When I heard that your five destroyers were plunging into an attack against the Japanese heavy striking force, I felt like a young princess sitting alone in a castle while the gallant knights went forth to battle. If the knights failed, I knew I would be in for a terrible raping.” That is what the late Vice Admiral Theodore S. Wilkinson said to me a few days after the night Battle of Surigao Strait.
But let us briefly review the stages that led up to our initial landings in the Philippines and the last desperate attempt by the Japanese fleet, as a major body, to check the steam-roller advance of U. S. forces.
From data obtained through air strikes, air and submarine reconnaissance, guerilla sources, etc., the High Command decided to advance the date of the Philippine campaign and to make the initial landings on the Island of Leyte. The assault on Leyte, originally scheduled for December, 1944, was advanced to October of that year.
This speeding up of the campaign was initiated by Admiral Bill Halsey after a series of heavy air strikes carried out by the Third Fleet had revealed the weakness of the Japanese forces stationed in the Philippine Islands. Involved in the speed-up order was the cancellation of landings planned for the islands of Yap, Talaud, and Mindanao, and the advance of D-Day for the assault on Leyte by two full months.
Among other naval and military considerations, the change in basic plans involved major changes in logistics and reforming of the Third and Seventh Fleets. Speed was essential. The landings had to be accomplished before the typhoon season set in. Air strips on Leyte had to be captured and considerably enlarged before the heavy rains came.
Destroyer Squadron Fifty-Four, which I commanded, was one of many units shifted from the Third or Central Pacific Fleet to the Seventh or Philippine Fleet, sometimes called “the MacArthur Fleet.” A brief sketch of the trials and tribulations, orders and counter-orders that DesRon 54 encountered will fairly well portray the hectic days during this transition period. Planning and preparing for an amphibious operation or for a battle is often more nerve-racking than the actual operation or engagement.
We had just completed two months of continuous screening and shore bombardment duties during the capture of Saipan and Tinian when DesRon 54, minus the battle scarred Norman Scott, was transferred from the Fifth to the Third Fleet.
The Norman Scott was the first destroyer of my squadron to sustain any appreciable damage from enemy action, but in doing so she proudly lived up to the gallant name she bore. Rear Admiral Norman Scott was in command of a cruiser division during the early stages of the war and he played a leading part in stopping the advance of the Japanese and turning our strategy in the Pacific from the defensive to the offensive. I can remember, as if it had occurred but yesterday, attending the conference in Tongatabu in July, 1942, when Admiral Scott informed us that our next job would be the assault and capture of Guadalcanal—our first offensive action to recapture an island grabbed by the Japs in the early days of the war. At that time I was in command of the destroyer Sterett.
Under Admiral Scott’s supervision, destroyers and cruisers held their first shore bombardment practice—a practice which we put to excellent practical use just a few months later. We had successfully landed our Marines on Guadalcanal and they were giving their all to expand the beachhead through the jungles and maintain the airfield.
In early November, 1942, the Japs had landed over 1,000 troops, plus ammunition and supplies, east of Koli Point. This was a positive threat to surround our over-worked and under-fed Marines guarding vital Henderson Field. Something had to be done about it, and quickly. It is not only one of the duties of the Navy but also one of our greatest pleasures to bombard the hell out of enemy troops, supplies, and gun emplacements threatening our land forces. The Helena, San Francisco, and Sterett, each supplied with a gunnery spotter in a plane, merrily steamed back and forth close to Koli Point and let the Nips have it. We blew up their newly landed supplies and ammunition dumps and killed several hundred troops. The remaining badly scared Japs fled to the jungles and were accounted for to the last man by our fighting Marines.
During the night of October 11-12, 1942, Admiral Scott led his newly formed task force to attack the “Tokio Express,” a Jap force which had been nightly bombarding Henderson air field and the Marine dugouts on Guadalcanal. The opposing forces were about equally matched, each having four or five cruisers and a destroyer screen. Admiral Scott caught the Japs by surprise and gave them a severe trimming. We lost only one destroyer, the Duncan. Two cruisers, the Salt Lake City and the Boise, were damaged. Just one month later the Admiral was in the thick of it again, in one of the greatest night surface engagements of the entire war, and it was then that he gave his life for his country.
The Japs were planning an all-out attack to recapture our vital base in the Guadal- canal-Florida area. Our reconnaissance planes and Australian coastwatchers reported a Jap force of twenty-odd combatant ships, including two battleships, a number of heavy cruisers, and a whole mob of destroyers followed by troop-laden transports headed for Iron Bottom Bay. Rear Admiral Turner ordered Rear Admiral Daniel J. Callaghan to take all ships available and attack. “All ships available” in the South Pacific in those hectic days of ’42 was slim picking. Priority was still being given to the war against Germany, and we had sustained several staggering blows in the Pacific. But Guadalcanal, our first beachhead captured from the Nips, had to be maintained regardless of the odds under which we had to fight.
