By Admiral Thomas H. Moorer, U. S. Navy (Retired)
I joined the crew of the heavy cruiser New Orleans (CA-32) in February 1934, when she was nearing completion at the New York Navy Yard in Brooklyn. The first lieutenant and damage control officer was Commander John W. Reeves, Jr. He was tough and properly called “Black Jack.” In those days we had difficulties with shipyard workers. We had a work slowdown, and that’s when Commander Reeves got into the act. Without a doubt, he was one of the toughest naval officers I’ve ever been associated with.
For example, he would stand on the quarterdeck when quitting time came. You could see the workmen stick their heads out through a hatch to look, and if he was standing there, they would not go home. They would not walk past him. They’d stay out of sight until he left and then slip over the side. He really had them under control.
He had kind of a knack for chewing out. For instance, after I had been there a year, a new group of ensigns came aboard after graduation from the Naval Academy. He called me over and said, “Moorer, I want you to do such and such.” I’ve forgotten what it was, but I didn’t consider it to be in my realm of responsibility at the moment.
I said, “Commander, you’ve overlooked one thing. I’m the senior ensign in this ship.”
He said, “There is no such thing.”
But he did a hell of a job with the New Orleans. He really was the father of damage control. In the old days we had fire and collision drills that were separate from the battle drills. He quite properly reasoned that the time you were most likely to have a fire or collision is during battle. If those drills don’t work during battle, they won’t work at all. He rewrote the whole organization. Of course, this was just in time’s nick—right before the war. When he had a fire drill, he really had a fire drill. He’d set the ship afire. The drills always began by going to general quarters. So while the ship was all buttoned up, the emergency operations would continue. When you had to put out a fire, you had to go through all these closed doors, whereas before the drills were easy because all the doors were opened and you could run back and forth. He also promoted the development of fireproof paint and things of that kind, scraping off paint where it wasn’t necessary.
When I left the New Orleans, both Commander Reeves and I went to Pensacola for flight training, and then both wound up on board the carrier Langley (CV-1), he as exec and I as a pilot in Fighting Squadron 1-B. I recall one time in the Langley he had a fire drill and decided that the fire extinguishers were totally inadequate. He called a supply officer and directed him to survey or dispose of them. The supply officer said,
“Commander, I can’t do that, because the regulations say they must be unfit for use and these are practically brand-new.”
So Commander Reeves sent for a working party equipped with hammers. He lined the extinguishers up and had these sailors beat them to pieces. He then called the supply officer and said, “Now do you think they are fit for use?”
The supply officer said, “No.”
Black Jack said, “Well, get rid of them and get me this new kind.” That’s the way he operated. Of course, he’d be good for five pages in Jack Anderson today, but, by gosh, he got the job done.
By Captain David McCampbell, U. S. Navy (Retired)
I was landing signal officer in the old Wasp (CV-7) from shortly after she was commissioned at Boston in 1940 until she was decommissioned by Japanese torpedoes in 1942. Captain Reeves was a latecomer to aviation—not having taken flight training until he was a commander— but he wanted to qualify on shipboard landings in the worst way. While we were still at Boston, he asked me one day if I’d take him over to the aviation base at nearby Squantum and qualify him in field landings. After that, presumably, he would land aboard the Wasp.
He showed up at Squantum in a Grumman F3F fighter, and we discussed the procedure for making carrier-type landings. Once in the air, he made his turn and came in toward the strip we were using to simulate a flight deck. On his first pass he was way too high and too fast, which I signaled to him with my LSO paddles. Despite my signals, there was no response, so I gave him a waveoff, and he went around again. This went on for at least three times, and I’d have to wave him off each time. Finally, he got a little bit of the news and came in a little lower. His speed was about the same, though, so I gave him the cut signal. He came in, touched his wheels on the runway, took off again quickly, and flew away. That was the end of the exercise and the closest he ever came to qualifying; he never attempted to bring a plane aboard the ship.
