding captains and willing youngsters, good crews developed to man the ships, all of which seemed either too old or too new.³⁹

The skippers fretted because the patrol prevented most gunnery and tactical training. The skipper of DesRon 31, articulate, dynamic Captain Wilder D. Baker, reported: “Upkeep sadly needed for all vessels. . . . Tactical training is completely out.” He added:

. . . up to the present USS MacLeish is the only vessel having completed any gunnery exercise during the current gunnery year and she has completed only short range practice with a very unsatisfactory score.

A four-stacker—the USS Lea

Baker went on to stress the need for tactical exercises, so that “commanding officers of individual vessels and division commanders would thereby become accustomed to the duties required of vessels of the Fleet. At present such knowledge and training is at a minimum.” Asserting that conditions made “proper training practically impossible,” he requested that his Galveston-based ships join the rest of the squadron at Key West to allow integrated tactical training. He felt that U.S. consuls could keep as adequate a watch on the movements of German merchantmen in Mexican ports as could his destroyers from Galveston.⁴⁰

Baker voiced a common complaint among destroyermen when he wrote:

The demands of the patrol are such that practically no consistent progressive tactical and gunnery training can be accomplished. . . . If it is the intention of the Department that these vessels should be employed on active patrol to the practical elimination of satisfactory gunnery and tactical training then no comment is required. But . . . if the essential . . . training necessary to fit them for their general duties as destroyers is desired, then a radical change in the requirements of the Patrol is mandatory.⁴¹

The destroyer officers wanted the ships concentrated to allow unit training, with the vessels proceeding to patrol stations only in emergencies.⁴²

The duties of the patrol did foster improvements in the general skills of seamanship, as the capable tracking at close quarters of belligerent ships attested, and even in certain of the specialized skills; communicators, for example, gained valuable experience. But the skills that could not be exercised, particularly gunnery and tactics, atrophied.⁴³

The patrol bombers showed the same trends as the destroyers. Lack of relief crews and the transfer of trained men to new squadrons limited the PBYs to eighty hours’ flying a month; with ample practice, scouting became “excellent,” but tactics, bombing, and gunnery deteriorated.⁴⁴

Mostly, the patrol “was quiet—too quiet.” As the executive officer of a four-stacker put it, his ship “would go back and forth between Yucatan Peninsula and the western tip of Cuba, altering course now and then to intercept and identify ships. . . . It was all rather monotonous, but the weather was good. . . .”⁴⁵

The Atlantic Squadron’s routine operations were not without certain trials and, sometimes, cost.

Occasionally, a nervous Allied merchant crew would nearly open fire on a low-flying PBY, but no planes were harmed.⁴⁶

The carriers were getting new planes to replace their obsolete ones, but new planes meant teething troubles; the early “bugs” of the aircraft restricted night operations and high-altitude flying. Hence, in the carriers, the price of inexperience was sometimes high. On 16 January 1940, a young Ranger flier stalled his fighter while pulling out over the wrong side of the ship after a fifth wave-off. The plane crashed, sinking inside of a minute, and dragged the pilot under with it. For a moment, the tail section protruded out of the water, a bulky, cross-shaped headstone.⁴⁷

In December 1939, the Reuben James was driven onto a reef in Long Island Sound; her belly was ripped so badly that she required four months in dry dock. The bridge watch had not been sufficiently alert, and both the skipper and the Exec were court-martialed for negligence.⁴⁸

The skipper of a hastily converted transport was unable to adjust to leading a green crew and had to be replaced for lack of “force and effectiveness.”⁴⁹

On the morning of 25 November 1939, the recently recommissioned four-stacker Yarnall was anchored placidly in Lynnhaven Roads. She had been operating for but twenty days, and the process of qualifying men for bridge watch had been slowed by the press of more compelling needs in making the old ship fit for sea. The destroyer bobbed and swung out with the sway of the tide, the water slapping against her sides with a lulling, soughing sound. It took the green watchstanders too long to sense a subtle change in the motion of the ship and take a sighting of the coastline. The destroyer was moving. The captain came to the bridge as general quarters was sounded and he gave orders to get under way, but he did not order emergency engineering procedures for fear of danger to the machinery and black gang. The lack of emergency action was academic, for the destroyer quickly drifted aground. A defective link had caused the anchor chain to part; the bridge watch had failed to provide the CO with sufficient warning to enable him to prevent the accident. But a skipper’s responsibility is as broad as his authority, and the failure of personnel was held to reflect inadequacy of command. The destroyer skipper was relieved of duty.⁵⁰

Although the sailors considered the patrol inefficient, the President insisted on retaining it. Thus, the importance of political considerations over purely technical needs was one of the Navy’s first lessons in the President’s new kind of war.

The President, whose self-proclaimed “map mind” had assimilated the doctrines of Mahan and applied them to the age of the airplane, was resolved to keep Axis power beyond the fringes of the outposts of the New World.^a51

The patrol allowed the President to act, yet retain flexibility, which he liked. He once said that in the Atlantic, where the Germans were forced to play with his deck of cards (naval warfare) instead of Hitler’s (land warfare), all the “jokers were wild.” Deliberately, he left the scope and duties of the patrol nebulous. When asked at a press conference how far he thought American waters extended toward Europe, he answered cryptically, as far as necessary. One reporter, recalling FDR’s late-lamented quip that in an age of progressive military technology the American defense frontier was on the Rhine, asked if American waters reached as far as the Rhine. The President laughed and said that he was talking only about salt water.⁵²

The patrol had symbolic value, warning the Nazis of the enmity of the American people and reminding them that there were things that the Americans cherished more than peace. It served the President as a halfway house between craven idleness and dangerous boldness. It reduced German naval power in the western Atlantic to nothing, allowed Allied convoys to organize safely in American waters, and freed Allied warships for duty elsewhere,⁵³ yet it avoided divisive domestic antagonisms; isolationists could only applaud a scheme to bar belligerent ships from the approaches to the Western Hemisphere, and the absence of shooting and bloodshed soothed liberals of pacifist bent.

The President’s temperament required activity; movement and flux inspired him, stagnation depressed his spirit and enervated his will. He had to act. Yet if to do nothing seemed unthinkable, the risks of diplomatic threats, as his Quarantine Speech appeared to show, outweighed their meager efficacy. Only the President’s Navy could safely challenge the enemy. The Atlantic Squadron was all that Franklin Roosevelt had to fight with in the first months of World War II,⁵⁴ and he used it to test the purposes of the German Fuehrer. He soon discovered that his foe lacked the will to give battle at sea. That discovery proved of inestimable future value, and Mr. Roosevelt’s Navy, the U.S. Atlantic Squadron, was given more formidable tasks.

Hence, the Neutrality Patrol was more than the empty, wasteful gesture that many in the Navy deemed it and less than the German Navy feared from the Americans.⁵⁵ But, by diminishing training, the patrol weakened the Atlantic ships for future tests. In naval terms, the Neutrality Patrol was not worth the massive effort that the President demanded; but in political terms, it had value. It deserved to be retained but, as the sailors wanted, much reduced in scope in order to lessen the strain on the Atlantic Squadron. The President, however, liking its symbolism, ordained that the patrol be maintained without change.

And so, the patrol continued, testing the merit of the Atlantic sailors. A careless or luckless handful failed their ships and were replaced. Most worked with skill and dedication to make old ships and new men ready for the long, bad days ahead.

^a FDR said of Mahan: “He wrote that to all intents and purposes, America separated from Europe and Africa and Asia by a wide ocean, is insular in geography and that, therefore, threats of aggression can best be met at a distance from our shores rather than on the seacoast itself.”