The Quiet Warrior: A Biography of Admiral Raymond A. Spruance

I

Before the War

Chapter 1

HERITAGE

RAYMOND AMES SPRUANCE was forged by his mother’s fiery intellect and tempered by his father’s serenity.

Spruance’s mother, Annie Ames Hiss, had descended from nine generations of enterprising Massachusetts Yankees. The Ames family dominated her ancestry, which boasted scholars, clergy, patriots, pioneers, and pilgrims. Her mother was Annie Ames; her father was William Hiss, the scion of a wealthy, aristocratic Baltimore family.

A precocious child who had inherited the Ames intellect, Annie was loved and admired and spoiled. But the superficial education accorded nineteenth-century women thwarted Annie’s aspirations, and when she was sixteen her grandfather wisely sent her to visit a relative—a consul in Genoa—who had a daughter Annie’s age. There she spent two exhilarating years, absorbing European culture and broadening her horizons. She returned with an intellectual sophistication that she was eager to share with friends and family. But no one in Baltimore could satisfy her expectations.

Nor did Annie look forward to marriage and the raising of a family. Children required work, even with hired help, and Annie was physically lazy. Besides, marriage meant menial tasks that would stultify her mind.

Beset with dilemmas, she visited a friend in Indianapolis and there met a shy, quiet, gentle young man named Alexander Spruance. Alexander was a displaced descendent of five undistinguished generations of farmers, merchants, and slave owners who had lived in and near Smyrna, Delaware, just south of Wilmington. He proposed marriage and Annie accepted. They married in a Methodist Episcopal church in Baltimore on a late Thursday afternoon in April 1885. Then they returned to Indianapolis.

It was a marriage of convenience for Annie. She wanted to live in Indianapolis because she believed it was an enlightened community that would appreciate her talents. In Alexander, she had found a complaisant husband who would provide for her comfort and welfare. She saw that her married status would facilitate her entry into Indianapolis society.

Her first years of marriage were the happiest of her life. She thrived as president of a large woman’s club, a forum for presenting her excellent papers and for meeting distinguished visitors. The literary world welcomed her when she became an editor with the publishing firm of Bobbs-Merrill, allowing her to associate with famous authors such as Booth Tarkington. It was all she had hoped for.

Then children came to complicate her life. Annie probably did not want children. Nevertheless, she became pregnant and returned to her family in Baltimore to deliver a son on 3 July 1886. She named her son Raymond Ames Spruance in allegiance to her Ames heritage and in memory of an illustrious ancestor, Bishop Edward Raymond Ames. Eighty years later Spruance stood with his daughter before a picture of the bishop. If there is any good blood in us, he said, that’s where it comes from.

Spruance was a lonely child. Annie preferred her intellectual pursuits to child rearing, and Alexander was aloof and remote. The Spruance home was without love or warmth or spontaneous laughter. Seeking companionship, Raymond gravitated to the bustling family of Tom and Emily Dean, who lived across the street. There he found the affection and attention he craved but could not get at home. He especially enjoyed long carriage rides with Emily Dean. The two often visited Emily’s relatives, including the home of a little girl named Margaret Dean. Margaret’s family later recalled Raymond’s visits, but Margaret was three years younger than Raymond, too young to remember the little boy with the sad eyes. She would marry him years later.

Annie spent the winters in Indianapolis but returned with Raymond to the East every summer to visit her family. The Hisses had moved to South Orange, New Jersey, and there Annie bore two more sons. The first was Billy—large, boisterous, and undisciplined, three years younger than Raymond. When Raymond was six, she delivered Philip, a sickly infant who was given little chance to live. The child survived, but at eight months he was frail, helpless, and clearly mentally retarded. Annie, although indifferent to her first two children, became intensely devoted to her defective son and swore to care for him.

Unwilling to abandon Philip, and unable to handle all three boys at once, she relinquished Raymond to the care of her parents and her sisters Sallie, Bessie, and Louie. His aunts—then girls in their teens and early twenties—adored Raymond. His four uncles would provide male companionship, and his grandparents would see to his education and character guidance. The bargain was struck. Annie returned to Indianapolis with Philip and Billy, and Raymond remained with his new family. The youngster was well pleased with the arrangement.

Spruance later recalled those years as the happiest of his boyhood. The Hiss home was a mansion on spacious grounds, and the family enjoyed the luxuries of wealth. His grandmother resembled his mother, being unusually intelligent but critical and domineering. His three aunts served as buffers, lavishing attention and substituting as father, mother, confidant, and friend. Spruance requited their love and later provided for their welfare until the end of their lives. They never married.

When Spruance began school he was shy and withdrawn among his classmates. A contemporary remembered that Spruance was neither a leader not an active participant in the boisterous running and shouting games that took place in the dusty schoolyard before school or at recess times. He always came to school with a neighbor boy who was a classmate and somewhat more robust, so that it sometimes seemed to me that Raymond rather avoided independence of action.

When Spruance became a famous naval leader, the same classmate recalled wondering when or how such a great change had occurred in his personality—or were the elements of his greatness there all the time just temporarily blanketed by shyness?

Spruance breezed through his schoolwork with high grades. He completed his lessons during the day, then left school empty-handed while schoolmates carried books for homework. His teachers assumed he was shirking and demanded that he too take books home. Spruance acquiesced, but he never opened them.

Raymond Ames Spruance clutching his treasured London Maggie, 1888

He occasionally wrote to his mother. As a high school freshman he was getting along all right in school. I like latin best, algebra next and don’t like german at all. Annie had sent money for his clothes and had instructed Grandmother Hiss to give him the extra for his personal use. I have $1.65 from two chickens and a doz. eggs, he asserted. I have no need for any money as my chicken [sic] bring me in sufficient income. I want to thank you for it. He concluded the letter by summarizing the books he was reading: Captain Bonneville’s Adventures by Irving; Silas Marner, Ivanhoe, and The Talisman. The time is passing very quickly to me and I hope it is doing so with you. How is Philip? How are You and Papa? I enjoyed your letter very much. Write me soon again. Raymond.