Admiral Callaghan could muster a force of only thirteen ships consisting of two heavy cruisers, one light cruiser, two 5-inch antiaircraft cruisers, and eight destroyers. Hiro- hito’s sons had more than a three to one advantage over us in gunpower. I’ll not go into all the details of that hellish night, but would like to mention a few outstanding details. We steamed through Lengo Channel shortly after midnight, November 12, proceeded into Iron Bottom Bay, and headed toward Savo Island in a single column with the Sterett third ship in column. Within one hour after entering the Bay all hell broke loose. First by radar, and then just a few minutes later by visual contact, we picked up heavy ships of the enemy on our port and starboard bows. We were not only outnumbered and outgunned but also we were headed directly into a trap. The enemy had accomplished the outstanding advantage of “crossing the T.” Their ships could fire full broadsides from both sides of our column. Our fire would be considerably restricted. But on we stood as the range to the enemy closed rapidly from 14,000 to 7,000 yards.
At this phase of the war most of our ships in the South Pacific were still equipped with an early type of radar. This was a distinct disadvantage to us on this historic night. The battle would be fought close to shore in a nearly land-locked body of water surrounded by mountains. That made it extremely difficult for us to distinguish enemy ships from land masses on our radar scopes as we steamed through Lengo Channel and headed straight for the center of the Nip forces. The only destroyers in our group equipped with a new type of radar were the O’Bannon and Fletcher, the fourth and thirteenth ships in column. The heavy cruisers Helena and Portland were also equipped with the more modern type, but the San Francisco, Admiral Callaghan’s flagship, was not. Thus the officer in tactical command (OTC) had no clear picture of the trap we were standing into until it was too late. Captain G. C. Hoover of the Helena tried to give the Admiral the true picture by intership telephone (TBS), but time was running out, and when the Admiral finally grasped the disastrous situation it was too late for him to act.
So on we stood in single column—four destroyers, the Cushing, Laffey, Sterett, and O’Bannon, followed by five cruisers, the Atlanta, San Francisco, Portland, Helena, and Juneau, and then four more destroyers, the Aaron Ward, Barton, Monssen, and Fletcher. Ten of our thirteen ships mounted nothing larger than 5-inch guns, and we were steaming majestically on to combat two battleships with 14-inch guns and an unknown number of heavy cruisers.
All of us destroyer sailors had but one thought. If we could launch a co-ordinated torpedo attack against the Jap battleships and heavy cruisers we stood a damn good chance of swinging the balance of power in our favor. Destroyers were never intended to steam in column and fight a gun duel with heavy ships.
My good friend and classmate, the Commander of Destroyer Division 10, was riding the leading destroyer and therefore was one of the first to obtain a reliable visual picture of the enemy formation, or rather disposition of enemy groups. He spotted several large ships to port that presented a more worthwhile target than the lighter ships to starboard. As any good destroyer sailor would do, he immediately requested permission to take the leading four destroyers and deliver a torpedo attack against the big fellows. Admiral Callaghan approved this, but just as we started to peel off from the formation preparatory to launching our torpedo attack, the Admiral ordered us to resume our original positions in column. We have never learned why this countermand was issued, but a chance of a lifetime was lost and lost forever! A coordinated torpedo attack as the first stroke of the battle would have raised havoc with the enemy and considerably reduced our overall casualties.
The leading three destroyers had not quite resumed position in column, and the range had now closed to about 4,500 yards, mere spitting distance, when Uncle Dan Callaghan issued the order: “Get the big ones first. Commence firing! Give ’em hell, boys.”
He ordered odd-numbered ships in column to fire to starboard and even numbered ships to fire to port. My ship had been all lined up to let fly at a heavy ship to port, but being the third ship in column, on receiving the above order we immediately shifted our guns to a silhouette to starboard. Within a few seconds all ships, friend and enemy, opened up with all they had. Star shells, searchlights, tracers, 14-inch, 8-inch, 5-inch, 3-inch projectiles, torpedoes, and even 20 mm. shells went whizzing on their deadly paths in every direction. Within less than five minutes ships were burning all around us, friend and enemy alike. And yet some people marvel at a mere display of fireworks on the Fourth of July!
Then suddenly in the midst of this holocaust flashed the second startling order from our Admiral: “Cease fire! Cease fire!” But the Japs were pumping shells and torpedoes into our line as fast as they could—and hitting us plenty. It was a direct order from our big boss, but somehow we just could not obey it. As far as I can recall the only U. S. ship to check fire at that time was the San Francisco, the Admiral’s flagship, but even she resumed fire shortly afterward without any further orders. That “Cease fire” order still remains one of the unsolved mysteries of that hectic night, for shortly after the order was issued, Jap shells started pummeling the bridge of the ’Frisco. Admiral Callaghan and most of his staff were killed outright, and Captain Cassin Young, skipper of the ship, was mortally wounded.
