by Jon Stafford
“Admiral, I would be surprised if she could make more than twenty-eight knots to our thirty-three. In two hours, we should we able to force our way past, demolish her with our broadsides, and move on to the beachhead. The fact that their planes are not already hounding us means we are undetected until now. I am certain they are reporting our presence, but surely it will be some hours before they can mount a strike against us. By that time, we will be destroying their invasion force and saving New Guinea. The Americans will be set back for years.”
“Yes! You may proceed.”
The Citadel ensign, pilot of the one working scout plane on the Grand Rapids, reported to the bridge. Rodgers looked at him as he approached. He thought: This young kid with no battle experience, a mere child, is our only chance to not be blasted off the map in the next couple of hours.
“What’s your name, son?” Rodgers asked.
“Clark, sir, Manning C.”
“Oh yeah. Where you from?”
“Camden, South Carolina, sir.”
“I should have remembered! I didn’t tell you that I served with a guy from there when I was just out of the Academy. His name was Fortner, Jed Fortner. A nice guy.”
Ensign Clark shook his head. “I didn’t know him, sir.”
“You’ve probably heard we are going to have a battle here in a few minutes.”
“Yes, sir!”
“You think you can get off with that plane?”
“Yes, sir!”
“How many launches do you have from a ship?”
“Well, none, sir,” Clark answered sheepishly. “But I’ve trained a lot.”
“I’m sure you have. How much fuel you got? How many hours’ duration?”
“Nine hours, sir.”
“Hm. Well, I dearly hope you get to use it up. I want you to get off before we start firing, which will be in about five minutes. You need us to head into the wind?”
“No, sir.”
“How high are you supposed to spot from?”
“Five thousand feet, sir.”
“If you flew over us at that height, we’d blow the stuffing out of you, so don’t do that. Fly at, ah, seven thousand. If they shoot at you, go up to eight. I doubt they’ll shoot at you that high.”
Rodgers looked at the boy very seriously.
“We are depending on you. These people are going to overpower us unless you can help us out. If they have any spotter planes, I doubt they will interfere with you. You spot our guns, as you have been trained to do. Nothing else. Don’t get yourself killed. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” Clark looked a little shaken, the weight of responsibility clinging to him.
“Stay away from those destroyers,” Rodgers continued. “We might as well give you the best chance we can, so wait until we turn into the wind and give you the signal. Go!”
The young man ran off the bridge and down the ladder.
In a few minutes, the little Curtiss “Seagull” float biplane got off from its amidships launching track. As the two fleets drew parallel, running at high speed toward the southeast at 0712, Grand Rapids opened fire at more than fourteen miles range. The Japanese followed at 0731, but the range was too great for either side to score for more than an hour. Slowly, the Japanese pulled ahead with their speed advantage.
“Ask Chief Clark to come up here,” Rodgers said finally. In less than five minutes, the gray-haired engineering chief reported to the bridge.
Rodgers stood and took the cigarette from his mouth. “Chief, you’re going to have to give me more turns on the propeller shafts.”
The chief seemed taken aback. “I assure you that the engines are at maximum revolutions right now.”
Rodgers tried not to let his irritation show. He spoke calmly but insistently. “I know that. But I need at least half a knot more.”
“Sir, these old Babcock turbines can’t take much more abuse.”
“Well, it’s not going to make much difference,” Rodgers confided, in a lower voice. “At this speed they’re going to cross in front of us and sink us in the next hour with their broadsides.”
The old chief looked alarmed. “They’re in front of us, sir?”
“Yes,” Rodgers said placidly. “They’re about to get in front of us and mop us up on their way to that beachhead at Lae to murder our invasion force. Chief, if you have any old tricks up your sleeve, this is the time for them.”
“I’ll do what I can, sir.”
“I know you will, Frank.”
The chief hurried off. Shortly afterward, Rodgers felt a faint grinding and shuddering coming up through the deck plating as the 107,000 horsepower turbines brought the old American cruiser up two-thirds of a knot. They were now traveling at a shade over 31.5 knots.
On Zukaku, Admiral Osukawa sat confidently in his chair on the bridge. He had known for many years that one day the United States would be his country’s enemy. He thought, as did every Japanese sailor, of national hero Admiral Togo who annihilated the Russian fleet at the Battle of Tsushima Strait in 1905. That battle had assured the Japanese a place at the table of the world’s great nations. Now the Americans were pressing the Empire on every front. More great victories were essential, he knew. He reveled in the idea that he might humbly hold a place in the Japanese pantheon with Admiral Togo.