Annie Hiss Spruance, 1884

The stilted letter probably was written as a familial duty (I have been intending to answer your letter but I have been putting it off). It is typical of any boy who hates writing to distant relatives. But this and similar letters are revealing. There is no suggestion of any love or affection by Raymond for his parents. He refused their money and was determined to earn his own. Clearly, he was alienated from Alexander and Annie and was seeking his independence.

Raymond seldom saw his parents, except when his mother made her summer sojourns to Baltimore for brief reunions. Alexander did take Raymond to West Point, when Raymond was ten, to see if the boy was interested in the military. But Raymond was apathetic. Taking orders and marching in formation held no appeal to him then—or ever.

Spruance’s blissful life suddenly ended when he became a teenager. Grandfather Hiss went bankrupt. The mansion and the servants vanished. Spruance was stunned that his grandfather’s financial security had crumbled overnight, and the transition was psychologically devastating to him. Spruance vowed never to repeat the experience. For the next seventy years he was driven by an obsessive quest for financial security. In the end he had accumulated an estate worth a million dollars.

The now destitute Hiss family could no longer care for Raymond, and he reluctantly returned to Indianapolis. It was absolute hell, he later said. Philip was too retarded to walk and too heavy for Annie to lift, and Billy was an incorrigible brat. By now Alexander was also bankrupt and had become a half-blind recluse. Annie, as an editor at Bobbs-Merrill, was the sole family provider.

Spruance’s misery was intensified by the fact that he was a stranger to Indianapolis, and by his shyness, which prevented him from making new friends at high school and in his neighborhood. He made candy at home, and he wrote poetry. The school newspaper published his poems, to his mother’s delight and to his own eventual embarrassment. He continued to earn money by raising chickens. His chief recreation was hiking—sometimes as many as fifty miles. And he accompanied his mother to numberless Methodist services, which he detested.

He thought about the future and wrote Aunt Louie, When I leave here I am going to sell the chickens to Mamma. She won’t be able to get along without the eggs. I am not going to give them away, because I paid for them all myself in the beginning and, while they have more than paid for themselves, that is my business, for I had to take the risk of them all dying.

Spruance turned sixteen several weeks after his 1902 high school graduation, and he returned to the Hiss family in South Orange. Unable to pay college tuition, Annie decided that he should go to the Naval Academy. It promised an advanced education and an honorable profession at no cost to the family. Annie sought help from Booth Tarkington and Harry New (the Republican Party national chairman) in her zeal to get her son a congressional appointment.

In the interim, Spruance attended Stevens Institute in Hoboken. Having been reared and pampered by women, he sought through physical toughening to assert his masculinity and his independence. He would plunge into bitter winter weather without warm clothing, and to his grandmother’s worried scoldings he would respond, I won’t be molly-coddled! Throughout his life he continued to brave cold winds and cold waters, and to take pride in forcing his body to endure hardship and physical discomfort.

One day in May 1903, the newspaper announced that the local New Jersey congressman would sponsor a competitive examination the following day in order to select his Naval Academy appointee. Having heard nothing from his mother, Spruance took the exam. When he returned to the Hisses he found a telegram from Annie: she had secured an Indiana congressional appointment. His excited aunts phoned the New Jersey examining board to withdraw his name. The board objected. Two members hurried to the Hiss home, arguing that Spruance’s examination score was so outstanding that they wanted him to represent New Jersey. Spruance concurred, because he had won the New Jersey appointment by his own efforts. No! his aunts insisted. You must accept the Indiana appointment that your mother has worked so desperately hard to get for you. He relented and assented to go to the Naval Academy as a representative of Indiana, the state which had meant so little to him.

The Navy at the turn of the century was enjoying a renaissance, having been moribund for three decades following the Civil War. It had been a grim period in naval history. Congressional appropriations had been paltry. Ships had moldered and few had been replaced. Officers and midshipmen had been discharged and promotions had ceased. The Naval Academy had suffered from decrepit buildings, vacillating policies, and low morale.

One event and two great men resurrected the Navy toward the end of the nineteenth century. The event was the Spanish-American War. The men were Alfred Thayer Mahan and Theodore Roosevelt.

The war changed the Navy’s mission from coastal defense and commerce protection to one of projecting American power throughout the world. Mahan was the prophet of the influence of sea power and an advocate of American imperialism. Roosevelt was his disciple. Roosevelt wanted to implement Mahan’s doctrine with big, new, powerful ships, and plenty of them. He needed many more naval officers than were then available, and the Naval Academy had to provide them.

Midshipman Spruance, 1906

In the last decade of the nineteenth century the Navy had been small, and the Academy had supplied the Navy’s needs for junior officers with an average of 43 graduates a year. Attrition had been severe, three nongraduates for every four survivors. The first five classes of the twentieth century slowly increased to an average of 60 graduates per year. When Roosevelt became President in 1901, the size of the incoming class doubled. Spruance’s class was three and a half times larger than the classes that had preceded it a few years earlier. He began his Academy career with 266 classmates; some 209 would graduate.

The Academy had been established at Annapolis, Maryland, in 1845 at the site of an old Army installation, Fort Severn, at the mouth of the Severn River in Chesapeake Bay. Over the years its buildings had been constructed helter-skelter, subject to the vagaries of Congress and the Navy Department. By 1898 the buildings formed an ugly, unsanitary hodgepodge. The influential Board of Visitors demanded that they be replaced, and the Navy Department persuaded a reluctant Congress to authorize a sweeping construction program. The distinguished architect Ernest Flagg designed magnificent buildings, and work began as the Navy entered the twentieth century. The clamor and confusion of construction workers and machinery did not abate for many years.

