I was born just fourteen days after Pearl Harbor. My father, Franklin Delano Roosevelt Jr., had already enlisted in the U.S. Navy and was training to become an officer. He eventually served as executive officer on board a destroyer and as the “skipper” of one of these destroyer escorts. (He loved that word “skipper” because when it was used by his crew, it was an acknowledgment of their acceptance of him as just another man and of their loyalty to him as their leader.) His father, FDR, gave the famous “Day in Infamy” speech about the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. My mother drove a Red Cross ambulance during the war, transferring incoming wounded (primarily from the European front) to hospitals in the New York City and Long Island (New York) area. I still have her Red Cross driver’s license in my desk. Each of my uncles served in some capacity in World War II, and my brother served on a U.S. minesweeper in Japan in the 1960s. One would think I would have a very strong impression, indelibly imprinted on my psyche, about service and sacrifice in time of national and worldwide need. If I do, it clearly is not enough, judging from my sense of unbridled awe and respect for the individuals Robert F. Cross writes about—and through whom he tells his history of destroyer escorts in this remarkable book.
Near my home town in southeastern Connecticut, there recently was a small air show featuring Boeing B-17 and B-24 bombers and a North American P-51 Mustang. At the show a former pilot who fought in World War II was quoted in the local paper as saying, “In my squadron, out of 160 men, only 18 guys survived. The losses over Europe were terrible.” That’s a survival rate of 11 percent. Devastating odds. And to a parent, a family, and a community, just devastating, period. The same could be said for the survival rate during the war in the North Atlantic (and, later, the Pacific), where literally tens of thousands of American sailors lost their lives and American warships and merchant marine ships were lost to torpedoes, bombing, strafing, and kamikaze attacks. Some 2,800 merchant marine ships were sunk by German U-boats in just the six months between December 7, 1941 (Pearl Harbor), and June 1, 1942.
That was before a new and very effective weapon could be developed, one that was sought by Churchill and my grandfather as early as 1940, was initially opposed by the U.S. Navy’s top brass, and finally made it to sea in January 1943. That weapon was the “mighty little ship that could”—the new class of destroyer escort designed and developed to help save shipping on the high seas. These agile, indomitable, and dangerous (to the enemy) little ships were almost anthropomorphized, the human characteristics of courage, durability, steadfastness, and survivability attributed to them. While the destroyer escorts were smaller and slower than World War II destroyers, they had almost the same firepower, they possessed greater maneuverability, and, above all, they cost significantly less and could be mass-produced quickly. Overall, some 563 destroyer escorts were produced for the war effort. And more than 1,300 men lost their lives serving on board these ships. Thousands more returned home with serious injuries, both physical and psychological, that they would carry with them for the rest of their lives.
Cross tells us they are “heroes.” That is certainly true (and an understatement). But as is the case with most real heroes, they do not strut and boast; they are modest, and they speak in terms of teamwork and being part of crews that accomplished incredible feats. Their human stories, as told to and superbly related by Cross, are vivid and challenging—and sometimes excruciatingly bloody and violent. But their stories are really about human beings, Americans, rising to challenges never before faced by Americans, with ramifications far beyond our own shores at a time when isolationism was a significant political force in the United States. Their human stories still challenge us today in the sense that we are more than a generation away from their experiences and that distance has never felt greater.
Cross’s Shepherds of the Sea comes at a critical time in U.S. history: We need to be reminded of the commitment, valor, personal sacrifice, and patriotism of our recent forebears. And Cross does so with a grace and sensitivity to the personal lives of countless young men and their families in a time of great national and world need. He has told their stories with eloquence and, sometimes, in graphic detail, portraying the pain, the injury, and, yes, the blood and gore that are a necessary part of war.
While this may appear to be a story of limited scope—the destroyer escorts of the U.S. Navy—in reality it is a story of the heart and soul of our country and we as its people. And it is critical for our time if only because so little has been passed along—from just the last generation—of the impact of the war on countless individuals and families, and of the personal sacrifice, courage, and determination that made Americans some of the toughest soldiers in the world, fighting for a just cause.
Much has been written about the slaughter in the trenches of World War I, the devastating loss of lives, the impossible, inhumane conditions on the various war fronts, and the first real documentation of what was then called “shell shock” (now called posttraumatic stress disorder). Much has been written of the world politics that led up to World War II and the manipulations, machinations, and strategies that brought the Axis powers together and their opponents, the Allies, together. But little has been written, especially from a naval warfare perspective, about the human beings who contributed so greatly to wining World War II in the Atlantic and Pacific—about the decision that a new class of warship was needed, the designing and building of that new class, and those who manned the instruments of war so critical to ultimate victory.
Despite what one might expect—the “dryness” of the history of a very specialized class of warship—Cross has brought about nothing less than a moving and thrilling story consistently focused on the people involved and almost miraculously evoking the special character of the destroyer escorts, the ships that proved their usefulness in a wide variety of demands placed upon them by a nation struggling to rebound from both an economic crisis and a potentially unstoppable enemy. This history is told through the lives and experiences of individuals, most of whom actually served on board these ships. They are ordinary Americans, and as we discover, these ordinary Americans became heroes, large and small, whose personal sacrifices and complete commitment became the backbone of the American war effort.
Possibly because of the “excesses” we all have read about and lived through over the past few decades, of greed beyond belief, of serving self-interest beyond normalcy, of putting the interests of others, especially “community,” out of mind, I fear that we have become a self-focused and soft society incapable of rising courageously to serve and sacrifice for needs great than our own. But then, as I think about our service men and women on constant vigil around the world and fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan, I know I am wrong.
Clearly the seeds of this country’s greatness are still here, the courage and values still present and strong in the hearts and minds of our service men and women (and their families). Yet I still worry that there is too much detachment and distance between most of us here at home and those who serve, too much “insulation” between the hardships and sacrifice many experience and the relatively cushy lives we live, not threatened with a loss of freedom, with economic hardship, or even with inadequate food on our table.
In his inaugural address on January 20, 1961, President John F. Kennedy said, “Ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country.” He was one of the last presidents of “that generation,” the generation who lived through World War II and experienced the saving graces of values, commitment, and sacrifice. It has been almost a desert in between, with admired presidents espousing both self-interest and self-service, encouraging greed and ignoring those less fortunate, and, perhaps most important, not leading the country to a greater sense of (and respect for) our fellow human beings. I hope that today we are beginning a new and different era, both with our national leadership and with a book that tells of the lives of the leaders, ship designers, builders, and ordinary sailors who had the gift of understanding what was needed of them in service to their world, their country, and their communities.