by Jon Stafford
“So, all of ours hit or none. Then, how can she hit us at all?” the Admiral demanded.
“Sir, my explanation is that her shells are so errant that some just happen to hit.”
“I tire of this game, Satsuma.” Osukawa leaned back in his chair. “Let us employ a trick of our own. Order our destroyers to close to torpedo range by 1100 and launch their Model 93s, the six-thousand-pound torpedoes. This must be done slowly, so as not to alarm the American destroyer screen. Let us see if we can catch the devil ship with a torpedo or two.”
“Yes, Admiral!”
Thirty minutes passed with neither cruiser making a hit. Finally, on the US cruiser, a sailor answered the phone and spoke to Captain Rodgers.
“‘Guns,’ sir.”
Again Rodgers relayed Cashion’s words to the Admiral. “Sam thinks those destroyers are getting too close, maybe getting into position to make a run on us to launch torpedoes.”
“Are we within range of their torpedoes?” Admiral Wells sounded worried.
Before either man could say another word, a titanic blast hit destroyer Avery. It blew off the bow up to the number one turret, leaving her dead in the water. Moments later, a second torpedo found its mark, hurling men and equipment one hundred feet in the air. When the smoke cleared, Avery was gone.
Rodgers ordered Grand Rapids to loop back by the survivors. As she did, the cruiser’s men threw life jackets, and anything else that would float, into the water. Avery crewmen would remain in the water for thirty hours, until being rescued by a curious flotilla including Winslow, a number of smaller surface ships, and the submarine Tenorfish. In the meantime, they held front row seats for the finale.
Apprised of the destruction of the American destroyer, Admiral Osukawa sat motionless for a moment, depressed that the twenty-four torpedoes had missed the American cruiser. Suddenly, he stood and raised his voice to Captain Satsuma, who turned.
“The American will make his mistake! Up until now he has outfoxed us, but now he will loop back for survivors. I know the weaknesses of these Americans from my years in Washington! He cannot afford to free his last destroyer to pick up his men in the water, because he knows we might have submarines in front of him. Thus, he will loop back to jettison lifeboats and his ability to maneuver will be diminished! He will be caught in a funnel. Tell Komada the American will loop back for his worthless men. This is our chance! We must strike hard!”
By this time, the American flagship was a shambles inside. The concussion of the great guns had strewn passageways all over the ship with gear and personal items. Storage areas not secured, or that had come loose, had emptied their contents onto the deck. Soon it would be much worse. Just as Grand Rapids passed the Avery survivors, she was bracketed and then hit by two salvos from Zukaku.
One of the shells penetrated the two inches of glacis armor on the face of the 250-ton “X” turret and destroyed it, killing all of the men inside. Luckily, the hit did not detonate the magazine several decks below and destroy the ship. The second and third shells were more serious, penetrating just below the waterline on the starboard side, causing such destruction that in the end the flooding could not be contained. A fourth shell proved to be another dud.
The fifth and last exploded behind the plot room in back of the bridge, knocking the bridge personnel to the floor.
Once the smoke began to clear, Rodgers was the first to enter the shattered plot room, followed by some of the bridge crew. Amid the maelstrom of smoke and noise, they tended to the wounded as best they could. Rodgers spotted others in the wreckage, clearly beyond any help: the executive officer, Springer, Ransom, and many of the other men.
When the wounded had been cared for and removed to a safer area, he came back and collapsed into his chair.
So, he thought, I’ve killedTommy Ransom. I’ve killedTommy. And Springer, and all those other men. He covered his face, overwhelmed with grief.
Admiral Wells had been supervising the bridge while Rodgers helped with the wounded.
“You men go about your work,” Rodgers heard the old man say calmly. “Helmsman, come to a new course of 250 degrees. Get Lieutenant Andrews up here to make his damage report. He’ll be down below in all of that mess somewhere.”
In a minute, Rodgers was standing next to Wells. Wiping the tears from his face, he was ready to resume command.
“You got her headed for the beachhead?” he asked.
“Yeah,” the admiral said. “I can’t think it’s going to be good, but let’s see what the damage is. We need to get out of here for now.”
The Americans, still making smoke and still able to make twenty-five knots, retreated west toward the beachhead, destroyer Winslow bringing up the rear.
In about fifteen minutes, a young officer appeared, solemn-faced, dirty, and dripping wet, his cap long since gone.
“You been all the way down?” Rodgers asked.