Spruance was sworn into the Navy as a midshipman on 2 July 1903, one day before his seventeenth birthday. Annapolis summers are hot and humid. Spruance and his new plebe classmates sweltered as they went to their rooms in an ancient multistoried wooden barrack and began to adapt to a military routine. The simple things came first. The former civilians learned to square away their rooms, to wear a uniform, to spit-shine their shoes, to strap on their leggings, to stand at attention, and to respond to orders with Aye, aye, sir, never Yes, sir. The transformation had begun.

The Class of 1907 had much in common. They were white gentiles from predominantly upper-class and upper-middle-class families. Congress controlled nearly all the Academy appointments; although some appointments were awarded on merit (as with Spruance in New Jersey), most were acquired through political influence. The new plebes also were alike in that they had passed rigorous mental and physical tests, implying common characteristics and potential.

Young men sought an Academy appointment for various reasons. Some were Navy juniors (sons of naval officers) emulating their fathers’ profession. The traditions of the Navy’s earlier heroes and their glorious exploits impressed many young men, to whom a naval career promised adventure and honor. Some plebes (such as Spruance) were from respected families who could not afford a university education. For others, the Navy conferred a desirable social status that was otherwise unobtainable. And from a pragmatic standpoint, a naval career ensured modest financial security to all.

Regardless of background, Spruance’s generation cherished patriotism. Most midshipmen were motivated to serve their country, although few had any conception of a naval officer’s professional duties. Admiral Dewey and the Navy’s triumphs in the Spanish-American War must have reinforced the nationalism of impressionable young men of Spruance’s age, so the Naval Academy did not lack applicants.

The naval officer’s raison d’être was the ship, a complex assembly of machinery which the midshipmen—as future officers—had to understand and master. Therefore they studied things physical, mechanical, and electrical. Steam, steel, explosives, ballistics, and navigation were their pragmatic considerations. Discipline and obedience, both essential to survival in a frail ship upon the perilous seas, were imbued as well. Ships and their equipment were operated under rigid procedures; deviation invited disaster. Subordinates questioned neither regulations not orders. Above all, the Academy inculcated absolute loyalty to country and service.

The Academy’s mission was clear: to provide uniformly conditioned graduates who conformed to the Navy’s image of the ideal junior naval officer.

The Naval Academy would instruct Spruance in the same way it had taught generations of midshipmen before him, regardless of new buildings and a new President determined to invigorate the Navy. The Navy cherished its traditions and customs, and change came slowly. A half century after Spruance had graduated, the Academy was essentially the same.

At seventeen Raymond Spruance was a slender, handsome youth. His body was lean and wiry. It lacked athletic coordination but possessed vitality and endurance. His shy, quiet demeanor was unchanged from boyhood. During his Academy years few would know him well, even though the classes of that era were particularly close. Yet the friends he did make remained intimate and loyal to him throughout his life.

Plebe Summer was a grueling transition from civilian ways. During it the midshipmen had to learn basic military and seamanship skills to prepare for the academic year. Spruance suffered from the heat, as he always had and always would. Reveille sounded at 0600, followed by strenuous, continuous drills and exercises during the day. By taps at 2200 the weary midshipmen collapsed into bed. Marching was a daily torment. The ancient rifles were heavy, and the smaller midshipmen in the back ranks staggered as the weight increased with the heat and time of day. The colorful drillmaster, Lieutenant (later Admiral) Thomas C. Hart, pitied the sandblowers and offered to substitute lightweight wooden guns, a proposal they indignantly rejected.

Spruance hated every minute of it. He came to know a classmate, a short, pugnacious midshipman from Montana named Johnny Hoover, who hated everything about Plebe Summer as well. They became close friends.

The upperclassmen arrived from cruise in late summer, paused briefly to don civvies and buy train tickets, then disappeared for a month’s leave. When they returned, Spruance discovered his inferior status within the Academy pecking order and was introduced to hazing.

Hazing was controversial and as old as the Academy itself. (It was also customary in most other civilian and military schools of the period.) Proponents claimed that it infused discipline and obedience and weeded out midshipmen who were psychologically unsuited for the naval profession. Better to screen the unfit before graduation, went the argument, than later, when weak officers folded in an emergency at sea or in the demands of war. Left unsaid was the fact that hazing also was an initiation rite for entry into the upper class.

Spruance detested hazing when he was on the receiving end and refused to haze plebes when he was an upperclassman. But he was an exception. Most midshipmen and naval officers accepted the practice—even though it violated federal law. The Congress in 1874 had decreed that guilty midshipmen were to be tried by court-martial and dismissed from the naval service. The Naval Academy did not enforce the law.

If Spruance ever had believed that Annapolis was a citadel of honor and virtue, he was disillusioned when the academic year began. The Academy officers violated federal law and the Academy Regulations by tacitly allowing hazing. Similarly, many upperclassmen regarded the Academy Regulations as rules to circumvent rather than to obey. Punishment often was confinement in an old sailing hulk, the Santee. It was a point of sardonic pride to have been a member of the Santee Squad, immortalized by a group photo in the 1907 Lucky Bag, the Academy yearbook. The squad posed defiantly and unrepentantly with smirks, caps askew, and indolent posture. Spruance was not among them.

The severity of punishment added an element of danger that motivated the more daring to create even more clever and ingenious ways to beat the system. An idealistic contemporary of Spruance reflected sadly, All of these things that I’d thought of as perfection in the way of midshipmen, I soon found were not so. My effort was to do everything perfectly the whole time I was a plebe, and eventually I found out that it just didn’t pay. You couldn’t do things that way.