The “Cease fire” command was the last order issued to our force, but the battle raged on with increasing fury and developed into a melee with each ship fighting as an individual unit. Within a few minutes the two destroyers in column ahead of me were lost; the Laffey was sunk and the Cushing, ablaze from stem to stern, had to be abandoned. Something had gone wrong on the Atlanta and she was in desperate straits. She left our column and went charging directly into a group of heavy enemy ships with all her guns blazing. She was shooting her 5-inch battery at such a terrific rate that it appeared to us that the entire superstructure of the Atlanta was on fire. She was dishing out and receiving terrific punishment, and it was impossible for her to last long under these terrific odds. Numerous fires soon broke out and Admiral Norman Scott was killed at his battle station. The Atlanta put up a glorious fight, but finally had to be abandoned and was later sunk under the supervision of her skipper to prevent it from possibly falling into the hands of the enemy.
With the death of Admiral Scott, the command of our forces automatically passed to Captain Hoover of the Helena, but neither he nor any of us knew that until the battle was over. The greatest close-range sea battle of modern times lasted just thirty-four minutes. But what a lifetime those thirty- four minutes were! During that short span of time the Sterett engaged three enemy ships at ranges from 4,000 down to 800 yards. We blew up and sank one enemy large destroyer before it could fire a single shot, assisted in sinking another large destroyer or cruiser, and fired four torpedoes into the belly of the 30,000 ton battleship Hiyei, registering two positive hits, and pounded her pagoda-like superstructure with numerous salvos from our 5-inch guns. The Hiyei was mortally wounded by the combined hits from the Sterett and several other ships. She remained afloat but out of control after the night battle was over, only to fall an easy prey to our air arm during the day. Our small group not only drove the heavier enemy force back without accomplishing its primary mission but also deprived the Japanese troop-laden transports of their protective screen of combatant ships. Most of the transports and their human cargo became easy prey for our aviators the following day. The battle was a vital turning point in the war.
The Sterett bore her punishment proudly. She received eleven direct hits, including three 14-inch projectiles. Her torpedo battery was torn to ribbons and most of the torpedomen killed at their stations, but not until that splendid gang had fired with deadly precision all but two of their beloved lethal fish. The two after 5-inch gun mounts were shot asunder, the ready service ammunition set on fire, and many of the gun crews killed at their posts. The ship lost twenty-eight men killed in action, and thirteen others were seriously wounded, yet she was the last ship to retire from the battle area. She has been given official credit for sinking, unassisted, one Fubuki-class destroyer, and credit for positive assistance in sinking the only other two ships that the Nips lost that night. For this she was awarded the Presidential Unit Citation.
Not long after Admiral Scott’s death, a 2100-ton destroyer was launched and christened the Norman Scott. She became one of the nine ships in the new Destroyer Squadron 54 which I commanded, and materially assisted in the assault and capture of several Pacific Islands, including Guam.
From Guam we moved south to assault Tinian Island. July 24, 1944, was J-Day. The landing of troops was scheduled for the north-western shores of the Island. I was ordered to send two of my destroyers close inshore and engage the shore batteries in the fortified town of Tinian. At 0600 the Remey and Norman Scott moved to within 2,000 yards of the beach, in narrowly restricted waters. Just outboard of us were the battleship Colorado and the cruiser Cleveland. The Remey and Norman Scott sprayed the beach and vicinity with 40 mm. shells. Then a heavy air strike was carried out as our boat waves steadily approached the beach.
During all this time, from 0600 to 0740, not a single return shot was fired from the town. But the Japs were playing their cards well. At 0745, just as the boats were abeam the two destroyers and the Colorado had secured from general quarters, the Nips opened up with their 6-inch coastal battery. In these restricted waters and at such short point blank range our ships were like so many ducks on a pond. The Colorado not only had secured from general quarters but she also had stern-way on when the Japs opened up. It would take her a long time to get headway on and maneuver out of the line of fire. Within a very few minutes the Colorado was hit twenty-two times. There were darn few misses. Tinian town was the center of a Jap artillery school, but it did not require experts to hit a stationary target at that short range.
My two destroyers were at general quarters with all guns manned and trained on the beach, so as soon as the Japs opened up we had a point of aim. The Remey and Norman Scott immediately began pumping 5-inch shells into the gun emplacements ashore. But before our counter-battery could destroy the concealed guns ashore (they were hidden in reinforced caves), the Norman Scott was severely damaged. The Nips had her range, and with their third salvo they began riddling her. Several fires broke out, steering control was lost, her Captain, Seymour Owens, was instantly killed while directing his gun batteries from the bridge, and the Executive Officer, stationed below decks in combat information center, was wounded. But the Norman Scott continued her accurate and rapid fire until the shore batteries were silenced forever!
Thus the Norman Scott carried on the glorious tradition of the late great Admiral whose name she so proudly bore. Both Admiral Scott and Commander Owens were awarded, posthumously, the Navy Cross, and a brand new destroyer now carries the name of Seymour Owens.
