Neither Turner nor Crutchley displayed the slightest apprehension. When the conference ended, Crutchley insisted on taking Vandegrift to the destroyer minesweeper Southard (DMS-10) for his trip to Tulagi before returning to Australia, his flagship. Australia awaited the admiral’s return near McCawley, both ships steaming slowly north of Red Beach, twenty miles from Savo and the forces under Admiral Crutchley’s command. Crutchley had little more than reached his flagship when all hell broke loose.
Ashore, at the division command post, the night was passing uneventfully, although our radios could not penetrate the jungle and our wire lines were constantly being cut by our own troops moving along the government track. Ship-to-shore communication was perfect—a mixed blessing.
It had been a clear, muggy tropical evening, but shortly after midnight a high thin mist moved in. About 0100, 9 August we heard the unmistakable sound of aircraft. Maj. Kenny Weir, our air officer, was with me. “Cruiser float planes,” he said, “and not ours.” A moment later he added, “Where there are cruiser planes, there are cruisers.”
The planes, two or three of them, circled overhead and began illuminating the transport area. Their flares lit the entire Lunga Roads with a vivid greenish light of amazing intensity, surpassing anything either of us had ever seen.
At this moment I came face to face with my first hands-on lesson of the war: distinct changes of light intensity produce a plethora of erroneous reports. It happens after every sunset; before every dawn. Familiar offshore rocks or islets suddenly become hostile ships; waving kunai grass takes on the form of advancing infantry. We came to call them “purple shadow reports.”
We immediately became the recipients of a series of excited messages from McCawley. They came in faster than we could reply: “Japanese attacking Red Beach” and “Enemy landing on Red Beach” are samples of what came from our flagship.
Although we had no communication link with Red Beach at the moment, it was quite apparent that nothing was going on down there. I tried to frame soothing replies. After all, it is difficult for a lieutenant colonel to tell a rear admiral that he is talking through his hat.15
What had happened was this: When the Japanese lit up the roadstead, many of our ships’ boats plying to and from Red Beach in the dark saw each other for the first time. Most boats were armed, and some excited boat crews opened fire, starting an “intramural,” as we came to call them in Old George. We were to suffer some of these misencounters ourselves during the next few days, good ones too. They are as old as war itself, a natural phenomenon of growing up on the battlefield, the mumps and measles on the road to military maturity.
Events quickly overtook this minicrisis. The horizon south of Savo Island lit up with gun flashes, searchlights stabbed the darkness, and countless projectiles, from 20mm to 8-inch, arched across the sky, their red and green tracers adding a startling touch of color as they searched for targets. They found them soon enough. Huge fires blazed up momentarily like mammoth boxes of wooden matches ignited by sparks.
“Magazines,” I thought aloud.
“No,” Weir answered from the darkness. “Those are our own cruiser planes. Still on deck and full of gas. They should have been flown off.”
So intense were these flames that on some ships men could not even reach their general quarters stations.
The firing died down. Several minutes later it flared up again, this time north of Savo, where our other cruisers were engaged. The same horrifying spectacle was reenacted. Then silence.
Despite all logic we tried to tell ourselves that we had come out on top. Only Weir was unconvinced. I could tell that he was deeply concerned. As division air officer he had been instrumental in planning and organizing the naval gunfire support for the landing forces. He had obtained the services of Marine aviators trained and experienced in the adjustment and control of naval gunfire against shore-based targets. These officers had been temporally distributed among the cruisers of the covering force. Weir said nothing, but I sensed that he was worried about their fate. Several of these pilots were indeed among those lost that night.
The nightmare Battle of Savo Island was over. Many cheerless hours were to pass before we learned that in less than a half hour an inferior Japanese force had destroyed four of our five cruisers. We had scored only one damaging hit on one enemy cruiser. It had been a disastrous night for us.
It began to rain, a warm rain. I sat down and leaned against a palm, taking such shelter as my helmet afforded, and fell asleep. I was totally exhausted—physically and mentally. I’d had no real rest since before we sighted Guadalcanal. We did not know the results of that brief and furious battle. There was absolutely nothing we could do to aid our friends and ship-mates out on that cruel water, whether they were alive or dead.