The Naval Academy had no academic accreditation, and civilian universities considered it as a trade school. The quality of its instruction dismayed Spruance. It had two defects: a narrow curriculum and unqualified instructors. The curriculum was predominantly technical, leavened with a smattering of the humanities: Spanish, French, and a weak Department of English and Law. There were no electives. The midshipmen memorized details which were regurgitated during written examinations, then forgotten to make room for ingesting the next mass of new data. Most midshipmen failed to understand concepts and principles, and by the time Spruance and his classmates entered the fleet the machinery they had studied was obsolescent. Lacking knowledge of engineering fundamentals, many graduates were handicapped when they tried to understand the new machinery and equipment for which they were responsible.

Many instructors were naval officers, fresh from the fleet and lacking academic credentials because of their own deficient Academy education. They taught by rote, knowing only one way to solve the problems that were repeated annually, even though several other methods could achieve the correct answer. Spruance once solved a problem using an original procedure. He was briskly reprimanded by the instructor because he had failed to use the Academy method.

Spruance was a keen student with an inquisitive mind eager for new knowledge. His concept of education was to seek an understanding of principles which applied to a broad range of problems, encouraging the student to exercise sound reasoning and independent thinking. The Academy simply trained the memory. Still, as much as he disliked many Academy courses, he received excellent grades and assimilated the practical skills necessary to serve as a junior naval officer. And grades were important, because they determined class standing and the order of seniority for one’s entire career.

Naval warships in the early twentieth century were driven by steam, but the Naval Academy did not forsake the virtues of teaching midshipmen the art of seamanship under sail. Spruance first practiced on spars and rigging located inside a drill hall, then clambered aloft on the three-masted square-rigged steel ships Chesapeake and Severn. He learned to respect the sea and the wind and their effect upon a ship; the handling of sails, sheets, and halyards emphasized teamwork and obedience. The rigors of heavy weather, hard work, and primitive living conditions developed fortitude. He gained self-confidence by working aloft and conquering any natural fear of height. The first sight of a tall mast can be overwhelming, especially when one knows that one will have to scramble up the shrouds, wriggle outboard on the yards, then grapple with heavy sails while clinging perilously in space with nothing below but a swaying footrope. Spruance was determined not to squeeze the tar, a derisive term for timid souls who gripped the tar-coated rigging for fear of falling. He and his classmates displayed their ultimate triumph over natural fear by spiking their hats on the lightning rods atop the mast trucks, the end of the bowsprit, and the end of the spanker boom.¹

Spruance first went to sea in the summer midshipmen cruise of 1904 aboard USS Hartford, Admiral Farragut’s Civil War flagship. She combined steam and sail, and the midshipmen on the main yard frequently were sickened by the boiler stack gases. Spruance served as a topsail yardman where the air was clear.

To his chagrin, however, he discovered he was susceptible to seasickness. One myth holds that seasickness can be suppressed by will power. In fact, only modern medicine helps. At its worst, seasickness makes a candidate for the naval service wonder if the life at sea is the life for him. Spruance was a faithful supporter of the lee rail on all summer cruises, the Lucky Bag reported. His dialogues with the wild sea waves were serious serials with semi-hourly installments. Spruance stayed sick in heavy weather throughout his career.

He was much relieved when Hartford entered calm anchorages in pleasant New England seaports. The people were friendly and the girls easily charmed. The hotels and inns were oases of food for famished midshipmen with enormous appetites whetted by salt air and hard work. Good New England lobster stew ashore was a godsend, for the shipboard food was vile. Meat was casually dropped on deck, the bread had brown weevils that would run out and take a look at you and then run back in again, and the stench of rotten potatoes was gagging inside a hot ship without ventilation.

Following his first sea cruise, Spruance took his first leave in the late summer of 1904, with his parents in Indianapolis. After weeks at sea he was hard and slim, and his bronzed face and arms were a handsome contrast to his starched white uniform. A friend of his mother arranged a dinner dance in his honor, doubtless over his objections. Although proud of his uniform and status, he surely was self-conscious and extremely reluctant to display himself publicly.

The young ladies who had been invited were atwitter at the prospect of meeting Midshipman Spruance, whom they naïvely regarded as a naval officer. The star attraction was ill at ease all evening, and his future wife, meeting him for the first time, thought he was handsome but stuffy. Afterward she reported to her family that Raymond had stood the entire evening—probably to avoid wrinkling his splendid white uniform. Margaret Dean did not see him again for seven years.

Another year of instruction and a second summer cruise passed uneventfully. Following a month of leave, the Class of 1907 gathered for the hallowed Class Supper in Washington, D.C., in the fall of 1905. It was their last happy time together. They ate well, drank too much, sang Anchors Aweigh (originally the 1907 Class March), and basked in fellowship. The dinner was, in fact, the consecration of their class unity.

It was an important night to Spruance. He permanently retained his personal program of the great banquet, the last page containing signatures of twenty-two of his table companions and classmates. It is not difficult to visualize them, that emotion-charged night, pledging eternal friendship and allegiance to the Class of 1907.

Disaster struck that fall. It began with a fight between two midshipmen, the customary way to settle feuds. The clandestine fights resembled duels and were governed by elaborate rules. Although illegal, they were allowed, just as hazing was allowed. In early November, Midshipman James R. Branch, Jr., died as a result of blows received while fighting Midshipman Minor Meriwether, Jr.

Branch’s death became a scandal that aroused congressional investigations, newspaper notoriety, and public wrath. All and any hazing, however minor, became associated with fighting and was furiously condemned.