On August 20, 1944, we rendezvoused at sea with a Task Group just fresh from the States. We then proceeded to Guadalcanal for logistics and training, preparatory to our next assault.
Guadalcanal—how it had changed since my last visit there during those hectic days of 1942! Then the Navy, or what little we had left of it in the Pacific Ocean, was fighting tooth and nail at terrific odds to maintain General Vandegrift and his Marines whom we had landed. For a long, long time we could not furnish them food. Every cubic foot of cargo space available had to be reserved for ammunition and aviation gasoline. The few combatant ships we had in that area were constantly on the go maintaining our most advanced lines of communications. In those days it was considered premeditated suicide to remain in Guadalcanal-Tulagi area overnight.
Guadalcanal, less than two years ago so aptly named “Sleepless Hollow” and “Iron Bottom Bay,” was now lighted up like Broadway and Forty-Second Street. Tankers and supply ships were peacefully riding at anchor. Clubs, quarters, barracks, and tremendous supply and ammunition dumps had been built ashore. And, to my utter astonishment and joy, movies were authorized topside. How the officers and crew loved that! Our first show, however, turned out to be an utter flop. We had hoped to see something really entertaining, light and funny, with a few good-looking, shapely girls thrown in. It’s strange (but not queer) what little things we all think of after we’ve been at sea a few months. Anyway, the movie turned out to be some darn war picture with Errol Flynn as the hero!
On September 8, 1944, after completing necessary logistics, conferences, and landing exercises off Cape Esperance, we set sail en route Guadalcanal to Palau Islands, which turned out to be our last stepping stone prior to an attack on the Philippine Islands. The trip to Palau was uneventful. On September 17, after we had devastated the island by effective shore bombardment, our troops landed on Angaur Island. The bombardment by our ships had stripped every tree bare—• not a coconut or coconut frond was left waving. Sally Rand never did a more complete job in any of her strip-tease acts. But we were determined that no Japs would hide in a tree and then snipe at our troops, and there was no other place for them to hide.
About this time we, in the lower echelon of command, learned that D-Day for the Philippines had been advanced. Best of all, DesRon 54, which had not missed out on a worthwhile show since commissioning, was to be in the thick of it again. Our assault on Yap was cancelled at the last minute—but greener fields lay ahead.
On September 23, 1944, we departed from Palau and escorted two divisions of transports to Manus in the Admiralty Islands, arriving there on September 27.
On October 1, 1944, with my seven remaining destroyers, I reported to Commander Seventh Fleet for duty. Thus, in less than three months, we had shifted allegiance from Vice Admiral Spruance to Admiral Halsey and then to Vice Admiral Kincaid. Our battle-trained squadron continued to play on the first team to war’s end, no matter who the head coach was.
But now we began to have trouble getting supplies—food, principally. Our squadron had been out of Pearl Harbor for four months by then, constantly on the go in the combat area. During that period we had assisted in the capture of five islands. Four months is by no means a long time for destroyers to be away from a major base, but we were preparing for another series of assaults on Jap held islands, and this time it was to be the Philippines. But when our ships tried to get provisions from the Seventh Fleet they were told “So sorry, you really belong to the Third Fleet. We have supplies for our own fleet only.” They did furnish us with much needed ammunition and fuel; but food and vital spare parts, no. Fortunately my good friends in the transports came to our rescue and gave my hungry destroyers all the dry provisions they could possibly spare.
The next ten days were busy ones. We did leave port a few times for gunnery and squadron torpedo practices, which proved most valuable three weeks later. However, most of our time was spent in conferences, reading voluminous plans and intelligence data on Leyte Gulf and the surrounding Philippine Islands. I was designated Commander Screen Southern Attack Force and also OTC (Officer in Tactical Command) of the landing craft movement group of the Southern Attack Force.
My group, about one hundred and fifty ships, was scheduled to be the first to enter Leyte Gulf on the morning of D-Day. My staff and 1 had just three days in which to draw up our movement order and operation plans. Our group consisted of LST’s, LCI’s, PCE’s, YMS’s, DE’s, fleet tugs, and DD’s. Most of the landing craft were fresh from the States. This would be their first show. They had had many engineering breakdowns en route, and had had little or no experience in maneuvering in large formations of flotillas. They were slow and not too reliable in communications.
The above is in no way to be construed as criticism. It was just one more thing to give the OTC a few more gray hairs. The officers and men of these landing craft made up in determination and good old American guts what they lacked in experience.
Our group got underway the morning of October 11, en route Manus to Leyte Island, with one destroyer remaining behind to herd up the delinquent ones. We dashed along our route at six knots with destroyers and destroyer-escorts forming an anti-aircraft and anti-submarine screen around the landing craft.
En route we held numerous tactical maneuvering drills, anti-aircraft firings, and had the LCI’s test-fire their mortars. We repeatedly exercised at emergency turn drills, the maneuver that would be used in case of submarine attack. A few nights out of port one of the screening destroyers reported a submarine contact. I immediately ordered an emergency turn. Despite all our drills, a few of the landing craft turned the wrong way and a few others did not get the word or were slow in starting their turn. The formation became a mess. In fact the picture on the radar scope reminded me of a flock of chickens being attacked by a weasel.