“Yes, sir.” The twenty-five-year-old Andrews was breathing hard. “As near as I can tell with all of that water coming in, sir, we have two large holes well forward of the armor belt. They are large, real large. And they couldn’t have been placed in worse spots. The one near the fourth bulkhead is high enough that you can see about half of the hole. Sir, you could drive a Packard right through it. You’ll begin to lose headway here pretty quick. I’m guessing there’s probably three hundred tons of water down there now and more coming in like Niagara Falls. It was seven, eight feet over the keel when I left. The other we think is worse, judging from the water flowing in, but low enough that we can’t even see the hole. I doubt Chief Engel can do much with either of them. But the men are down there now trying to fashion coffer dams, doing all they can.”
“I knew it was bad!” said the admiral.
“Actually, sir, it couldn’t be much worse,” Andrews replied. “That lower one’s putting tons of pressure on that old keel. If you could reduce speed, it would be one thing. As it is, another shot in there and we could break in two.”
“Is there any chance she can survive?” the admiral asked.
Andrews thought hard, all the naval engineering experience and training he had ever had flashing through his mind.
“No,” he answered glumly, shaking his head. “Admiral, without further damage, I’ll give her six hours—maybe eight if the coffer dams work. But she will go.” He saluted and headed back down.
“Get ‘Guns’ for me,” the captain ordered.
In a moment Cashion was on the line.
“Sam, it looks like we’ve about had it.”
“Afraid so, sir. Those shots rocked us up here almost enough to knock out the fire control system.”
“Yeah, Andrews gives us eight hours if we’re lucky. What’s that second cruiser up to?”
He relayed the response to the admiral. “Sam says it looks like they’re coming around on us from the north, looking to finish us off.” He hung up the phone.
“All right, Kip, you’re going to have to pick your ground,” Wells told Rogers. “Make your stand before we get too close to the beachhead.”
“Sir,” Satsuma said to his Admiral, “we have hit Grand Rapids several times as she cleared the destro
yer’s survivors, Komada says. Best of all, he thinks the bridge has been hit and destroyed.”
“Ah, Captain.” The admiral smiled, nodding. “Finally, let us hope that we have killed this American admiral and the Devil Ship is finished! Charge down on her to make sure. Be vigilant that their last destroyer cannot torpedo us. But, Satsuma, do not slow. We are late for our appointment, as the Americans say. We mustn’t tarry here but go on to the beachhead at Lae before their air fleet arrives. There we will do the Emperor’s bidding as long as we have strength in our limbs.”
Rodgers went on for several miles, neither cruiser scoring any hits. At 1128, he ordered the ship to turn across the Japanese line of march. With smoke billowing out of Grand Rapids, the range about seven miles, it was not immediately clear to the Japanese that she had turned broadside and the three remaining turrets were firing against them.
The range came down very quickly, and Grand Rapids made good on the enemy’s confusion. “Guns” was on target again. From 1142 to 1154, he made four hits on Zukaku. The crew saw one in particular, visible without binoculars, hit in the aft of the ship, creating a tremendous fire. Luckily, there was too little time for the Japanese to put their torpedoes to use.
At 1210, the Japanese had had enough and retired to the northeast in the direction of Rabaul, which Zukaku made in twelve hours. The five-hour Battle for Huon Gulf was over.
Aboard Zukaku, Osukawa sat in a lump. He mumbled to himself.
“So, the American admiral was not killed. He has beaten me after all. Twice the power, surprise, newer and faster ships. The Americans have devil ships, first Salt Lake City and now Grand Rapids. I have failed the Emperor. Captain Satsuma,” he said, slightly louder, “can we make port?”
“Yes, Admiral, the fire near the torpedo tubes is under control. All of the fires are under control, but we must seek shelter in a harbor as soon as possible. What signal shall I make to our destroyers?”
The old officer did not respond. A long silence ensued.
Finally, in a far-off voice, he said, “Choshi, did I ever tell you of the cherry blossoms at Kinan along the Yoshino river near my home when I was a boy?”
Without giving Satsuma time to answer, he went on. “Our greatest joy as children was to go to nearby Tosa Bay and watch the whales come in shore. Or to watch the American steamers go in and out of Osaka. I dreamt for many years of riding one of those steamers to see the incredible wonders of the United States. It had a fascination for me, Satsuma, which only the mind could hold. Only later did I realize they would be our enemies.”
He looked down at the deck with no expression on his face.
“Now I will be relieved. And humbled before the Emperor. I should like to return to see the cherry blossoms one more time. I wonder if that would be allowed.”
There was a moment of great rejoicing aboard the American ships, but officers and men alike knew that their cruiser was in very bad shape. They tried desperately to save the ship. They brought the fires under control, but they couldn’t halt the flooding. Men left their gun stations and manned bucket brigades for the next six hours.
Captain Rogers set course for Milne Bay. When that became out of the question, the hope was to beach the ship on the coast near Buna, some thirty miles away. But the ship continued to sink, nose first.