The Navy responded by sanctimoniously prosecuting its midshipmen under the antihazing law it had ignored for twenty-eight years. The midshipmen grew demoralized as one after another was discharged from the naval service. But reason finally prevailed. Nearly all the midshipmen had indulged in one form of hazing or another. If the purge continued few would remain at the Academy, so lesser punishments were awarded in lieu of wholesale dismissals. Spruance most likely was one of the few midshipmen who escaped involvement. Curiously enough, there is no record of public censure by the Navy of the Academy officials who had failed to enforce the law prior to that fatal day in November 1905.

Life returned to a semblance of normality. Wounds healed but scars remained. President Roosevelt was anxious to man his new battleships, so Spruance and eighty-six classmates, the upper third of the class, remained at the Academy during the summer of 1906 to complete their studies for an early graduation that September. The other two-thirds (the wooden ones) set sail for another East Coast summer cruise. The class never again assembled as one body.

Spruance graduated on 12 September 1906, standing twenty-fifth in a class of 209. The 1907 Lucky Bag recorded that he had acquired the nickname Sprew and that he was a shy young thing with a rather sober, earnest face and the innocent disposition of an ingenue. . . . Would never hurt anything or anybody except in the line of duty.

Spruance hated the Naval Academy and vowed never to return. He deplored its academic standards and disliked its military routine, although he did regard it as a fine place to discipline and train future naval officers and to eliminate unsuitable candidates. His unhappiness as a midshipman could have been redirected at the Navy. But there is an old saying among midshipmen not to judge the Navy by one’s experiences at the Academy. Keep an open mind and withhold final judgment until you graduate and have served in the fleet. There you shall find the real Navy.

1. The Naval Academy long ago discontinued sailing cruises. However, the Coast Guard Academy and a number of foreign navies have retained this practice.

Chapter 2

THE APPRENTICE

SPRUANCE left Annapolis as a twenty-year-old passed midshipman. He would serve two years in this capacity, could not marry, would earn $950 per annum, and would gain practical sea experience while proving himself worthy to become a naval officer. If he did well and passed a written examination, he would eventually be commissioned Ensign, United States Navy.

The 1906 United States Navy was a jumble of dissimilar ships handicapped for want of men. It was equal in tonnage to other major navies, but its 1160-man officer corps was only half the strength of comparable naval powers. The older ships had been stripped to provide the new battleships with crews for the 1907 world cruise of the Great White Fleet.

Nevertheless, the Navy had progressed and was now rated the world’s second most powerful, ranking behind Great Britain and before France, Japan, and Germany in that order. Power was measured in quantity and quality of ships. The Navy’s 276 ships in commission and 37 more being built or authorized impressed the naval experts. For a number of reasons, Roosevelt concentrated on building battleships, despite the need for smaller warships and auxiliaries.

Perceptive naval officers realized that American ships did not match the technological superiority of the Royal Navy, whose revolutionary HMS Dreadnaught boasted armament, armor, and an engineering plant surpassing those of any ship afloat. In contrast, American ships were cluttered with guns of many sizes, protected by armor of many configurations, propelled by engineering plants of many designs, and built by many shipyards of varying competence. Dreadnaught had wreaked instant obsolescence upon all other navies.

The Navy’s most important asset was its men. Here even more trouble brewed. Officer promotion was based upon longevity rather than performance, and senior officers were too old. Admirals first flew their flags about a year and a half before mandatory retirement at age sixty-two, hardly long enough to learn their job. Captains averaged nearly fifty-eight and often were physically unfit for the rigors of command at sea. Promotion was sluggish, and Congress would not authorize remedial legislation. The Secretary of the Navy voiced a dire future if Congress did not soon act. He predicted that members of Spruance’s class would take twenty-five years for promotion to lieutenant.

Enlisted manning was correspondingly grim. The Navy was understrength by 4,000 men, having on board about 32,000 souls. Although a sailor’s life had many drawbacks (such as civilian hostility), plenty of young men applied for enlistment. But the Navy was choosy and could not fill its quotas. Desertion depleted the ranks. One out of ten sailors went over the hill in 1906, and 3700 were AWOL when Spruance graduated. The Navy was baffled as to why sailors deserted but seemed uninterested in finding a cure.

Spruance’s first duty was aboard the battleship USS Iowa, a nine-year-old, 11,400-ton veteran of the Spanish-American War. With white hull and yellow ochre superstructure, she mounted guns of all calibers, which once had fired in anger, although not too accurately. Her coal-burning boilers and triple-expansion reciprocating engines drove her through the water at 16½ knots when her bottom was clean.¹

She was moderately habitable, as naval ships go. Steam heat warmed her in winter, but her interior was torrid in summer. The officers and midshipmen had comfortable staterooms but wore uncomfortable high-collared blue or white uniforms. Sailors wore either blue or white bell-bottom uniforms. Only the wretched coal passers in the hellish fire-rooms were exempt from the battleship’s spit and polish.

The sailors slept in hammocks and washed themselves and their clothes in buckets to conserve scarce fresh water. Black and Asian stewards served the officers’ needs by preparing their food, tidying rooms, cleaning heads, and shining shoes. Ranks and ratings ate in separate messes, miniature communities unto themselves, so that Spruance and his three or four midshipman shipmates were segregated from the other officers. The cockroaches did not discriminate and availed themselves of samples from all the messes.

Iowa followed an unvarying daily routine, codified in the Plan of the Day, which established when one would rise, eat, work, play, and sleep. Spruance stood watches, supervised enlisted men, and learned the practical aspects of operating a man-o’-war.

