Because I was the commanding officer of the PT-493—affectionately nicknamed “Carole Baby” after my daughter, who had been born exactly a year before—I was called to a briefing about supposedly routine patrols set for the evening of 24 October 1944. We soon learned that the PT force was about to become the first line of defense against the advancing Japanese fleet.
I was assigned three PT boats to take position in the middle of Surigao Strait, between the islands of Panaon and Dinagat, just off Caniquin Point. As we got under way, a heavy overcast on the horizon had begun to plunge the evening into deep darkness. But morale was high. As we proceeded through the strait, only seven miles across at its widest point, the approaching islands gave the appearance of a bowling alley lane. The crew’s light mood changed quickly to one of apprehension, wondering whether we were being watched. Arriving on station, we received orders to space our boats 50 yards apart, across the width of the strait, guaranteeing that the Japanese fleet would meet the PT force dead-on.
It was nearly 0100, and as I stretched across the day-room deck in a vain effort to relax, I was alerted by a radio report that patrols farther south had encountered the enemy’s southern task force. Its ships were poised to make an all-out assault to regain the Philippines.
I knew that in a matter of a few minutes we would be in the heat of battle. I scanned the sky with my binoculars and told Nick Carter, my executive officer, “Steady as she goes.” No sooner had those words left my mouth than I sighted the approaching Japanese battle force at three miles.
We had no time to ponder the odds. Seconds later my number-two boat reported her four torpedoes were in the water. Number three reported two more torpedoes had been fired. (While making the attack, I had ordered my own boat to “come left” so as to stay well on the bow, and in so doing I had left formation).
Then, it happened. The dark, still night was transformed in an instant to a firestorm of enemy gunfire, eerie green star shells, and powerful searchlights, frantically pinpointing my two other attacking PTs. After they had been detected, the two boats cut loose with their small-caliber guns and at least managed to knock out two of the incriminating searchlights.
After hearing the thunderous barrage in our vicinity, I was convinced that the two other PT boats in my squadron had gone down. At this point, the PT-493 was still undetected, and I ordered Nick to keep closing on the enemy. When we reached a range of 500 yards, I gave the order to fire two of our four torpedoes. That order was barely executed before my boat was illuminated by searchlights and came under heavy fire. At this close proximity, we could see Japanese sailors scrambling about their ships, as every gun on the Carole Baby returned fire, making the bridges and searchlights their targets.
The concussion of exploding shells nearly knocked us off the boat. As the pattern of fire edged closer, I ordered Nick to come hard left, open throttles, and get out. I quickly dispatched a message that the Japanese fleet had passed through our section, and then I raced aft to release a smoke screen to protect us and, if possible, the other two boats, in the hope of making our escape and later returning to release the remaining torpedoes.
My plan proved to be futile, however. The PT-493 had penetrated the outer Japanese destroyer screen and had enemy ships on both sides, all shining their blinding searchlights at us. It seemed as though the Carole Baby was riding on a sea of phosphorus green. At this close distance, all of our 20 guns, ranging from .30-caliber to
40-mm, were pouring lead at the bridges of the Japanese ships. Two searchlights suddenly blinked out as though they had exploded, as the guns of the Carole Baby chattered away, the strong-willed lady determined to make good her escape.
Unfortunately, the smoke screen I had deployed failed to slow the barrage being leveled at the PT-493. Motor Machinist Burnelli soon reported to the bridge that we had been hit at the water line. (Not until later did I learn that Burnelli had yanked off his kapok life jacket and stuffed it into the jagged hole, averting the immediate sinking of the boat.) A moment later, Radioman Sekerik bolted out of the chart room to report that electrical power had died. Instantly, a blinding flash and terrific concussion shook the bridge, driving us out of the cockpit and hurling us against the ready-room canopy.
Stunned and blinded, I reeled forward in an effort to reach the chart house so I could try to establish our immediate position. I soon discovered, however, that most of the chart room and its equipment had been blown away. Realizing the full extent of our damage, I ordered Nick to steer a course toward Panaon. Even as our severely crippled vessel limped away, a Japanese destroyer shadowed us to make sure our remaining torpedoes would not interfere with her mission. Although the intensity of the destroyer’s shellfire had abated somewhat, we were definitely being “steered” toward the beach with sporadic gunfire.
We were in a race against time, however, as the Carole Baby was sinking by the minute, and Nick’s opened throttles were receiving little response from the badly damaged engines. They were almost completely submerged in water but were performing beyond expectations. Finally, just as the Japanese destroyer reversed course and headed north to rejoin her battle force, our last engine gave out. The bow bumped and scraped its way onto a small coral reef about 100 yards off the Japanese-held island of Panaon.
