RE: June 1, 1942
Posted: Fri Nov 04, 2011 8:29 pm
June 1, 1942
Aboard USS Gridley
Location: 535 miles southwest of Johnson Island
Course: Northeast
Attached to: TF 123
Mission: Surface combat
Ship's Status: Sys damage 1
Fuel: 387 (73%)
The weather had moderated a bit but the seas were still on the heavy side. Gerald Scott, “Jer” to his friends, had his work cut out for him as he served the soup at the beginning of dinner in the officer’s wardroom. He moved around the table with the grace of a dancer, ladling just the right amount of steaming soup into the deep bowls. He carefully timed every pitch and roll so that he was pouring during the brief interval when the ship was stationary. So far the steward’s white mess jacket was still spotless, as was the white linen tablecloth.
The other steward, Moxen, was serving the officer’s the drinks they had ordered, juice, milk, or coffee. The officer’s orders for dinner had already been taken and when the food was ready it would be passed to the wardroom via a scuttle from the pantry. In the meanwhile, they got soup. Cream of tomato soup, tonight.
Captain Stickney, at the starboard end of the table, was talking to Lieutenant Steubens, who was seated on his right. Gunnery officer Cameron, the next most senior officer present, was seated on the captain’s left. Down along the table the other officers were talking among themselves, though all were keeping an eye on their glasses and bowls in case they decided to slide away.
During rough weather not only would the table service slide away, sometimes the officers did too. The table was bolted to the deck but the officer’s chairs were not and sometimes they all fetched up against a bulkhead in a tangle, dragging tablecloths and everything else with them. But despite these challenges Captain Stickney insisted that all the formalities be followed at mealtime. He took seriously the notion that they were gentlemen and would behave like it while they ate.
So Scott proceeded to feed them with swift, quiet efficiency. He had been a clerk in a hardware store prior to joining the Navy, and his action station was in one of the lower ammunition handling rooms. But though he was not aware of it, thanks to his experience aboard Gridley any fine restaurant in New York would be now pleased to hire him as a waiter or maitre d’.
The soup was successfully served, and so far all of it was still on the table. In conditions like this the officers usually poured a little water on the tablecloth and set their bowls and plates on the damp spot. The water kept the tablecloth stuck to the table and the bowls stuck to the tablecloth.
Before the war the wardroom table had been fitted with a clever arrangement of wooden baffles and partitions which kept every officer’s place setting where it belonged. But the “gold-platers,” as old destroyer men referred to the treaty-class tin cans such as Gridely, had been stripped of those and similar luxuries back in November. The overstuffed furniture, rugs, wood paneling, mahogany gangway, and other fittings had all been removed in anticipation of war.
As the soup was finished Scott and Moxen removed the bowls and began serving the main course, now arriving from the pantry. Scott got Captain Stickney’s food in front of him without incident, despite a sudden plunge of the bow as Gridley hit a trough. Scott simply went with the motion, dipping with the plate as he staggered slightly, then sliding the plate in front of the captain before the bow began to rise again. Fred Astaire couldn’t have done it better.
Stickney turned his attention from his executive officer for just a second and gave Scott the slightest of nods. The steward felt good as he stepped back to survey the table and see if anything else was needed. A slight nod from the captain was high praise.
Serving dinner to Gridley’s officers wasn’t going to win the war or anything like that. But it was his job and he liked to do it well.
***
Far to the east Lieutenant Conright was also trying to do his job well. But the Japs weren’t cooperating and the looks he was getting from his own boss were not pleasant nods. The Colonel had listened to Conright and agreed they couldn’t afford not to pass the information along, but he had also made it clear that it was Conright’s head in the noose if it all turned out to be a wild goose chase.
So far half a dozen submarines had been dispatched or re-routed to cover the possibility that a Jap raiding force was somehow in their sea lanes. All five carriers in the Pacific were hurrying back to Pearl Harbor just in case they found something. People were not going to be happy if there was nothing there.
So Conright scanned the list of intercepts. Come on, you yellow devils, he thought. Do something, make some more noise. But that area of the Pacific remained stubbornly silent.
Conright could picture a Jap force getting all the way there undetected, if they really wanted to and were maintaining tight radio silence. He’d stared at the maps and seen how it could be done, though if they really had swung down from the north it was a miracle that they hadn’t found any targets between California and Pearl. That corridor was always filled with ships, long convoys carrying troops, fuel, planes, and supplies west and then heading back east for more. Conright could also picture someone aboard a Jap destroyer making a mistake and inadvertently starting to broadcast something, then cutting it off.