Iowa’s operating schedule was as fixed as her internal routine. Everyone knew a year in advance precisely where the ship would be and what she would be doing—mostly humdrum steaming along the Atlantic coast. Her useful life was ending; although less than a decade old, she was obsolete and required men and fuel that were needed elsewhere. In June 1907 she entered the Norfolk Navy Yard and was decommissioned. Spruance transferred to USS Minnesota, a big new battleship, one of the sixteen of the Great White Fleet that would tour the world to display American naval power.²

The cruise of the White Fleet was not the success portrayed in most naval histories. It was the American debut into the society of great world navies, a muscle-flexing spectacle conceived to awe, impress, and sometimes intimidate other countries. The American officers and men proclaimed their desire for friendship, but if their uneasy foreign hosts hesitated to reciprocate, perhaps it was because the sixteen white battleships riding at anchor were difficult to equate with benign intentions.

The ships provoked political crises with foreign governments sensitive to every nuance of naval diplomacy. Senior American naval officers fretted about coal availability in foreign ports; sailors’ conduct ashore; whether they would be welcomed abroad; and whether their ships’ boilers would even get them to their destinations. The social demands were debilitating. Transits between ports were devoted to recovering from heavy drinking, rich food, and late hours—and girding for the next round of receptions, concerts, banquets, parades, tours, and sporting events. Training lapsed, and thoughtful naval officers questioned the priorities that set protocol above operational readiness.

The Navy’s system of promotion became an international embarrassment. The American officers were senior in age but inferior in rank, experience, and endurance to their foreign naval counterparts. Gout-ridden Rear Admiral Robley D. Evans could not complete the cruise, and his relief, Rear Admiral Charles M. Thomas, died shortly after taking command.

These problems did not concern Spruance. He was young, robust, and thrived on foreign hospitality. He attended elegant balls and danced with beautiful women. There were waltzes in Rio, two-steps in Monterey, polkas in San Francisco, and lancers in Melbourne. The midshipmen were inundated with invitations to parties, honorary memberships to private clubs, and complimentary train passes. Days in port were crammed with dawn-to-dusk activities among exotic people, smells, sounds, and sights. It was heady stuff for an unsophisticated midshipman.

The White Fleet had left Hampton Roads, Virginia, in December 1907. Ten months later, it approached Japan, one of the most important port calls of the cruise. The Americans were apprehensive because Japan was antagonistic and suspicious. Its navy had stationed dark-colored warships astride the island approaches, and the glistening white American hulls made easy targets. The Japanese not long before had demonstrated their excellent shooting skills against Russia, and nervous Americans regretted the time lost partying ashore while their guns lay idle. But they could not turn back and pressed on toward an uncertain and perhaps dangerous reception.

When a typhoon lashed the fleet off Luzon, Spruance was too seasick to worry about Japanese intentions. Minnesota’s interior became a shambles of gear cast adrift, slopping seawater, and tormented men. With ventilation secured, the stink of vomit in fetid air exacerbated Spruance’s agony. Finally, thankfully, the wind abated and the sea calmed, and the disheveled crews cleaned themselves and their ships. The scattered fleet made rendezvous and shaped course for Yokohama through drizzle and fog. Tension increased as the Americans’ attention shifted from the weather to the Japanese.

Seafarers delight when entering a strange foreign port. They sniff the land breezes laden with unfamiliar smells, and they search for features ashore that may reveal the city’s character. Water-borne debris at the harbor’s approaches provides subtle clues about what lies ahead. Spruance, always curious, always inquisitive, had recovered from his seasickness and was now absorbed in what these smells and sights and sounds were promising. He went to quarters in his gold-buttoned blue uniform and watched Japanese warships appear and fall in alongside, one for each American ship. Anchors dropped and accommodation ladders were rigged. The Americans anxiously waited for the Japanese to appear and to pay formal calls.

All went well. After an initial period of mutual nervousness, the tension disappeared. The familiar routine of social events began and Americans were enthusiastically welcomed and entertained. Spruance mingled with his hosts on streets and in trains and saw the immortal Admiral Togo at an afternoon garden party. In those October days of 1908 the foundations for Spruance’s life-long respect and admiration for the Japanese nation were established.

Many months of sailing and adventure remained before the fleet returned to Hampton Roads in February 1909. Spruance loved the experience, spoke of it often in later years, and filled a scrapbook with nostalgic memorabilia, the only scrapbook he ever kept.

His unpleasant memories of the Naval Academy were behind. The cruise of the Great White Fleet had convinced him to make the Navy his career.

Command at sea is the ultimate goal of ambitious naval line officers, but only a chosen few obtain it. An officer proves worthy for command by performing well as a subordinate officer aboard a variety of ships in a variety of duties. His commanding officers train and supervise him, then report to the Navy Department on his fitness for promotion and his readiness for higher responsibility.

An officer aspiring to command seeks three kinds of experience. First, he must learn how to lead men. Second, he must become a competent mariner, primarily through standing innumerable watches at sea as an officer of the deck (OOD). Third, he must understand the internal organization and operation of the ship as well as its design, construction, equipment, and machinery.

Successful command was essential for promotion to senior rank in those years. Because sea duty was the only way to prepare for command, Spruance and most naval officers stayed at sea as long as possible. Secretary of the Navy Josephus Daniels codified this precept in 1912 by establishing a set amount of sea duty as a prerequisite to promotion. Spruance regarded shore duty as pleasant interludes that had no effect on his career, so relaxation took precedence over work when he was ashore.

Having chosen a naval career, Ensign Spruance set about to prepare himself for command at sea. Then he made a decision that began a chain of events that for years diverted him from this goal. He decided to become an engineering specialist.

Naval technology was abounding both with new inventions and with refinements of existing concepts. Armor had become lighter and stronger, guns had longer ranges and more accuracy, boilers were more efficient, and propulsion machinery was more powerful. But the greatest revolution was in electricity. That electric motors now moved heavy loads such as turrets and winches and ammunition hoists was important; the most exciting developments, however, were the gyro-compass and the wireless radio. Gyros allowed more accurate navigation and vastly improved gunnery fire control. Radio had proven itself during the White Fleet cruise; Washington had communicated with its ships at sea a half world away.