We received no more messages from the fleet.
General Vandegrift and Jerry returned shortly after daybreak. They said we had lost some ships but were uncertain as to details. There was good news too. Tulagi was now entirely USMC. The fighting was over, and the troops could now turn in full force to clear the Tulagi beaches and expedite unloading, which had been going badly due to the intransigence of the commander of Transport Group Yoke.
Someone started a fire. We warmed ourselves. Col. Hawley C. Waterman collected some instant coffee envelopes discarded from C rations and made coffee in a metal ammo box for all hands. I drank mine from an empty hash can that had contained my breakfast. Delicious. The rain stopped. Heavy mist hindered our view to seaward. There was intermittent firing by a single heavy gun. The concussion of each explosion shook the foliage, showering us with dislodged droplets. Col. Pedro del Valle, commanding the 11th Marines, our artillery regiment, said quietly, “That firing is one of our ships sinking the Canberra.” Silence engulfed us. The solemn requiem for that brave and dying ship continued.
General Vandegrift appeared, and Jerry Thomas gave the oral order for defense, in part as follows:
Commander, Naval Forces South Pacific reports large enemy forces gathering at Rabaul.16 We may expect an attack on this beachhead within ninety-six hours.
The 1st Marine Division will organize the Lunga Point beaches for defense against an attack from the sea in two sectors.
1st Marines, less 1st Battalion division reserve, plus attached units will on the right organize and defend landing beaches from the Lunga River, exclusive, to the mouth of the Tenaru with its right flank refused for a distance of four hundred yards along the left (west) bank of that river.
5th Marines, less 2d Battalion, plus attached units will on the left organize and defend landing beaches from the Lunga River (inclusive) with its left flank resting on the high ground 1,000 yards south of Kukum.
11th Marines will provide general support from firing positions in rear of the beach areas.
1st Engineer Battalion proceed immediately with completion of the airfield as a matter of highest priority.
All units provide own local security.
No ground will be given up under any circumstances without the express order of the division commander.
It was that simple, and it worked: the first combat order ever issued to a Marine division in the presence of the enemy.
I went over to the new command post located at the airfield only a few yards from the partially completed strip. It abutted an ancient coral reef or finger that provided limited protection against naval gunfire coming from the north. A small adjacent knoll gave restricted observation to the north and west covering part of Ironbottom Sound. Our command post was for all intents and purposes a part of the airfield that obviously would become an inviting target for enemy aircraft and naval forces. Too soon our CP became known as the “impact center.”
Just prior to our landing the area had been thoroughly worked over by U.S. Navy dive bombers. Near the east end there was what remained of a Japanese blacksmith shop crudely constructed of native materials. Tech. Sgt. Raymond C. “Butch” Morgan, the general’s cook, was already inside boiling bea
ns on the blacksmith’s forge, which, strangely, was still intact. Butch had inherited the blacksmith’s belongings and was already wearing a pair of his pants. The former owner, now deceased, was lying nearby.
Cpl. Walter “Shorty” Mantay, Butch’s striker, was busy filling empty bamboo matting rice bags with dirt to build a parapet around the new galley. When I came back several hours later, the boiled beans were done and the blacksmith interred nearby. Mantay was still filling rice bags, and Butch and his pal, Sgt. Hook Moran, were having a coffee in the general’s galley. Situation well in hand.
I went down to Red Beach. No ship-to-shore activity was in progress. The beach itself was hopelessly blocked because Reifsnider, the commodore of Transport Group Xray, had on the afternoon of 8 August ordered general unloading to begin. This was the prerogative of the amphibious force commander and then only upon recommendation of the landing force commander based on his ability to receive the increased volume of supply flowing to the beach. No such authorization was ever given, and Reifsnider is largely responsible for the logistical breakdown that followed. Additional manpower was required.