Along with being the captain and an aviator, he considered himself quite an athlete as well, but his fuse was short. He used to call on me to get up a foursome to play badminton in the hangar deck. I remember one day we were playing with B. J. Semmes and Doug Fuller on one side and Black Jack and myself on the other. He always chose me for some reason. During this particular game he was facing the bulkhead at the forward end of the hangar deck. He hit a bird over the net, and Doug Fuller said it landed out of bounds. Black Jack exploded. He said, “Goddamn it, that wasn’t out. It was in. It was on the line.”
And Fuller said, “No, sir, it was out.”
And with that, the captain stomped off the court, slinging his racquet up against the forward bulkhead, where it broke all to pieces.
After the war started, we went over to operate with the British and used Scapa Flow, in northern Scotland, as our base. During a break in the action, we were scheduled to go ashore for a beer party and softball game. We took about a dozen cases of beer ashore and made up a couple of teams—officers against the chiefs. Black Jack was playing shortstop, and the first time he came to bat, he was called out on strikes by Lieutenant Gus Lentz, a big all-American football player who was acting as umpire. The captain said angrily, “That wasn’t a strike.” He threw down his bat and ordered us all back to the ship, taking along the 12 cases of beer which were still unopened.
Gus Lentz, by the way, was about 6 feet 4 and had a horrible cauliflower ear from his own athletic career. Black Jack was about 5-8 or 5-9, and the first time Gus reported to him on the bridge, the captain couldn’t take his eyes off that ear. Gus was the ship's aerologist, but Black Jack called him the “Mythologist” instead, because he did occasionally have a sense of humor.
For the most part, however, he was a tough, mean man for many in the ship to deal with. I recall an occasion when the air officer. Lieutenant Commander Mike Kernodle, came to the bridge and got into some sort of argument with the skipper. I don’t remember what the contention was about, but I know it ended quickly when Black Jack said, “You ugly son of a bitch, get off this bridge, and don’t ever come back.”
Mike Kernodle responded, “Well, if you think I’m ugly, Captain, you ought to see my wife.” Even though he was one of the Wasp's department heads, I know for a fact that Kernodle didn’t go again on that bridge for at least three months, until just before he was relieved.
By Vice Admiral Thomas R. Weschler, U. S. Navy (Retired)
I was commissioned an ensign in the Naval Reserve in 1940, and joined my first ship, the Wasp, in June of the following year. I learned soon after reporting aboard that Captain Reeves wouldn’t take any guff. He was absolutely adamant in what he was going to do, but everybody felt that if they had to go to war, there wasn't anybody they’d rather be under. He insisted upon things being done precisely and properly and that everything had to be ready for war at all times. Learning to stand deck watches under him was probably the best experience any junior officer could have had.
When you were a watch officer for Black Jack, you were looking constantly for anything in that ship that wasn’t absolutely perfect, and if he found it before you did, you’d really had it. But if you saw it and did something about it, then you were not only home free, but he really thought you were a pretty good guy. You didn’t have to grandstand for him; as a matter of fact, that was probably sure death. If he thought you were trying, he would give you a chance, but you didn’t try to snow him or give him any baloney. That wouldn’t go over at all, and he was very short-tempered if he thought you were incompetent.
I know that when I came on watch. I’d look over the side and if the scuttlebutt wasn’t clean, I’d send for the flight deck boatswain. I was a fairly young ensign, but I didn’t hesitate to call any department head—some of them full commanders—and say, “Commander, the flight deck looks awful. You’d better get somebody up there doing so and so.” And he’d take it, because he knew that if he didn’t get it from me, he’d get it from the captain in about two minutes, and it was easier to get it from an ensign and to blow his stack a little bit and then do something about it. So it really made me willing to speak up.
We had a wonderful chief engineer, Lieutenant Commander Rogers Elliott. The captain came up one day and thought that the whistle was leaking steam. He had complained about it the day before and the engineers had supposedly fixed it. So, Reeves sent for Commander Elliott and said, “Chief engineer, look up there at that whistle.” Rogers did and he looked back again. The captain said, “1 told you to look up at the steam leaking out of that whistle.” And Rogers looked up. He was there for more than an hour looking at that damn steam leaking out of that whistle. It didn't leak after that. I’ll tell you. But it didn’t make any difference to Captain Reeves to have this lieutenant commander standing up there making a fool of himself looking up at that steam. That was the way it was going to be. And he sent for the communications officer when he didn’t like the way the radios were being handled, and the communications officer stood watch for about six hours up there handling all the radio circuits personally. That was the way it was.