An ambitious naval officer with a flair for engineering subjects would be farsighted if he learned as much as possible about the naval technology of the future. Spruance applied for postgraduate training and was ordered to advance instruction in electricity at the General Electric Company in Schenectady. He left Minnesota in April 1909 with good but noncommittal fitness reports and two and half years of invaluable sea duty under his belt.

A year at General Electric meant both study and the practical application of what he had learned. He helped a company engineer adjust ammunition hoists on a new battleship and was rewarded with a grateful letter of appreciation that added luster to his service record. He also supervised the installation of radio equipment on submarines, having been tutored by the resident inspector of machinery at Schenectady, Lieutenant Commander Luke McNamee, the pioneer in naval radio systems. McNamee was the first man to report that Spruance had special talents in electricity.

Spruance returned to sea in 1910 for duty aboard the battleship Connecticut.³ She was commanded by Captain W. R. Bill Rush, a legendary martinet. An able seaman who ran a taut but unhappy ship, Rush was also harsh, demanding, and intemperate. The story goes that if a subordinate greeted him Good morning, Rush often would snarl that it was not a good morning unless he said it was.

Spruance soon clashed with the irascible captain. Perhaps deceived by Spruance’s apparent mildness, Rush time and again hectored the shy, young officer. Spruance rebelled with a hitherto unrecognized moral courage. He refused to be intimidated. Recognizing Spruance’s emerging stubbornness and strength of character, Rush praised him in fitness reports. Yet he contrarily continued to harass and badger Spruance and to make his life miserable.

Spruance did not see the glowing fitness reports. He was aware only of Rush’s grinding oppression. When the ship was in the New York Navy Yard in mid-April 1911, Spruance took a short leave to visit his aunts in East Orange. There he pondered about his future aboard Connecticut and perhaps discussed it with Bessie and Louie. He decided to resort to a traditional remedy: he requested a transfer. Rush returned the request with a conciliatory memorandum.

Mr. Spruance is informed, wrote Rush, "that, if he submitted this application for detachment in the belief that his performance of duty is not satisfactory, he is hereby informed that his performance of duty is generally very satisfactory and that the Commanding Officer has no wish to have him leave the ship.

"Ensign Spruance’s request is approved, however, in accordance with his wishes expressed therein, and the papers are placed in his hands for final decision. If he wishes to remain on Connecticut he can withdraw his request, if he wishes to go he can return request to Captain’s Office and it will be forwarded with regret."

Spruance was unmoved and forwarded the request. The Bureau of Navigation⁴ replied that it had been noted, placed on file, and would receive consideration (a procedure unchanged and unchangeable). No orders came, and Spruance remained on Connecticut.

Rush bore down even harder on Spruance. The next and most serious clash came several weeks later.

Connecticut was flagship for the Commander in Chief, Atlantic Fleet, and honors and ceremonies were frequent. The Marine detachment normally performed these functions in crisp, military fashion, but they were temporarily transferred from the ship. Sailors were substituted and Spruance became Commander of the Guard. It was not a satisfactory solution, for sailors are reluctant to imitate Marines. The sailors performed listlessly, frequently failed to muster, and Rush was not happy.

Finally in exasperation Spruance put six men on report for failure to muster. Rush dismissed the charges, enraging Spruance by violating the cardinal principle that a commanding officer must support his subordinate officers. In that the two preferred writing to speaking, Spruance penned a protest to his commanding officer.

On June 2, 1911, the Captain sent a memorandum to the Executive Officer, wrote Spruance, "directing him to inform the Commander of the Guard that, in the case of six men of the Guard who had been put on the report for failing to fall in promptly when the Guard of the Day had been called, the Commander of the Guard was the guilty person, and that any similar occurrence in the future would not be overlooked.

"The Commander of the Guard respectfully requests to be informed as to wherein he was derelict in his duty, in order that he may guard against any repetition of the offense. He was given no opportunity to present his side of the case before this memorandum was sent to the Executive Officer, not has any opportunity been since given at the mast.

"The Commander of the Guard desires to assure the Captain that he investigated the cases of these men before putting them on the report . . . [therefore he] deemed it advisable to put the delinquents upon the report.

If it is the purpose of the Captain to hold the Commander of the Guard personally responsible for the conduct of every man in the Guard, and to refuse to consider any reports made against them, the Commander of the Guard respectfully requests to be informed of this, both in order to know what course to pursue in the future and to be able the better to maintain discipline in the Guard.

Rush replied the next day that The proper course of the Commander of the Guard to persue [sic] is to make certain that whatever proper orders he issues should be carried out. He later wrote on Spruance’s fitness report, Guard duty in Command of the Seaman Guard for four months during absence of Marines. Excellent. 4.0.

In the course of a naval career one works for good officers and poor officers and serves in good ships and poor ships. If fate places a Navy man under an officer or in a ship that makes him unhappy, it won’t last forever. Perhaps the next ship will be an improvement, or maybe the disliked officer will be relieved by someone better. Spruance’s turn came in late October 1911 when he was ordered to USS Cincinnati at Mare Island Navy Yard in California.

Spruance left Connecticut in New York the day he received his orders and struck out across country by train. He planned a brief stop in Indianapolis to visit his parents, whom he had not seen for many years.

That autumn Spruance fell in love.

It happened in Indianapolis when he strolled past a tennis court and saw Margaret Dean. I fell in love with her then, he later said, and I’ve never been able to get over it. He decided impulsively that he would marry her. He wired the Bureau of Navigation requesting a leave extension, it was approved, and the courtship began.