The contact proved to be non-submarine, and we eventually unscrambled the landing craft with no harm done, but I would certainly have loved a stiff drink of Scotch about then. We had several more false submarine contacts en route, but never again did I try an emergency turn at night with that outfit.
Logistics were handled en route by having the smaller screening vessels and LCI’s close designated LST’s, approximately every three days, to replenish fuel, water, and bread as required. The landing craft suffered numerous minor machinery breakdowns. Whenever necessary, the disabled craft were taken in tow by one of the fleet tugs or by one of the four salvage LCI’s. The first few days out these breakdowns occurred with startling regularity and were most annoying. We were approaching Japanese-held territory and waters continuously patrolled by their planes. It was bad enough to be held down to six to eight knots, but experiencing all these machinery derangements was adding insult to injury. We destroyer sailors were accustomed to speed, dash, and accuracy. But the engineers in the landing craft were a determined lot and would not know defeat. We not only arrived exactly on schedule off the landing beaches, but in addition every last craft was serenely purring along under its own power.
It was fortunate that each ship was under its own power, for when we approached the entrance to Leyte Gulf about 1:00 a.h., October 20, we learned that the enemy mine field sown across the main entrance channel had not been swept clear. It was necessary to maneuver our slow moving craft close to the northern tip of Dinagat Island with a strong current threatening to wreck any craft with faulty engine or unreliable steering gear.
At 3:30 a.m. we arrived in the transport area, undetected by the enemy. Tactical command of the landing craft was then turned over to the Flotilla Commanders, and destroyers took up their assigned screening stations. According to schedule, the various transport groups, each with its protecting screen of combatant ships, entered Leyte Gulf and proceeded to their assigned stations. At this stage I had about thirty destroyers under my command. The majority of them were assigned to close support of the transports. We knew that with the first rays of daylight the Japanese would start air attacks against our vulnerable transports, and it was the duty of our combatant ships to shoot down those planes before they could reach the transport area. The Japs did not disappoint us. The enemy planes arrived in the early morning, and then the fun began.
At 10:00 a.m. the first wave of our troops landed on Leyte Island, and at long last the liberation of the Philippines from the Japanese was underway.
Of the seven destroyers available in Des- Ron 54, two were assigned to guard the eastern entrance to Leyte Gulf. The other five, including my flagship, the Remey, were assigned screening stations at the southern entrance to Surigao Strait, the only logical approach for Jap PT boats or submarines, not to mention larger combatant ships. The following afternoon our own PT boats arrived and took over these stations and we moved a few miles to the northward.
The first four days and nights in Surigao Strait were comparatively dull ones for our destroyers. We underwent several air attacks each day, but our gunners and the McGowan's combat air patrol (CAP) shot down all planes that came within reach. The Japs were just beginning to use Kamikaze tactics, but during this stage only one or two planes would attack at a time. The McGowan's CAP and our five destroyers shot down about eighteen planes during this phase of the operation without sustaining any damage. We also blew up a few drifting mines.
In the meantime our troops were advancing on Leyte Island. We would soon have a naval base and an army airfield established in the east central part of the Philippines. This not only sounded the death knell for the Japanese armies stationed in the Philippine Islands, but also would quickly lead to the complete strangulation of the far-flung Japanese “Empire” in the South Pacific.
It was up to the Japanese Navy to stop us, if they could. Otherwise, they might just as well go home and plant rice. The Jap Navy was not yet ready to admit defeat. In fact it might well be noted here that there is ample evidence to prove that the Japanese Army and Navy officials were misled by their own stupid propaganda and grossly exaggerated reports of damage inflicted on our fleet by their airmen. After each naval encounter, Tokyo Rose would broadcast to the world that half the U. S. Navy had been sunk while Hirohito’s invincible Navy had left the field of battle unscathed. A few shots of saki, an ear full of Rose, and the world was theirs.
The enemy assembled all available combatant ships for an all-out battle. Our Navy was covering a mighty big portion of the Pacific Ocean, from the Aleutians down through the Marianas, Palau, and Admiralty Islands, and now a toe-hold in the Philippines. It looked like an ideal time to catch us off guard and to hit us hard before we could get established in the Leyte area. Our transports, loaded with troops, ammunition, and vital supplies, were bottlenecked off the shores of Leyte and Samar. Undoubtedly the Jap aviators had reported sinking most of our men-of-war in Leyte Gulf. Surely this was the time to strike, and strike hard, to eliminate the “few remaining” American naval units.
