The President was jubilant when he announced the transfer to reporters on his campaign train, the chipper mood produced by the release of tension that follows a hard decision finally made. He compared the transfer to the Louisiana Purchase in preserving the nation’s security; and, as he told one reporter, “That goes back before you and me.” When he read out the list of island names, a newspaperman asked him to spell one of them, and he complied, quipping, “Now, I am not fooling on these. These are real places.”30
And as a result of the President’s efforts, a singular duty fell to the destroyermen of the Atlantic Squadron.
7. Ceremonies Appropriate to a Neutral Nation
THE SUMMER OF 1940 was a hectic time for the Atlantic Squadron. The long absence of fleet units from the Atlantic had reduced shore facilities to the point that they could not adequately support the growing Squadron, especially south of Hampton Roads. Much essential overhaul work on the force’s aged destroyers had to be accomplished by their own crews and by the overworked tender Denebola. The upkeep of ships and the training of men continued to be impaired by Neutrality Patrol steaming. Transfer of personnel to new construction resulted in acute shortages of radiomen and sonar operators, and Admiral Ellis lamented that many of his skippers were in their first commands and a large percentage of his gunner’s mates seemed callow, “inexperienced recruits.” Antiaircraft ammunition and torpedo overhaul facilities were lacking, limiting AA battle practices and torpedo exercises. Yet the Squadron desperately needed intense gunnery and tactical training if it were to be ready to “perform efficiently” in a war emergency.
Admiral Ellis set up a destroyer type-command under Rear Admiral Ferdinand L. Reichmuth, an experienced, somewhat pedestrian officer, to conduct intensive training operations on a rotational basis. Reichmuth gave his best, but the Navy was robbing Peter to pay Paul, and the need for ships to carry out ever-increasing operational duties critically hampered the training program.1
In early August, rumors and newspaper speculation concerning the possible transfer of destroyers to the Royal Navy impelled Atlantic Squadron staff officers to survey the readiness of all the force’s destroyers and make up a list of ships in order of their fitness for transfer. The precaution proved wise, for on the morning of 20 August, Admirals Ellis and Reichmuth received telephone instructions to fly to Washington immediately; their roster of ships to be transferred was quickly approved by the Department. Two destroyer divisions were recalled from patrol, armed, and made ready for hard service. On 3 September, the order went out: “Proceed with project to turn over fifty destroyers to appropriate British authorities at Halifax . . . .”
The old Aaron Ward, Abel P. Upshur, and Hale were the first to go. On 4 September the slim four-stackers, freshly painted, and flying the American flag but shorn of their commissioning pennants, steamed out of Boston harbor, churning white creases in the blue water, as pleased motorists on a nearby bridge honked horns and flashed headlights to cheer on the destroyermen bound on a novel venture.2
Admiral Reichmuth was worried about “this most unneutral mission” and gave much thought to the preservation of appearances. He was “most insistent” that under no circumstances were the American destroyermen to permit themselves to be photographed in the company of British personnel. Admiral Stark, doubtless in accord with the wishes of the President, decreed a simple decommissioning ceremony “as being appropriate under the circumstances for a neutral nation.”3
When the first eight American destroyers reached Halifax, they encountered the British transport Duchess of Richmond, her decks tiered with young British destroyermen; the meeting was one of the Prime Minister’s whimsical touches. The destroyers docked at the north side of Pier “B,” promptly took aboard British crews, and put to sea for an indoctrination cruise.
At 1000 on the morning of 9 September, the American crews lined up on the dock in front of their eight ships; the small indoctrination crews, usually consisting of one officer, normally the Exec, and eighteen of the most experienced ratings, remained out of sight below decks. There were no British personnel on the dock. Officers took station in front of their men; skippers remained on board until the colors were lowered. A bugle sounded “Attention,” then “To the Colors,” as the eight flags slowly dropped at the same time. The sailors felt the significance of the moment; a few of the older men shed some tears. Captains then came ashore and each took custody of his ship’s ensign, jack, and pennant. Abruptly, the blue-clad American crews marched quickly across the dock to waiting trains and embarked. Then British sailors marched out on to the dock and, while the American indoctrination crews waited below, recommissioned the destroyers with suitable pomp into the Royal Navy.4 Through one of Churchill’s felicitous instincts, the destroyers were christened after towns in the United States, Great Britain, and Canada which shared common names.
As the British had difficulty providing crews for the ships, the transfer proceedings extended into the winter. Usually the American indoctrination crews remained on board the British ships, training the new crews, for about ten days. It soon became a tradition for the British, on the day of departure, to stand the Americans to rum and cocktails. The British warships in port seemed unkempt to the innocent Americans, not yet at war, and a few of the British officers showed small signs of nervous irritability born of combat fatigue. For the most part, the gregarious Americans got on well with both the British and Canadians, partly because the British preferred them to the wild and unprofessional Canadians, who in turn preferred them to the stuffy and pedantic British.
The destroyers were transferred with full wartime allowances of arms, ammunition, stores, spare parts, and equipment. The ships were shined and clean to a degree astonishing to the British. Prior to the transfer, each ship had been allocated $2,500 for provisions and was stocked with items rare in the Royal Navy that fall: cereals, fruit juice, clams, chipped beef, canned vegetables and fruits, macaroni, gelatin, and cocoa. As this was not standard fare, Royal Navy bureaucrats insisted that it be taken ashore, and most of the inexperienced commanders of the destroyers foolishly complied. The wardroom crockery on the vessels was unneutral; it bore the blue anchor and USN logo of the American Navy. The British were most impressed with the graciousness and thoroughness with which the Americans had outfitted the old ships.
However, the British crews had difficulty in adjusting to the cantankerous four-stackers, partly on account of their inexperience. While some of the new skippers were proven officers who had lost their former ships in battle, others were younger men given their first command, or older men who might have been passed over in times of lesser urgency. Many of the enlisted men were but recently removed from recruit training depots.
Also, some of the American equipment was different, and required getting used to. The American sound gear was not as good as that of the Royal Navy and lacked any range recorder; the difficult water conditions off Halifax rendered sonar operations unsuccessful, further impairing British confidence in the equipment. The British found communications on the ships slower and more awkward than their own because fuses and switches were in different locations. They were unfamiliar with the .50-caliber AA machine guns mounted on the American destroyers and needed much work with the weapon. They did not like the vulnerable glass-enclosed bridges of the old destroyers. The officers deemed the American wardrooms, with their functional steel-framed furniture, overly austere, and found their cabins smaller than in British destroyers. The enlisted men, used to hammocks, complained that the American bunks were too soft. “It’s like lying on a bloody sack of jelly,” one man lamented. There was a general dislike of such modern refinements as speed keys and typewriters, which were deemed suited to business offices, but not to the hardy calling