Margaret was twenty-three, the youngest daughter of a prosperous businessman who headed a happy, closely knit family of six children. Margaret was a lovely, popular young woman—effervescent, warm, fun-loving, and emotional. Although intelligent, she was not a good student. Mathematics was forever a mystery to her. She had recently attended Lake Erie College, a small school, where she had excelled in history and had been elected president of her senior class.

Spruance formally called upon Margaret at her home in order to meet her family, the customary first step in a proper courtship. Spruance had changed from the self-conscious midshipman of seven years before. Now he was a mature, handsome gentleman, an attractive and exciting contrast to the untraveled, unsophisticated Indianapolis youths whom Margaret had been dating. But her new suitor’s most important virtue was that he was interested in her.

They had little time, only a week. The two spent every day together, and they got to know each other as well as could be expected in seven days. The night before he left he took Margaret to the theater, and then he was gone. He had neither proposed marriage nor made any promises for the future, but Margaret was certain that one day he would return to her.

Spruance resumed his journey westward and joined the Cincinnati at Mare Island in late 1911. She was a creaking old lady, and Spruance as engineer officer dived below decks to squeeze as many miles as possible from her obsolete engines and leaking boilers. Cincinnati responded to his coaxing by steaming for a year and a half across the Pacific and up and down the coast of China.⁵

During this period, the Great Powers were greedily establishing spheres of influence in a chaotic China, and the Taft administration was trying to implement dollar diplomacy in the Far East. Cincinnati joined the Asiatic Squadron, whose mission was to protect American business enterprises in China while simultaneously providing a show of force to preserve the Open Door policy. Far removed from the disciplining influence of the Navy Department, wives, and sweethearts, the squadron was a hard-working, hard-playing, nonregulation force.

By now the Navy had changed to a fitness report form that suggested a shift toward promotion by merit rather than longevity. Reports on fitness form the basis for assignments to duty, said the new policy directive. They are decisive of the service careers of the individual officers, as also for the efficiency of the entire Navy, which demands the right man in every place. The preparation of these reports is therefore one of the most important and responsible duties of senior officers.

A young officer is influenced by his seniors. If they are good, the subordinate will admire and respect them, and, consciously or unconsciously, will pattern his own behavior after their examples. Outstanding senior officers will impart their experience, skills, and wisdom to receptive subordinates. Conversely, an incompetent senior can ruin a fine young officer with good potential.

Spruance was blessed with outstanding senior officers who recognized and nurtured Spruance’s talents. His two commanding officers, Samuel S. Robison and Jehu Valentine Chase, later became admirals, as did the executive officer, Cyrus W. Cole. Spruance performed well and established a reputation as a sober, earnest, and entirely competent naval officer. He was promoted to lieutenant (junior grade) and seemed content to continue on engineering duty for the indeterminate future.

Spruance was ordered to his first command, the destroyer Bainbridge, in early 1913.⁶ The Asiatic destroyer force at that time was a disgrace. Spruance’s engineer officer, Charles J. (Carl) Moore, described it vividly.

Those destroyers had been the most completely ragtime, non-reg bunch of ships that you’ve ever seen in your life, said Moore. The officers were dissolute, drunken, crooked, the darndest bunch of people you’ve ever seen, and demoralized completely by life in the Asiatic Station. . . . The idea of sending Spruance there was to try to straighten out this bunch of tough eggs and get the destroyers back on their feet.

Spruance took command of two ensigns, forty-five enlisted men, and a small, tired ship in Olangapo, Philippines. Bainbridge was a rusty, cramped 440-ton destroyer that once was capable of twenty-eight knots. Armed with light guns and torpedo tubes, she was the Navy’s original destroyer, built to protect ponderous capital ships from small, fast torpedo boats, then in vogue as a threat to the fleet.

Bainbridge rarely got underway and was doomed to long days and weeks of swinging on the hook in hot, rainy Philippine anchorages. Spruance’s greatest problem on his destroyer would be to overcome the boredom and apathy that accompanies enforced idleness on an uncomfortable ship, doing nothing and going nowhere. His wardroom officers were two rollicking ensigns, Ralph G. (Hax) Haxton, the executive officer, and Carl Moore, the engineer. On Spruance’s earlier ships there had been a great age difference between the captain and his officers, and the captain had lived in splendid isolation. Bainbridge was entirely different. Spruance was a twenty-six-year-old skipper—only a few years older than his ensigns—and they would live in close company.

But at first their quiet, youthful captain was a stranger. He expected them to perform well and to run a good ship. That was just fine with Hax and Carl. He won the allegiance of his enlisted men by his interest in their work and by his personal supervision of their mess. Good food promotes good morale. They reciprocated by turning to with a will.

Haxton and Moore sized up Spruance as a fine commanding officer but too austere, so they conspired to make him human. The ensigns were enjoying a free and easy life ashore with the daughters of local service families. The two persuaded a reluctant Spruance to join them. He was bashful among the girls, who compounded his embarrassment by calling him Spriscilla Sprudence. More amused than affronted, he tolerated their teasing and began to enjoy his excursions ashore.

The three officers became close friends. Spruance watched the ship while the other two frolicked ashore, but all three gathered for the evening meal, unwilling that any one eat alone. Dinner became a charming ritual. First Hax and Carl broke out their violins and serenaded their skipper. After music, Hax would summon their Chinese steward. Sam, he would say, pass the shaker to the skipper. The abstemious Spruance would sniff the cocktail shaker, solemnly intone, Thank God, rum has no hold on me, and return it to Sam. The steward then poured drinks for the musicians, for liquor aboard ship was not yet unlawful.

Then the three would sit at table and begin with soup. Invariably and deliberately, Moore would jiggle the miniature table and slop the soup. Silly, yes, but it helped them to preserve good spirits in the dismal, oppressive Philippine climate.

Spruance became closer to his enlisted men by joining their daily swimming party. The