International photographer (Jan-Dec 1941)

The TJN CAN SQUAdRON Bv Warren McGrath The adventures of the author aboard a United States Destroyer during the filming of "American Seapower" for Movietone News, Ine. Passed by United States Naval Censor, 11th Naval District. 'Sfunny thing about that Tin Can Squadron. They're as rough, tough and salty a bunch of sailors as you'll find anywhere on the Seven Seas — but to a man thev are specialists in the art of being a streamlined, efficient version of the old jolly tar. A version, I might add, that is so necessary in the modern warfare of "movement." There is also a lurking suspicion that they effect a hearty disdain for the "battleship" sailor. But, as for myself, I believe each deserves a great amount of respect, admiration and gratitude for it's a "he-man's" job that Uncle Sam's Navy is doing out there these days. F'rinstance you take these Tactical Maneuvers. There was a time when the Navy would take a pleasant jaunt each springtime and accomplish most of their drilling for the year in the short space of something less than two months. That's now in the "I remember when" stage. Today, our streamlined defense forces are constantly on the alert. Sleek, warpainted men-of-war steam out of their harbors under the veil of the strictest secrecy and "Think, but don't talk" has become the watchword of Naval Intelligence. But there is a new note that is fast becoming part of our defense forces. A note that is as modern and efficient as a "panzer unit." A note that holds promise of being as deadly as a Stuka, for peacetime pho The Model A pretty face and a pretty figure may suffice to make people look twice when a girl enters the room, but for the model, this business of being beautfiul is a constant and strenuous routine. The old adage of "Early to bed — " was never so true as when applied to a model, and abstinence from all things that impair the face and disintegrate the body is a never-to-be-broken law. Daily exercise of the proper sort, care of the hair and skin, constant attention to posture, carriage and facial expression, all are vital essentials to the physical requisites of good modeling. The young lady on the opposite page, who is being groomed by the Mortensen School of Photography, finds little opportunity during her active day for outside interests. Her health and beauty are no longer a mere matter of vanity, but her fob — and a hard one. Compensation for the rigid self -discipline and sacrifice required, is the ability to be part of a creative scheme — a picture. tography has kept step with all of the frantic developments of destruction that modern warfare has unloosed. Now, when each day seems more tense than the last, the men of the motion picture industry are ready to throw their vast knowledge and experience into the scales. Who can foretell but what they might be a great factor in tipping the balance in our favor? It was our fortunate assignment to join the Navy for a short period to bring back action pictures of our fleet in the Pacific. I might add that when the time came to spend a week on a destroyer, I wasn't so sure we were "fortunate." We seemed to take the hard way as it was blowing up to gale-like proportions. I think they called it a 45-knot "breeze." Our problem was to transfer from the security of a first line battleship to the plunging deck of one of Uncle Sam's seagoin' greyhounds. The angry foam-flecked ocean that received us as we lowered away from the ship's side made our tiny motor whaleboat bob around like a cork. I remember being just a little resentful of the smirks that greeted me as I sprawled on the deck after a series of kangaroo-like leaps up the ship's ladder. The enlisted men in blue denims and the officers in khaki were a grim and efficient looking bunch. I learned later that a finer, squarer, more "he-manish" bunch of fellows could never be found on God's footstool. Well — we got a break. Imagine finding a nice berth waiting each of us on ships noted for their utilization of every square inch of space. True we could not room together and each shared a room with one of the officers but that proved to be the least of our troubles. My roommate was a swell fellow — an Ensign just completing his second year out of the Academy. Let's call him "Skillet" — all his brother officers did since they pinned the name on him at Annapolis. He didn't even embarrass me by asking if I got seasick but just invited me to make myself comfortable. I pulled over a chair and sat down facing the porthole on the 'midships side of the cabin. The inarticulate cry from Skillet came too late. It seemed as if a giant hand just lifted me bodily and hurled me against the "skin" of the ship. I lifted a dazed head in impressive silence and after that always sat athwartships. Came dinner time. I confess I was having just the slightest doubt about the condition of my stomach. Maybe it was that second piece of apple pie I had on the battleship. Anyway we made our uncertain way to the Officers' Wardroom. A strange sight greeted me as I surveyed my first Destroyer "Dinner Table." If you've ever seen table racks you can appreciate my thoughts as I saw the neat box-like arrangement that securely anchors each plate and cup in place while you eat. The mess boys silently wait for you to be seated and then lash you in place. It's all very matter-of-fact but 50 impressive. To my undying credit I still insist that I enjoyed that first meal and had a good night's sleep. I even ate a whopping big breakfast the next morning and got readv for the day's work with keen anticipation. Our maneuvers were scheduled for the afternoon and we were making easy headway to our rendezvous all morning. Green waves were ploughing regularly over the bow and angry white caps made the ocean seem almost white. Luncheon definitely had lost its attraction for me so when the familiar "call to quarters" sounded I was standing by ready and waiting. It was useless to deny the fact that old man Mai de Mr-re had at last claimed me for his victim. Someone had kindly donated a pail and if I could have worn it around my neck I possibly could have paid more attention to duty. Our speed was 26-knots and we were working up to "x" speed, which was top. Seated on a queer bicyclelike seat on one of the upper platforms and strapped in by means of a broad web belt. I felt for all the world like a cowpuncher riding a bronco. "X" speed now! The wake from our stern was six feet above the deck back there. Off to our starboard bow our enemy is sighted and our problem begins! ! We were leaping out of the water now. The wag who said that destroyers "have a motion all their own" never spoke truer words. The squadron ahead of us was smoke screening. Swell stuff! What a setup! A man-made cloud effect just for us. We were turning now and ploughing through the smoke screen. Our cameras were turning too — grinding out hundreds of feet that would see their first screening before the censoring eyes of the Naval Board of Review. Officers were cooly passing out their necessary orders while the men wrere at their "quarters," (stations) alert, tense but calm with it all. Looking them over I wanted to offer a silent prayer of thanks that the safety of our nation is entrusted in the hands of men like these. (Continued on Page 16 1 International Photographer for November, 1941