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change of position, I ran breathlessly down into officers' country, waking up everybody, starting with the doctor. He showed me where the captain's cabin was located.
Because I was pretty skinny at that time some of my shipmates nicknamed me "Spooks." Captain Keating had another name for me. One evening when I was making the 8 o'clock report to him in his cabin, I scrambled some of the words and had to backtrack to get them out correctly. After that he fondly referred to me as "the missing link." He was sarcastic in a way that I found amusing rather than offensive. Once, when I was in the wheelhouse with Lt. Mancuso, the Captain stuck his hed in and quipped: "Well, Mancuso, naviguessing again?" On another occasion, when he saw me trying to coil a manila line by winding it around my arm, he came out of the wheelhouse, took the rope from me and showed me the proper way to do it. His remark was "You look like an old washerwoman winding up a clothesline." On yet another occasion he confiscated a workshirt on which I had written my initials in peroxide. He said he wouldn't tolerate anyone out of uniform topside. I had no reason for resentment: he was Captain of a United States Navy vessel and I was a Seaman second class. I never found his attitude harsh or spiteful. But I soon learned that I was in a tiny minority. Most of the crew regarded him as a tyrant.
Eventually we steamed out on our way to the Canal. One nice day the Captain had the bosun announce swimming call. He ballasted down so that there was about ten feet of warm Caribbean water in the well deck. But in the meantime we ran into ground swells that caused the ship to roll heavily. Before anyone could get into the water it began sloshing from side to side so violently that even the Captain's gig was torn from the place where it had been griped down by wire rope and tossed about like a bobber on a fishing line. It was in danger of being smashed to pieces against the sides of the well deck. Some of the crew seemed to enjoy seeing the Captain in such a predicament. But he changed course, causing us to run athwart rather than parallel tot he ground swells, thus eliminating the problem. But swimming call had to be canceled.
In the last issue R. L. Huneven mentioned that his special sea detail was after steering. After we went through the Canal it became my assignment. I disliked it as much as he did. It was right at the stern near one of the huge shafts which drive the screws. The only good thing about it was the flossy material stored there for mopping up oil. It made a nice bed to lie on. Almost immediately after taking up my position, I dozed off. Only someone's voice coming over the sound powered phone would rouse me.
I also remember the all hands ammunition loading operation that took place while we were still on the East Coast. At barely 130 pounds I felt extremely insecure toting a sixty-pound projectile over a narrow gangway. I carried three of them, and each time I was sure I and the projectile would end up in the water.
I remember the gunnery practice Huneven mentioned. We were shooting at radio controlled drones. On the bridge, from where I observed the action, I was exposed to the noise of the 40mm guns in tubs just aft and outboard of the wheelhouse, and of the five-inch gun. That gun, our only large weapon, made a nearly deafening explosion. I was glad when the whole business was over.
I spent only nine months aboard the Whetstone. In late 1946 BuPers issued an order transferring a number of radarmen from sea duty to duty in the Air Corps. Unfortunately, I was one of those chosen. Leaving the Whetstone was an unhappy day for me, especially because she had just received orders to sail for China. Well, it was nice while it lasted.
Tom Eshelman RD3