The Nipponese decided on a three-pronged attack, one to the north of Luzon, a central force through San Bernardino Strait, and the third group to proceed through the Sulu Sea and up through Surigao Strait to Leyte Gulf. The northern group was to sail direct from the Empire while the other two groups were to depart from Lingga anchorage, near Singapore. This Japanese battle plan, born of necessity and carried out in desperation, had as its main mission the annihilation of our troop-laden transports and supporting vessels before we could establish a beach-head. The northern Japanese force was to lure our powerful Third Fleet to the north of Luzon, while the central and southern forces closed in for the kill in Leyte Gulf. The enemy’s plan, of course, was not known to us until the battle was over, and by then it had wreaked havoc to our jeep carrier task force and had come dangerously close to accomplishing its primary mission.
This article concerns only the Southern Force, and primarily the night torpedo attack launched by five destroyers under my immediate command. The Jap Southern Force was composed of two groups: one under Vice Admiral Nishimura consisted of two 30,000-ton battleships, one heavy cruiser and four destroyers, while the other group, under command of Vice Admiral Shima, consisted of two heavy cruisers, one light cruiser, and four destroyers.
But back in Leyte we were blissfully ignorant of the entertainment the Jap Navy was planning for us. Routine reports from our front line troops indicated that the battle was progressing satisfactorily ashore. We were kept reasonably busy during daylight hours, particularly at dawn and dusk and always at meal times, combatting Jap air attacks. The interruption at meal times was not too annoying as we had nothing worthwhile to eat anyway. The combat air patrol furnished by our jeep carriers, which were operating to the eastward of Samar, was doing an excellent job shooting down Jap planes.
Our crews had long since gotten into the excellent habit of remaining constantly close to their battle stations while the ships were operating in an active combat area. This saved them from a great deal of running whenever general quarters was sounded, and greatly expedited our readiness to handle any surprise attack. When things became really dull, some of the men would do a little reading or play a game of acey-ducey. Some would talk of their wives and sweethearts back home. A few told me they probably had become fathers during the past month, and how anxious they were to catch up with the mail, long overdue, from home. Others would talk of the good old days when we had beans and eggs and fresh potatoes to eat—not just spam and dehydrated stuff. Some bad boys may even have shot craps, who knows? Thus the days rolled by, and the nights. Why, some of the nights were so dull that I even took off my shoes and pants and flopped in my comfortable but slightly used bunk.
But these dull periods never lasted long enough to become monotonous. We had arrived in Leyte Gulf on the morning of October 20. Three days later we started receiving contact reports indicating that a strong Japanese naval force was on the move headed for the Philippines. Our first reports came from our alert submarines which were patrolling the western entrances to the Philippine Islands. On the following day, contact reports came in thick and fast, at first from our air patrols and in the evening and night from our PT boats patrolling the approaches to Surigao Strait. The latter reports were received on the Remey direct from the PT boats and relayed by me to Admiral Olden- dorf.
During daylight hours of October 24 we were kept quite busy with almost constant air attacks. The combat air patrol controlled by the McGowan in our group shot down five twin-engined bombers and three fighters. But as darkness set in over the Gulf and the contact reports started coming in from our PT boat commanders, we knew there was more fun in store for us. A Japanese task force of heavy ships—size and number of ships still unknown to us—was definitely headed for Surigao Strait. And my five patrolling destroyers were the closest ships to the enemy. Our dashing PT boats were the only U. S. craft between us and the oncoming foe. I knew I would not be taking off my shoes that night!
A night torpedo attack against enemy heavy ships—cruisers and probably battleships—was in the offing. Destroyers can and did do most everything except fly, submerge, or travel overland, but a night torpedo attack is our first love! The torpedo gang on each ship silently and efficiently checked and rechecked their torpedo batteries to see that everything was in readiness for firing. No prompting was required on my part. The officers and men in the torpedo gangs were a proud lot, and rightly so. They knew and loved their jobs.
Several miles to the north of my five destroyers, Rear Admiral Oldendorf was deploying his force for battle. The Admiral had six pre-Pearl Iiarbor battleships—Mississippi (flagship), Pennsylvania, West Virginia, Tennessee, Maryland, and California—three heavy cruisers, five light cruisers, and twenty one destroyers. From intercepted messages over the TBS (intership radio telephone system) we learned that Admiral Oldendorf had held a conference and that his battle plans had been formed and promulgated. We knew nothing definitely about his plans except that we were not included in them. At that time my squadron was operating directly under Admiral Wilkinson and not under Admiral Oldendorf. The former was with the transports close to the landing beaches and would naturally not take part in the battle; but Destroyer Squadron 54—we just had to be in the thick of it.
The evening turned into night, the Jap force continued to steam on toward Surigao Strait, and still no orders for us. I knew what my destroyers wanted and what they should do. They wanted to make the initial attack! My plans for battle were ready. Finally, about 8:00 p.m. I called Admiral Oldendorf on the TBS and told him that unless otherwise directed I would make the initial torpedo attack with my five destroyers. We would attack in two groups from opposite sides of the Strait. Immediately after firing our torpedoes, the Eastern Group would retire to the north close to Dinagat Island and the Western Group close to the shores of Leyte. In that way we would deliver a most effective blow against the enemy and then quickly clear the battle area without any chance of fouling the line of fire from our heavy ships.