I don’t want to leave a picture that he made an unhappy ship; it was not that way at all. You always knew who everyone was going to gripe about and so the rest of us got along perfectly well. We all knew we had good standards, and as I say, we felt ready for war. If it was going to come, we had one of the best leaders we could possibly have.
Captain Reeves was fair. You know, he liked going ashore as much as everybody, so difficulties on the beach were no real problem. If you got tanked up or were in a fight or something like that, that was tolerated. It was what you did aboard ship that mattered. If you could haul yourself together and come up the brow and go below without making a big scene, you were probably okay—no matter what somebody else was saying about you.
He liked things done in certain ways and precisely right and didn’t want to be crossed. As long as you did it his way and on time and perfectly, then everything was okay. There was a rumor that Black Jack and Ernie King were married to sisters. It wasn’t true, but I can’t think of two greater guys to have been brothers-in-law. They were just the toughest sons of bitches you’ve ever bumped into.
By Rear Admiral Thomas J. Hamilton, U. S. Navy (Retired)
In 1944 I was executive officer of the Enterprise (CV-6). We had no permanent flag on board; they came and went. Rear Admiral Black Jack Reeves was embarked a great deal of the time and was a wonderful flag officer; everybody respected him.
You tried to do your job, or you heard from him. We had a very irrepressible young guy named Jerry Flynn who had been a cheerleader at Notre Dame and was an Irishman with a lot of spirit. He was our recognition officer, and he was in charge of lookouts up at the flag bridge. One day Admiral Reeves said, “Mr. Flynn, what kind of a plane is that out on the horizon?”
Ensign Flynn said, “Admiral, it looks like a B-25 to me, sir.”
The admiral said, “Well, it looks more like a B-26 to me.”
Jerry said, “Well, Admiral, I’ll bet a week of my salary against a week of yours.” The admiral didn’t like that very much, so he wrote a letter to Captain Matt Gardner, skipper of the Enterprise, and asked that Mr. Flynn be put in his room to think things over.
It became my lot from the captain to deliver the message to Flynn, so we put him in his room and kept him there for three days, but soon he was back on duty, doing a good job. He ran the ship’s radio station and had a gossip column every night and kept the ship’s company in good humor.
A short time later, the ship had a smoker when we were in Ulithi Atoll. It was a happy hour with boxing bouts and the band playing and all that. Jerry Flynn, of course, was master of ceremonies. All the sailors were grouped around the elevator, which served as a stage, and packed in the hangar deck from the rafters. Flynn said, “Well, I guess you know why we’re here tonight," and the sailors all cheered. "We’ve all come to say goodbye to Admiral Reeves.” And he said, "You know, I want to tell you a story. I had the same battle station as Admiral Reeves. One day the admiral said to me, ‘Mr. Flynn, this ship isn’t big enough for the two of us.’” And then Jerry said, "We’re mighty sorry to see Admiral Reeves leave tomorrow."
Black Jack practically fell off his chair, he laughed so hard.
By Admiral Arleigh A. Burke, U. S. Navy (Retired)
In mid-1944, I was chief of staff to Commander Task Force 58, Vice Admiral Marc Mitscher. We were gearing up for what turned out to be the Battle of the Philippine Sea. Rear Admiral Black Jack Reeves was the senior task group commander. He loved to get close to the enemy shore, and he’d get too damned close sometimes. He would get himself to where he’d either embarrass himself if anything happened—if he had a ship damaged or something like that, he would be in trouble—or he would get in somebody else’s water if they got into trouble. He just liked to get close to the damned beach.
Admiral Reeves would always suggest that our launching points ought to be a little closer to the targets. Admiral Mitscher would placate him, but only to a point. Eventually my boss turned to me and said, “Look, as chief of staff, you hop over to see Admiral Reeves and tell him what the score is. Tell him we ain’t going to go any goddamned closer and that he’s not to, either. He must stay out of there.”