Turner had wrongfully withheld about 1,400 officers and men of the 2d Marines on the ships. He could have put them ashore to assist in the task. Likewise, Reifsnider had available aboard Hunter Liggett all the survivors of the George F. Elliott (AP-13). Also, he had authority to land some 500 Marines of the 1st Division temporarily detailed as ships’ platoons. (One Marine platoon is customarily assigned to each transport and cargo vessel to assist in identifying and selectively unloading cargo needed during the early stages before general unloading begins, at which point their services are no longer required.) The men left behind on each transport would have provided ample manpower. In the disorder of the pullout these men never got ashore to rejoin their combat units. This resulted in a severe loss exceeding in numbers the battle casualties already suffered by the division. These men were never returned to Guadalcanal. Turner had them reorganized as a unit called a “Provisional Raider Battalion.” This action was taken totally without authority. By law only the commandant of the Marine Corps acting with the express authority of the Secretary of the Navy can create an organization of the Marine Corps.
At this juncture Vandegrift was confronted with the most critical situation a commander can face—inability to “find, fix, and fight” the large enemy force that Turner had told him was waiting on Guadalcanal. As we now know, Turner’s estimate of enemy strength was wide of the mark, since it was based on unrealistic appraisals made at MacArthur’s headquarters in Melbourne. But this had not yet been established as a fact at the time Reifsnider gave his devastating order. The torrent of cargo flowing to the beach quickly overwhelmed the resources available to receive it. Confusion ensued, leading to disorder that extended back to the transport group itself. Very little unloading was accomplished after the enemy torpedo plane attack on the afternoon of 8 August, according to Lieutenant Colonel Pate, our D-4 (logistics).
I met General Vandegrift on the beach. He gave me a full account of our losses in the previous night’s surface action. I found it almost unbelievable.
We looked out across Red Beach to the transport area. All the ships were under way, maneuvering individually at flank speed. To what end I do not know. They were not dropping depth charges. (Japanese records indicate two submarines reached the area sometime on 9 August but made no attack.)17 Our transports would not even stop to retrieve their own boats, which pursued them frantically to no avail. The sight reminded me of the Old Mariner’s rhyme:
When in danger or in doubt Steam in circles, scream and shout.
But I pass no judgments, recalling the ancient admonition of the Roman Gen. Lucius Paulus, “Let him not, on land, assume the office of a pilot.”18
Gazing out at the scene off Red Beach, General Vandegrift asked in a soft voice, “Bill, what has happened to your navy?”
I could think of no better reply than “I don’t believe the first team is on the field yet, General.”
From his remote observation post on Guadalcanal, Martin Clemens, Coast Watcher for Ferdinand, described the scene just as we had observed it at the same hour, noting the absence of one county-class cruiser (Canberra) and some U.S. cruisers as well (Quincy, Vincennes, and Astoria).19
There was scarcely more than a pretext of order after that. Some ships failed even to retrieve all of their own boats and crewmen. These men and boats proved a valuable addition to our small boat pool, operating under command of Lt. Comdr. Dwight Dexter, USCG, until we were able to return them to Noumea.
The ships straggled out one by one through Sealark Channel to form on McCawley for the trip back to Noumea. At nightfall Kelly Turner sent a somewhat misleading dispatch to Ghormley reporting his departure and our situation ashore. That brought the operation to a somewhat inglorious end. It was, to quote Charles I, “an unhandsome quitting.”20
We were left without exterior communications or support of any kind and with no assurance that help would be forthcoming. We had no source of information or observation except what we could derive from a twenty-four-foot observation tower constructed of palm logs inherited from the emperor. We were on half rations, had little ammunition and no construction equipment or defensive materials whatsoever, and no one would talk to us when we improvised a long-distance transmitter from captured Japanese radio equipment. Outside of that we were in great shape. However, the sorrow of our parting was not too greatly increased by the realization that Kelly Turner would not be here to occupy the tent we had prepared for him when he proposed to come with us into Macedonia and that we would hereafter be forced to depend solely upon “councils but such as shall be framed within our camp.”21
It is of interest to assess the parts played by certain key figures in the vast drama of our first offensive action. At the Washington level, Adm. Ernest J. King, commander in chief, U.S. Fleet (CinCUSFLT) and chief of naval operations (CNO), was a great leader who sensed and seized the moment. He believed it was better to have “a man, a boy, and a horse pistol” up the slot today than a field army next spring. King rolled the dice, but the risk was not uncalculated. He had good people to work with and good tools at hand. Things went surprisingly well until the Savo disaster. This was certainly no fault of his. Even so, the undertaking was a success. We had taken possession of a strategic area in the major theater of the Pacific. If the Japanese hoped to expand their conquests, we would have to be dislodged. Subsequent history shows that the Japanese laid the foundation of their own ruin in the Solomons. Possession of Guadalcanal meant that henceforth we could call the tune in the Pacific. And we did.