Admiral Oldendorf approved this plan and I sent out the battle order to my anxiously waiting destroyers, the Remey, McGowan, Melvin, McDermut, and Monssen.
It was when Admiral Wilkinson received the above mentioned signal that he thought of castles and a virgin princess.
Everything was set for battle and all hands were ready and raring to go. But we still had long, long hours of waiting while we continued our normal patrol, back and forth, back and forth across the Strait. Was this just a feint on the part of the Japs? Were they possibly headed for the west coast of Leyte, or would they actually dare to steam up Surigao Strait in a suicidal attempt to pierce our battleline and strike our bottled up transports? We knew full well from past experiences that once the Japs had committed themselves to a set plan, they would determinedly, though blindly, do their damnedest to carry it out.
Four long hours of just waiting from 8:00 p.m. till midnight. My Chief Staff Officer and I sweated it out in combat-information- center plotting the contact reports on our chart, estimating the enemy’s course, speed, and probable time of arrival in the Strait. Some of the officers and men were nonchalantly getting a little sleep, some were writing home or playing cards, and a few were praying. One tall, husky young lad came to me and said: “Commodore, I’m frightened. You’ve been in night battles before, but this will be my first experience.” I knew he was a darned good lad and that he had an important job to perform that night. We all experience some form of fear at times. It’s a very human trait. We simply react to it in different ways. I decided to take a few minutes out and brought the man into my cabin. After a cigarette and a little pep talk he returned to his battle station in a much better frame of mind. I knew he would carry out his duties efficiently, and he did.
At fifteen minutes past midnight on the morning of October 25, we received a contact report from FT 127. Three enemy destroyers and two larger unidentified ships had been sighted at 11:10 p.m., ten miles off the southeast tip of Bohol Island, headed north. Contact reports continued to come in, and finally the enemy was reported headed up Surigao Strait. At 1:55 a.m. I discontinued our patrolling and the ships took station in their attack groups. Ten minutes later PT 134 reported she had made a torpedo attack on the enemy formation in the lower part of Surigao Strait with unknown results. These small PT boats did themselves proud that night. Despite heavy gunfire and blinding searchlights, they dashed in to deliver their torpedo attacks against battleships and cruisers, and,most important of all, they supplied us with vital information on the enemy’s progress.
Shortly after 2:00 a.m. I notified Admiral Oldendorf that I was about to proceed to the attack. At 2:11 a.m. our two groups started south, initially at twenty knots. We had the first indications of the enemy on our radar scopes. Our attack had to be timed with precision. It was essential that we deliver our torpedoes north of the line covered by our nearest PT boats and still as far south as possible in order that Captains McManes and Smoot would have a clear field for their attacks, which would follow after mine. Our initial radar contact with the enemy gave his bearing as 184° true, distance 38,000 yards. We increased speed to 25 and then to 30 knots, and estimated the enemy’s speed to be 19 knots.
Our two groups were closing the enemy force at a rate of 49 knots. The radar picture soon disclosed seven enemy ships—four small and three large ones. I informed Admiral Oldendorf that the enemy group apparently consisted of two battleships, a cruiser, and four destroyers—a fair enough target for our five tin cans!
When we first started our approach, I shifted my station from below decks in combat-information-center to the bridge. I knew from previous experience in night engagements that if the battle developed into a melee I could better control the fire of my ships from the bridge than from below. The night was dark and clear. We could see nothing of the enemy except by radar. I designated targets to our various destroyers. We would concentrate our fire on the big fellows.
In the meantime the enemy had apparently located our Eastern Group on their radar, for at 2:58 a.m. we were illuminated by the beam of a brilliant searchlight. It played momentarily directly on the bridge of the Remey and gave us a darned uncomfortable feeling. Just three minutes later I ordered the Eastern Group to fire when ready. These three destroyers fired their torpedoes and then immediately swung left toward Dinagat Island and started retirement to the northward at maximum speed available while zigzagging behind a heavy smoke screen. The smoke screen had been ordered because at the instant the Remey, the leading destroyer, fired her torpedoes we were again illuminated by searchlight and then by starshells, and enemy shells quickly began to fall close aboard. We were kept under fire for about twelve minutes, and though several shells landed so close that their splashes actually drenched our decks, the enemy failed to register a single hit. The Nip searchlights could locate nothing but dense clouds of smoke—destroyer dust.
We had naturally timed our torpedoes and knew the instant they were due to cross the enemy track. And right on schedule three to five explosions were reported. We had hit the big fellows a staggering blow, and our plotting showed that the two battleships were slowed from nineteen to twelve knots and that one of them quickly slowed to six knots and appeared to be circling out of control.