At 1814, with Buna still twenty miles off, Rodgers ordered “Abandon Ship.” The long process of getting the men over the side began. Many wept openly at leaving their home, a ship that had performed so heroically this hot day in the tropics. With their wounds, many had to be lowered to the boats in agony. Luckily there were enough boats, and Winslow was able to get very close in the nearly calm sea.
The captain toured the ship, saw that the men were getting out in an orderly fashion, and then went back to sit on the bridge in his chair. Almost forty minutes went by before Admiral Wells turned to his protégé.
“Kip, I’m going to go. You made me proud today. Thanks for letting me go out on a good note. But I can’t stay with her—I have a date with my Polly! You going to come?”
Rodgers looked up admiringly at the person who, for all practical purposes, was his father. “I’d like to sit here a while, sir.”
Wells raised his eyebrows. “I understand. This has to be your choice, but I wish you would come with me.”
Rodgers looked up with the same love in his eyes but said nothing.
The old man slowly walked off, went over the side, and got into a boat.
It was now relatively quiet on the bridge, just as it had been almost fifteen hours before when he’d first come on the bridge. Rodgers bowed his head and prayed again: Heavenly Father, You have graciously granted us victory today. I pray that the men who perished did not do so in terror. Assure the family of each that their loss was not meaningless, and comfort them now, and in the years to come. Now, take my soul to Purgatory, that I may atone for my sins of killing so many this day.
The great warship slowly settled by the bow. As the waves began to lap over the foredeck, rivulets began their inexorable process of claiming the deck. There was only an occasional terrible grinding sound as the ship quietly died. The fires were out, but smoke continued to billow out from several areas.
Sam Cashion hurried down the passageway from the aft part of the ship. He had watched over the evacuation of his own people in the fire control area and had been to the engine room to make sure that everyone who could get out was out. Now, he saw no one. He was determined to get to the bridge before the cruiser sank, because he knew who he would find there.
As he expected, when he mounted the steps, he saw the captain in his chair with the usual placid expression on his face and cigarette between his fingers. He looked completely relaxed, almost as though he were getting ready to take a nap on the porch.
“Did the admiral get out?” Cashion asked.
“Yes.”
“Sir, come with me.”
“I’ll be along,” Rodgers said, not looking up and not moving. “You go ahead.”
“You hurt, sir? Your leg?”
“No. I’m just going to sit here a while.”
“Sir, she might founder at any moment.”
“I know.”
“Come with me.” Cashion stepped toward Rodgers.
Rodgers looked into Cashion’s eyes. “Leave me here with her.”
Cashion went still. He paused, without saying anything, for more than a minute. The ship creaked and groaned ominously, telling those who would listen that she was tired out and would have to give up soon.
Finally, he said, “Come with me.”
Rodgers made no movement.
Cashion spoke with some agitation in his voice. “Look, sir, I pulled you out of the drink once before. If she goes down with us here on the bridge, I don’t think I could do it again. She’ll take us both down with her.”
Rodgers looked up at Cashion. “Sam, you and that little ensign won this battle for us today. I hope he’s okay. Thanks.”
He looked around the ship.
“This was her great moment. She even goes down with grace, doesn’t she?”
Both nodded.
&nbs
p; “I suppose better here than in the breaker’s yard,” Rodgers said.
Cashion paused again. There were several more dire grinding sounds. He looked about, half expecting a torrent of waters to begin rushing in.
“Sir, Springer’s dead. Ransom’s dead. That means either the Admiral or I will be the one to go see your wife. I don’t want to do that! Please don’t make me do that! You have won a great victory today. You defeated an enemy force twice our size and saved those guys on the beach.”
He shook his head slowly.
“The boys put some good shots into that first ship. She’s probably at the bottom by now. Sir, come with me! She will slide any moment now.”
Rodgers looked up, his eyes blinking slowly. “Sam, I lost two ships in two years.”
Cashion shouted back. “I am not going to leave you here! I will NOT!”
That jarred Rodgers. He looked up into Cashion’s eyes. He knew he could order the man out, but knowing Cashion, he wouldn’t go.
Rodgers wanted to remain on the bridge and go down with the vessel he loved so much. Sitting there had been the most comfortable feeling of peace he had ever known. But his code of honor, the ancient “Soldier’s Elegy,” did not include selfishness. He would not cause the death of another. He stood up, dropping his cigarette.
“All right,” he said quietly. He took a deep, slow breath. “Did they get the log?”
Cashion went to it and picked it up. “I’d hate to have to save this thing and you too,” he said.
The two smiled together as they left the bridge, walked down the two flights of stairs to the deck, and went to the rail.