Rear Adm. Richmond Kelly Turner, commander, South Pacific Amphibious Force, alone of the navy leaders, displayed the same type of bold aggressive leadership that characterized King. Unlike King, however, he was possessed of a colossal ego that sometimes led to decisions that ignored the dictates of ordinary common sense. He needed someone to keep him on a short tether. Halsey understood this and did it, but that was later.
Turner’s good luck—and ours—ended at 1845 on 8 August when he received the long-delayed dispatch telling of the sighting of Mikawa’s squadron. The message had taken eight hours and nineteen minutes to reach him. From then on things went sadly awry. Turner ordered Vandegrift and Crutchley to come aboard McCawley , yet he had no business with either that could not have been handled by the dispatch of a message or a staff officer. In Crutchley’s case attendance was highly complicated and dangerous, for it required him to turn over command to Captain Bode of Chicago, the next senior officer in the southern group. Crutchley did not inform Captain Riefkohl on Vincennes in the northern group of his departure, although actual command of the two groups would devolve upon Riefkohl, not Bode. Nor did he notify Rear Admiral Scott in San Juan, screening the eastern flank of the transport area along with HMAS Hobart.
Then, in the dark, Crutchley had to close McCawley, twenty-four miles away. Australia’s absence reduced the firepower of t
he southern group by one-third. Following the conference Australia either would have to attempt the dangerous maneuver of rejoining the southern group in the dark or would have to wait until daybreak. Naval customs and courtesies have their place, to be sure, but not to this extent, particularly in time of war.
Nothing could have been accomplished at such a meeting, and nothing was accomplished. Turner was left uncovered by Fletcher’s flight and had to pull out through no fault of his own. Any details to be worked out, such as future communications with the Marines, would have been better handled at the staff level.
The attempts to cover Kelly Turner for his tragic folly range from the grotesque to the frivolous: for example, Crutchley had expressed a desire to “talk things over” with Turner sometime at the latter’s convenience. I doubt this was the particular moment either of them would have selected for such a talk. Furthermore, the need for Vandegrift to be present at such a discussion totally escapes me. But there it is in the record.22 The unforeseen result of this untoward summons was that an Allied force without a flag officer present was destroyed, ship by ship, in a series of confused single ship versus enemy fleet encounters.
Kelly Turner insists he will accept full responsibility for any mistakes he may have made—and then vehemently insists he never made the slightest error. In his biography there is a particularly illuminating passage of intemperate denials wherein he places blame for the disaster on just about everyone in the world except himself and Mother Teresa.
Particularly exceptionable is Turner’s excoriation of Rear Adm. John McCain’s patrol aircraft for failure to detect and report the movement of Admiral Mikawa’s cruisers during the late afternoon of 8 August. These patrol aircraft were few in number and operated over a vast area at the extreme radius of their endurance.
In this unjust criticism of McCain, Turner lays himself open to the charge that, like so many inexperienced commanders, he failed to employ all weapons available to him: specifically, the more than fifteen scouting planes of the cruiser force. Had they been sent out to scour the area south of Rekata Bay at sunset, they could not have failed to locate the oncoming enemy force before nightfall, as it was only a comparatively short distance northwest of Savo Island.
No Bended Knee Page 10