As I climbed onto the reef to survey the situation, the shellfire faded, and an eerie quiet surrounded me. The main beach was only a short distance away. From what we could see and hear, some form of life existed on the island, which gave all of us a feeling of unease.
Further inspection of the Carole Baby revealed that she had taken a terrific beating. Two shells had pierced the after stowage compartment, and both hits had entered broadside above the waterline and continued through the mahogany planking and plywood bulkheads without exploding. All told, she had taken five hits from major-caliber shells, but the explosion in the charthouse was the one that took its toll on the valiant crew; a roll call revealed that two were dead and nine wounded.
At this point, I was concerned about the security of our position, so I swam to the island to conduct a quick reconnaissance mission. I approached the sandy beach, trying to make as little noise as possible, for even the water dripping from my cap sounded as though a bongo drum was beating. Creeping to the beach, I came across an outrigger canoe and soon detected a small thatched-hut village with no obvious signs of life.
Realizing the wounded had to be treated, I interrupted my recon mission and swam back to the reef. I divided the crew into two sections, one to remain and care for the casualties, the other to return with me to explore the beach and village more extensively. Heavily armed with machine guns and grenades, ten of us swam to the beach and scurried through the village. Someone had been there, but our appearance obviously had triggered a quick evacuation. To evaluate the area more thoroughly, we decided to go deeper into the underbrush, then turn and head parallel with the beach. This type of warfare was very different from what my crew was accustomed to, however, and everyone seemed ill at ease with the situation.
About 200 yards ahead lay a small thatched hut. As we drew closer, we could hear muffled voices in Japanese. At the same instant, one of our crew was nearly strangled by what we first thought to be a low-hanging vine. Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be a telephone wire leading into the hut. We quickly severed the wire, retreated to the beach, and made a hasty return to the safety of our reef.
Concerned that the wire-cutting would soon result in Japanese patrols, we took whatever actions we could to fortify our little reef from enemy gunfire. As that long night passed, we heard no more from the Japanese on Panaon. What we did see and hear was another nightmare of gunfire and explosions. This time, however, the battle-weary crew of the Carole Baby was no longer the target, for the entire U.S. Seventh Fleet had taken the Japanese force under fire in the historic Battle of Leyte Gulf.
We watched through binoculars as ships caught fire and sank slowly. We could not tell which were American and which Japanese. As the night wore on, at least six ships could be seen burning fiercely, emitting an orange glow.
At dawn we fixed our eyes intently on the village for any sign of life. At first we saw nothing, until gradually the morning sun revealed the natives returning quietly to reclaim their homes. Members of our crew immediately started shouting across the water, “Americanos” and “Amigos” and other signs to indicate we were friendly. Eventually, they understood the situation and both crew members and natives began exchanging friendship gestures.
We then turned our attention to how we would get back to base. Three PT boats roared by, but we were unable to attract their attention. A short time later, the slow-moving Japanese heavy cruiser Mogami, afire as a result of the night’s action, passed the reef at a distance of about two miles, limping south toward the open sea. As I followed the ship with my binoculars, I spotted another PT boat racing rapidly toward the cruiser and watched the boat launch two torpedoes. One thousand. Two thousand. Three . . . I counted silently. All guns on the cruiser were belching flame simultaneously in an attempt to silence our sister boat, which was zigzagging her way toward our beach and safety. Finally, the Mogami burst into a ball of flames as the torpedoes found their mark. So completely had the Carole Baby been torn apart by shellfire that the approaching PT at first took her for a Japanese barge and prepared to make a gun run and claim another prize. Only at the last minute did she recognize us as Americans and turn away her guns. The boat’s skipper, my old friend Holly Thronson, who was responsible for getting me into the PT force, told me later: “I’m your lifeguard all the time.”
The mortally wounded Carole Baby was pulled off the reef in a valiant effort to salvage her. We all knew, however, that she had made her last patrol as she sank in deep water on 25 October 1944. The crew was returned to base and our two heroic crew members who made the supreme sacrifice received a Christian burial. On our transit back to the base, burning and smoking hulks of the Japanese fleet could be seen drifting with the tide as Japanese sailors clung for life to any available flotsam. Only then did I realize that my beloved Carole Baby had contributed immensely to the defeat of the Japanese fleet in the greatest naval battle in history. These were some of the last of the wooden boats and iron men. I salute them all.