Admiral Mitscher had a quality that I admire very much: he was a ruthless man. He was kind, but when he said do something, you’d better damned sight do it that way. He would detach a flag officer faster than he would a lieutenant for failure. He used to keep a spare group commander available for when one of the admirals had to be relieved. Most of them were pretty good, but when you had someone who couldn’t direct his forces, you had to get rid of him right away, and Admiral Mitscher would. I was his hatchet man for a while.
Admiral Reeves never got the axe. When I went over with Admiral Mitscher’s message, Admiral Reeves said, “Tell the admiral that I’ll not get as close as I know 1 should get; I won't do it.” And he never did. Black Jack Reeves was a hell of an aviator and a hell of a good fighter.
By Admiral John S. Thach, U. S. Navy (Retired)
In the late 1940s I was special assistant to the Chief of Naval Air Training, Vice Admiral Black Jack Reeves, during the buildup of power within the Defense Department and the period of unification of the services. I was shocked and incensed to think that people would want to do such a thing as do away with naval aviation, but this is what we were faced with. It was a battle for survival. I couldn’t understand how anyone could fail to believe us if they would sit still enough to listen.
Admiral Reeves got concerned about the situation, so he sent me all over the country to talk to editors and publishers, radio commentators, anybody that he could make an appointment with for me. I was doing a lot of traveling, and my per diem was hardly enough to pay for my meals, much less my hotel bills. I was losing money. I spent pretty close to $3,000 that I didn’t get reimbursed from the Navy.
One time in New York, at the Waldorf Astoria, there was a big annual meeting of editors and publishers, and Admiral Reeves arranged to have me there and seated right next to a prominent columnist who had quite a wide circulation. During the banquet, I was supposed to sell him on naval aviation. I did as much as I could during the dinner before the speeches. Then while one of the speakers was talking, I got called out for a telephone call. It was Admiral Reeves—this was about 11:00 p.m.—and he said, “How soon is the banquet going to be over?” I couldn’t be sure because there were to be several speakers.
He said, “Let’s make it for 1:30 a.m.,” an appointment with a radio commentator at the 21 Club. “You go in and introduce yourself and convince him of what he ought to tell the public.”
So at the end of the banquet, I got up and went to the 21 Club and met this fellow. We sat and talked for a while, and I finally got back to my hotel about 2:45.1 had to get up at 3:30 to go out to Floyd Bennett Field to get my airplane and fly to St. Louis, where I had to make a speech at noon before the entire St. Louis Navy League.
This went on for months. He would write me all these little memoranda on blue government forms and each one of them seemed to require anywhere from several days to several weeks or a month of work. These things would keep flowing in there until I got quite a stack of them and I was behind. So one day, I took this stack and went in to see him and said, “Admiral Reeves, I’ve put your memoranda in the order of what I think the priority ought to be. I would appreciate it if you could tell me if I’m right. I can’t do all these things at once, and it’s going to take me a long time to catch up with this pile.”
He looked up at me and he kind of smiled—he never smiled very much, but I could tell that he was a little bit amused— and he said, “Well, I sort of wondered when you were going to come in, because we ought to talk about the priority of these things.”
About a year before I was finally detached from Pensacola, I got orders for my first sea command, a seaplane tender. Admiral Reeves, with his foresight, decided that I should stay ashore and help with this work of survival, in addition to other jobs I had on his staff. He wrote a letter to the Navy Department and insisted that they cancel my orders to command my first ship. I was a little concerned at the time, because I had always heard that if you got orders to a ship and then for some reason or other you were never given this command, people on the selection board might think, well, there’s something wrong that they didn’t want to talk about.
When he told me that he was doing this, he said, “Now don’t you worry, and he showed me the letter he was writing for my record. It said, “This captain, more than any other, can do the Navy and his country more good by staying in the job he’s in right now for at least another year.”
He really believed in this thing. I realized that every time I got upset with him and felt that I was really being put through the wringer; if I had been in his shoes, I would have done the same thing. He would suddenly see an opportunity and he wanted to strike while the iron was hot. I couldn’t blame him, because he was working just as hard as I was. He was staying up half the night trying to get going on these things while he was running this big training command. I’m convinced he was doing the right thing.