He could also picture the whole thing being an error on his part. It wasn’t a pretty picture, though.
Aboard USS Gridley
Location: 535 miles southwest of Johnson Island
Course: Northeast
Attached to: TF 123
Mission: Surface combat
Ship's Status: Sys damage 1
Fuel: 387 (73%)
The weather had moderated a bit but the seas were still on the heavy side. Gerald Scott, “Jer” to his friends, had his work cut out for him as he served the soup at the beginning of dinner in the officer’s wardroom. He moved around the table with the grace of a dancer, ladling just the right amount of steaming soup into the deep bowls. He carefully timed every pitch and roll so that he was pouring during the brief interval when the ship was stationary. So far the steward’s white mess jacket was still spotless, as was the white linen tablecloth.
The other steward, Moxen, was serving the officer’s the drinks they had ordered, juice, milk, or coffee. The officer’s orders for dinner had already been taken and when the food was ready it would be passed to the wardroom via a scuttle from the pantry. In the meanwhile, they got soup. Cream of tomato soup, tonight.
Captain Stickney, at the starboard end of the table, was talking to Lieutenant Steubens, who was seated on his right. Gunnery officer Cameron, the next most senior officer present, was seated on the captain’s left. Down along the table the other officers were talking among themselves, though all were keeping an eye on their glasses and bowls in case they decided to slide away.
During rough weather not only would the table service slide away, sometimes the officers did too. The table was bolted to the deck but the officer’s chairs were not and sometimes they all fetched up against a bulkhead in a tangle, dragging tablecloths and everything else with them. But despite these challenges Captain Stickney insisted that all the formalities be followed at mealtime. He took seriously the notion that they were gentlemen and would behave like it while they ate.
So Scott proceeded to feed them with swift, quiet efficiency. He had been a clerk in a hardware store prior to joining the Navy, and his action station was in one of the lower ammunition handling rooms. But though he was not aware of it, thanks to his experience aboard Gridley any fine restaurant in New York would be now pleased to hire him as a waiter or maitre d’.
The soup was successfully served, and so far all of it was still on the table. In conditions like this the officers usually poured a little water on the tablecloth and set their bowls and plates on the damp spot. The water kept the tablecloth stuck to the table and the bowls stuck to the tablecloth.
Before the war the wardroom table had been fitted with a clever arrangement of wooden baffles and partitions which kept every officer’s place setting where it belonged. But the “gold-platers,” as old destroyer men referred to the treaty-class tin cans such as Gridely, had been stripped of those and similar luxuries back in November. The overstuffed furniture, rugs, wood paneling, mahogany gangway, and other fittings had all been removed in anticipation of war.
As the soup was finished Scott and Moxen removed the bowls and began serving the main course, now arriving from the pantry. Scott got Captain Stickney’s food in front of him without incident, despite a sudden plunge of the bow as Gridley hit a trough. Scott simply went with the motion, dipping with the plate as he staggered slightly, then sliding the plate in front of the captain before the bow began to rise again. Fred Astaire couldn’t have done it better.
Stickney turned his attention from his executive officer for just a second and gave Scott the slightest of nods. The steward felt good as he stepped back to survey the table and see if anything else was needed. A slight nod from the captain was high praise.
Serving dinner to Gridley’s officers wasn’t going to win the war or anything like that. But it was his job and he liked to do it well.
***
Far to the east Lieutenant Conright was also trying to do his job well. But the Japs weren’t cooperating and the looks he was getting from his own boss were not pleasant nods. The Colonel had listened to Conright and agreed they couldn’t afford not to pass the information along, but he had also made it clear that it was Conright’s head in the noose if it all turned out to be a wild goose chase.
So far half a dozen submarines had been dispatched or re-routed to cover the possibility that a Jap raiding force was somehow in their sea lanes. All five carriers in the Pacific were hurrying back to Pearl Harbor just in case they found something. People were not going to be happy if there was nothing there.
So Conright scanned the list of intercepts. Come on, you yellow devils, he thought. Do something, make some more noise. But that area of the Pacific remained stubbornly silent.
Conright could picture a Jap force getting all the way there undetected, if they really wanted to and were maintaining tight radio silence. He’d stared at the maps and seen how it could be done, though if they really had swung down from the north it was a miracle that they hadn’t found any targets between California and Pearl. That corridor was always filled with ships, long convoys carrying troops, fuel, planes, and supplies west and then heading back east for more. Conright could also picture someone aboard a Jap destroyer making a mistake and inadvertently starting to broadcast something, then cutting it off.
He could also picture the whole thing being an error on his part. It wasn’t a pretty picture, though.