In the meantime, while the enemy was busily engaged with our Eastern Group, the McDermut and Monssen were rapidly approaching from the westward. At 3:11 a.m., or just two minutes after the torpedoes from the Eastern Group hit the enemy, Western Group’s Commander gave the order to fire torpedoes. The McDermut and Monssen fired all their torpedoes, and again on schedule time three explosions were heard in the enemy formation, including one terrific explosion that was seen and heard clear up in Admiral Oldendorf’s battleline, and by the Eastern Group as we were retiring. What a joyful sight that was.
The enemy apparently got the radar range of the McDermut and Monssen just a few minutes before those destroyers launched their torpedoes, for they were taken under fire and again shells landed dangerously close aboard, but no hits were made. Upon completing his attack, Commander Western Group retired his ships at maximum speed to the north, hugging the shores of Leyte. Just as this group started retirement, two of our PT boats, which had strayed a little north of their patrol line, came mighty close to creating a disaster.
The PT boats were not equipped to listen in on our normal intership voice communications, and they were unaware of the fact that we were delivering an attack just north of their patrol line. Fortunately our destroyers continuously listened in on the PT boats’ circuit, and in that way the McDer- mut overheard one PT boat commander ask the other PT boat skipper for permission to fire torpedoes at the two destroyers. Commander Western Group immediately identified his ships to the small craft and thus narrowly escaped being fired on by friendly craft.
Our night’s work was done. Five destroyers of Squadron 54 had delivered the initial attack against two battleships, one heavy cruiser and four destroyers. Our torpedoes had scored a number of hits which resulted in the sinking of one 30,000-ton battleship and one destroyer and completely disrupted the enemy formation, while we sustained no damage at all. Later we learned that the battleship we sank was the Yamashiro, Admiral Nishimura’s flagship. One of the torpedoes had apparently hit the ship’s magazine. A most violent explosion followed, the ship broke in two and sank almost immediately with very heavy loss of life, including the Japanese Admiral in command.
But there was to be no rest for the remaining Jap ships. While our two sections were retiring, Captain McManes was dashing into the battle with his six destroyers, to be followed by Captain Smoot with Destroyer Squadron 56, and then the heavy gunfire from Admiral Oldendorf’s battle line came in to finish off whatever targets the destroyers left for them. From the sidelines we watched the beautiful display of fireworks from our cruisers and battleships: the gracefully arched trajectories of 8-inch, 14-inch, and 16-inch projectiles winging their way to the fiercely burning Jap ships. We saw a few salvos of return fire from the enemy, but they were erratic and ineffective. The three successive torpedo attacks launched by our destroyers—twenty destroyers in all—had all but annihilated the enemy and left nothing but a mopping-up operation for our heavy ships. It was a glorious night for our destroyer personnel, and it was probably the most concentrated and most effective torpedo attack ever delivered by our Navy.
At the break of dawn we could see two columns of black smoke that marked the last death throes of two Jap ships. The waters of Leyte Gulf were strewn with debris from Jap ships, a couple of Jap life boats, and hundreds of Japanese swimming in heavy oil slicks from their sunken ships. Admiral Oldendorf had sent several of our destroyers down the Strait to finish off any crippled enemy ships and to rescue any enemy survivors. As usual, the majority of the Jap swimmers refused to be captured and immediately joined their ancestors via the watery route. A few were captured, however, and they furnished us with valuable information.
From data obtained from these prisoners and from other information not obtained until after the war’s end, the box score of the night Battle of Surigao Strait has been pieced together. Of the seven ships that entered the Strait under Nishimura’s command, both battleships and three destroyers were sunk and the cruiser Mogami escaped in such a crippled and burning condition that she was readily disposed of in the morning by planes from our CVE’s. The second group of ships, the force under Shima’s command, while not so completely annihilated, was ignobly routed without ever becoming a threat to our forces. One cruiser was torpedoed and badly holed by PT boat 137, and forced to turn back. The Nachi, Admiral Shima’s flagship, collided with the badly crippled retiring Mogami. The Jap destroyers made a feeble attempt to launch a torpedo attack but could find no targets! When Shima learned that the Nachi was badly damaged, he retired his force from the Strait without having fired a shot at our surface craft. One of his destroyers was sunk by our Army Air Force the following day. The Japanese casualties are estimated as between 5,000 to 6,000. Our only casualties were suffered on six PT boats and the Grant. The A. IF. Grant of Destroyer Squadron 56 had most unfortunately been caught in the line of fire between our battle line and the enemy. She suffered 129 casualties, of which 34 were killed and one missing.
The night Battle of Surigao Strait ended in a glorious victory for the U. S. Navy, and a victory of which destroyer men, in particular, will always be proud.
A graduate of the Naval Academy in 1922, Admiral Coward had completed twenty-five years of active commissioned service when he was retired for physical disability in 1947. During the first part of World War II he commanded the destroyer Sterett, seeing service in the North Atlantic, Mediterranean, and Pacific. Subsequently he commanded Destroyer Squadron 54, whose part in the night battle of Surigao Strait forms the climax of this article.