His entire training had been for triumphant fleet action, a face-to-face battle of samurai warriors who would vanquish the enemy and ensure the expansion of the Empire and its dominance in Asia for decades to come. Now, the usual American material superiority was reversed. A decisive victory over an inferior American force seemed only a matter of time away, and he exulted to himself and for his Emperor. I will expel the Americans from New Guinea and ensure our success on this flank in this battle of civilizations, he thought.
But after an hour, Osukawa began to feel uneasy. He turned to Satsuma. “Satsuma, I feel the American salvos coming closer.”
“Yes, Admiral, the Americans have put up a spotter plane.”
“I knew it was a bad omen, Captain, when our planes were damaged by that storm as we left Sasebo. What of our progress in getting around the enemy and onto the beachhead?”
“Sir, the old cruiser has more speed than we thought.”
“Well,” the Admiral responded abruptly, “did we hit her?”
“We’re not sure, sir. But Lieutenant Komada assured me a moment ago that Grand Rapids is continually buried under tons of water from our near misses. There’s no question that the concussion effects of these shells are causing her serious internal damage.”
“Yet she shows no sign of weakening speed or gun power.” Osukawa leaned forward intently.
“No, sir, but neither has she hit either Niitaka or us.”
There was a loud boom above, and then a near miss deposited an inch of water on the bridge.
Osukawa nodded at Satsuma. “I suggest you urge Komada to redouble his efforts.”
“Yes, sir.”
Constantly changing course to throw off the enemy’s aim, Captain Rodgers would calmly hold
up one hand or the other without saying anything. If the helmsman saw two fingers on the left hand, he would turn two points to port; one on the right hand meant one point to starboard. The helmsman would repeat the orders, and the word would be transferred to “Guns” and the two destroyers.
The eight-inch, 256 -pound Japanese projectiles, some thirty-five seconds in the air, continued to come close, plunging forty-five degrees down from their apogee of forty thousand feet.
Rodgers smiled and chuckled to himself. “Well, they certainly are lousy shots. Can’t they figure out that all I’m doing is heading toward the splashes of the ship firing the green dye “chasing salvos” and hoping for good luck with the other cruiser? They correct their aim and are bound to miss again.”
With the shells from twenty large caliber guns aimed at Grand Rapids, a young sailor on the bridge was beginning to shake and turn pale. Rodgers smiled and spoke to him.
“If they keep this up, they might just hit us.”
At that, a near miss deposited an avalanche of water on the bridge.
“Son, come over here next to me. I might need you,” Rodgers called. The sailor quickly followed the order and then stood next to his captain, almost as if seeking shelter.
“You’re Beck, right? Where you from?”
The boy was still shaking. “Overland Park, Kansas,” he said, so afraid he did not bother to say “sir.”
“That’s Kansas City, right?”
“Yes.”
“I have a great pal from Kansas City I played baseball with in college, Johnny Parks.”
The young man perked up and smiled. “Yes, sir, everybody in Kansas City knows of him. He was a big hero to us kids. When he got killed on Lexington at the Coral Sea, the whole town went into mourning.”
Rodgers frowned and spoke quietly. “I didn’t know. He was a good man.”
“Yes, sir!”
Remembering playing baseball with Parks brought an idea into Rodgers’ head. From what we’ve heard, he thought, on several occasions—like at the Savo Island and the Komandorski Islands battles—the Japanese have shied off from pressing their attacks and retreated too soon. Perhaps we could throw them off guard and they’ll make such a mistake again. Johnny taught me to throw a palm ball, a pitch that looks like a fastball but is really much slower. I think it’s time to throw another palm ball.
“Tell Chief Clark to make smoke,” he said.
“Make smoke, sir?” one of the men on the bridge questioned.
“Make smoke!” he said insistently.
He turned to Admiral Wells, who had a quizzical look on his face.
“We should try to keep these people off balance,” Rodgers explained, half smiling. “It can’t hurt, and it might just confuse them.”
The admiral nodded. Several minutes went by, with the captain changing the course several times in their death dance.
On Zukaku, Osukawa looked up as Satsuma rushed toward him.
“Admiral, the American is making smoke!”
Osukawa stood up quickly.
“Finally!” He smiled. “The American admiral is very bold but could not stand against us. He is hurt and trying to cover his retreat. Either his engine has been damaged, or our near misses have battered the old ship and caused severe flooding. Now is our chance. Advance and finish her off !”
“Sir, ‘Guns’ says they’re turning,” one of Grand Rapids’ bridge crew called out.
Wells and Rodgers went to the edge of the bridge, Rodgers picking up the phone.
“Sam, what’s up?” Rodgers listened and relayed the words to Admiral Wells. “Looks like they’re countermarching on us. Sam figures they’re turning back into us some, probably thinking we’re hurt.”
He waited while Cashion decided. “He thinks about 285, so slicing twenty degrees into us to cut down the range. Hold on, Sam, and try to listen to this.
“Come to new course, 325 degrees.” Rodgers held the phone and turned to a bluejacket. “Get Springer and Ransom in here.”
In less than a minute, the two officers walked in from the plot room.
Rodgers said, “You guys need to hear this.” He turned toward the admiral. “Sir, this is the break we need. As they turn back on us, it puts us in front of them for a change, far enough ahead that we can try to cut them off, give them a few broadsides. If they are turning back at 285 degrees, and we cut them off by heading 325, we could get in a number of salvos before they can do much to us. They’ll be in a single line and will only be able to use their forward guns, maybe four or six guns to our ten.”
The admiral had a better idea. “Well, the range will narrow. But, if you’re going to take that chance, why not really cut them off by turning to 345 degrees? That would cut sixty degrees in front of them. It would be better to have ninety, but they would turn away and not let us have that.”
Rodgers nodded. “Mr. Berry,” he called, “come to new course 345. Sam, you still there? You heard that? If we want a chance, we’re going to have to make a break for ourselves right here. It was only a matter of time paralleling them before they smashed us. Put every gun in against that lead ship’s big head.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rodgers put the phone down. “This really is our only chance to survive the next hour,” he said solemnly.
With the help of the spotter plane, “Guns” Cashion was on target with his broadsides and made two hits on Niitaka. At once the Japanese column veered off, again paralleling Grand Rapids, the range reduced to eight miles. Well, Rodgers thought, I hope that was worth it.
Nine minutes later, at 0959, the American cruiser was hit for the first time. The projectile penetrated above the armor belt and exploded in the galley, killing forty-five men and causing a very bad fire that took fifty minutes to contain. It also left them with no food stores for the crew.
A number of near misses jarred the ship, and three duds hit Grand Rapids. As was the case throughout the war, Japanese projectiles proved to have a high rate of failures. Some members of the crew actually saw the shells. As they began their plunge on the ship from their apogee, they reached terminal velocity at about 190 miles per hour, producing a strange screeching sound that drew the men to look directly at them.
“Sir, radar reports planes to the east,” one of the bridge crew piped up. Rodgers and Wells walked to the starboard side of the bridge.
“Radar now shows sixty to seventy planes, sir, thirty to forty miles out.”
Rodgers and Wells watched the flying specks come closer.
Finally, the admiral spoke. “Damn,” he said, “Those are our planes. Look like bombers in formation. They’re our bombers, going to blast hell out of Rabaul!”
Rodgers smiled. “Well, that’s just fine. At least it’s not the enemy!”
He put his binoculars down and thought to himself: This really is unbelievable. We send out a plain language message two and a half hours ago that the beachhead is in danger, and those dopes at HQ can’t change the flight path of a load of airplanes. I’ll bet twenty of those planes would convince the enemy to withdraw.
The combination of the spotter plane calling Grand Rapid’s “shorts” a
nd “longs” and Rodgers’ uncanny ability to fool the enemy by his radical maneuvering began to pay off. In the next forty minutes, her gunnery was superb.
At least four of the eight-inch shells hit the main target, Niitaka. By 1030, she seemed to be listing several degrees and losing speed. Grand Rapids’ crew could see fires on her without binoculars, especially near the bridge.
After taking another hit, Niitaka was forced to leave the battle line, turning and chugging away into the distance, spewing smoke. She eventually made the port of Gasmata on New Britain Island. On the 25th, she was attacked and sunk there by the same flight of bombers from the Fifth Air Force that had flown past at Huon Gulf.
Admiral Osukawa sat dejectedly on the bridge of Zukaku.
“If only I had the power of the Americans, just once could command that number of planes. I feared their planes since we left Sasebo. Unaccountably, they have not touched us. Instead, this ghost ship hits us but is impervious to the shells of our mighty ships. How bad is the damage to Niitaka?”
“Admiral, I’m sorry to report that she will have to retire.” Satsuma’s face looked drawn and weary. “She has six serious hits, sir, with much internal flooding.”
“Order her to Gasmata. We will join her there if we can. Tell Captain Osumata that we will avenge her and accomplish our mission.”
When Satsuma returned from sending the message, the admiral was ready.
“The American has been very clever. He has outsmarted us with his ruse of making smoke. How has he been able to avoid our shells?”
“Admiral, I believe it to be pure luck. The grouping of her salvos has actually been poor. Ours land much closer together but for some unaccountable reason, have not hit home. We heard before the war that the muzzle velocity of Grand Rapids and her sisters’ guns is too great and leads to poor groupings.”
