Early in December 1937, the Japanese authorities in Shanghai advised consular and diplomatic representatives to warn their nationals still in the Chinese capital of Nanking to evacuate the city without delay. The Japanese military authorities were not in the position, they said, to guarantee the safety of lives and property of foreigners who insisted on remaining in the doomed city.
Accordingly, I, as acting Secretary for Chinese Affairs at the Italian Embassy’s office in Nanking, received an urgent message from Italian Ambassador Cora with peremptory instructions to lower the flag and to leave Nanking with two Italian newspaper correspondents, Luigi Barzini and Sandro Sandri, before the Japanese, who were already only a few miles away, captured the city. The Italian Government wanted to avoid the possibility of incidents involving ourselves with either the Chinese defenders or the Japanese attackers.
It was left entirely to my discretion to find both a way to leave Nanking and a place to go. It was not an easy task, however, because the only foreign ships still stationed in Nanking were British, French, and U. S. gunboats. At that particular moment, Italy’s relations with Great Britain and France were rather strained, so my only alternative was to ask my neighbors at the U. S. Embassy—George Atcheson, the secretary in charge, and John Hall Paxton, his second in command—whether Sandri, Barzini, and I could get a passage on board the USS Panay (PR-5). The Panay was expected to leave Nanking for a safe spot upriver at any moment, taking what was left of the U. S. Embassy’s staff and those Americans willing to leave.
Atcheson and Paxton were pleased to accede to my request. I had always been on very friendly terms with them, and our being “China hands” joined us in a sort of freemasonry.
So we all got ready to board the Panay the moment we received the order to embark.
During the first week of December 1937, the advancing Japanese Army had already reached the outskirts of Nanking. Gunfire could be heard from the direction of the Purple Mountain, a few miles from the city, where the mausoleum entombing Sun Yat-sen, the Father of the Chinese Republic, is located.
By 10 December, the situation around Nanking had deteriorated to the point that the capital was practically besieged on all sides except the river side. The southern suburbs were already under Japanese artillery fire, which was directed by an observation balloon clearly visible from vantage points in the city. Soldiers who were expected to put up a last stand in defense of the city were deserting en masse, discarding their uniforms, and mingling with the stream of fleeing civilians. The remaining defenders seemed apathetic and quite resigned to the dire fate that was awaiting them once the Japanese entered the city. The general in charge of Nanking’s defense had repeatedly warned the civilians who wanted to leave that he could not guarantee that the Hsiakwan Gate, the only remaining exit from the city, could be kept open later than 11 December.
The time, therefore, had arrived for us to depart. So on that afternoon, Atcheson, Paxton, Army Captain Frank N- Roberts (the U. S. military attache), Emile Gassie (the code clerk of the U. S. Embassy), Sandri, Barzini, and I left our respective embassies to board the Panay. We made our exit from the city with no time to spare: the soldiers were already closing the heavy portals of the last open gate with massive beams, bricks, and sand bags.
On board the Panay, we found a group of U. S. war correspondents and newsreel cameramen who, more in compliance with U. S. State Department pressure than because of their own desires, had decided not to remain in Nanking. Only one of the correspondents had chosen, regardless, to stay in the city, for he wanted to be on hand for the big story—the fall of Nanking. It was a decision that, I am sure, he was later to regret.
The Panay, the second ship to bear the name (the first was a Spanish gunboat captured during the Spanish-American War), was built in 1927 at the Kiangnan Dock and Engineering Works in Shanghai. She was one of the shallow-draft river gunboats with displacement ranging between 370 and 560 tons, designed especially for patrol China’s inland waters. She was armed with two 3-inch Sins placed forward and aft, mounted behind steel shields. Amidship, also behind shields, were .30 caliber Lewis machine guns that also could be used as antiaircraft Capons. With her two sets of reciprocating triple-expansion engines she could steam at 16 knots.
The commanding officer of the Panay was Lieutenant Commander James Joseph Hughes, and the executive officer was Lieutenant Arthur F. Anders (whose son William was to become one of the astronauts on the Apollo 8 shot to the moon). The other officers were Lieutenant (junior grade) John Willard Geist, the engineering officer; Ensign Denis Harry Biwerse; and the ship’s doctor, Lieutenant Clark Gilson Grazier.
Late in the afternoon of 11 December, the Panay began proceeding upriver. Shells from a Japanese battery on the southern bank were already falling erratically into the river. The moment we were under way, the firing became more intense and shells began falling dangerously close to our gunboat. That shore battery continued to fire at us until we were out of range, but luckily the Japanese artillerymen bent on our destruction never seemed to find the correct range.
While on our way upriver, we were joined by three small tankers of the Standard Oil Company of New York (SOCONY), the Meiping, the Meian, and the Meihsia, carrying the American and the Chinese personnel of the SOCONY’s installations in Nanking to safety. Following us at a short distance were the British river gunboats Cricket and Scarab, which were escorting the British river steamer Whangpoo, crowded with Chinese refugees.
Before leaving Nanking, we sent a radio message to the U. S. consulate general in Shanghai informing him that we were going to leave the city and requesting that the Japanese authorities be duly notified that the Panay was also escorting three SOCONY tankers to safety upriver.
As a precautionary measure, the U. S. and the British gunboats had been continuously showing their respective national flags in such a way that they could be clearly identified from both the banks of the river and from the air. Moreover, because we illuminated the flags by flood-lights, they could be seen even in darkness.
Shortly before nightfall, the Panay and the SOCONY tankers dropped anchors at a spot about 12 miles upstream from Nanking. We intended to remain there to see what would happen after the Japanese captured Nanking.
That night was uneventful, but early in the morning we heard artillery fire. The Japanese were firing from the southern bank at a small group of fishing junks anchored close together at the opposite bank, about one mile downriver from the spot where we were anchored. It was too near for our liking, so Commander Hughes gave order to raise anchor and to resume our navigation further up river in search of a safer anchorage. The SOCONY tankers followed us.
Sometime later, while proceeding on our way upriver, we stopped in answer to signals from a Japanese shore party at the northern bank. A Japanese motor launch that had a machine gun mounted on the bow and was loaded with infantrymen under the command of a low-ranking Japanese Army officer, came alongside the Panay. The Japanese officer hailed the Panay and, without the customary request for permission to board or the courtesy of a salute, clambered aboard. He was met by Commander Hughes, Captain Roberts, and Atcheson as he came over the side.
While it could be clearly seen by his expression that Captain Roberts was seething with indignation and that he could barely restrain himself from kicking the boorish intruder overboard, Commander Hughes instead deliberately overlooked the Japanese officer’s ignorance of naval etiquette and good manners. As he explained later, he had been instructed that to avoid misunderstandings, he should not to be too sensitive about the niceties of protocol when dealing with Japanese Army officers. It was a well-known fact that the great majority of Japanese army officers came from a peasant background and that they were quite a different breed from Japanese naval officers.
In very poor and faltering English, our “visitor” asked what sort of ship was the Panay, who we were, where we came from, where we were directed to, whether we had Chinese military personnel on board, and many other questions.
Commander Hughes merely stated that the Panay was a U. S. gunboat proceeding upriver to a safe anchorage together with three U. S. tankers and that neither our gunboat nor the SOCONY tankers carried Chinese military personnel. He also called the attention to the fact that the United States and Japan were entertaining friendly relations with each other and that Japanese troops operating in the area therefore had no right to interfere with the freedom of movement of U. S. ships.
The Japanese officer next declared that he wanted to inspect the gunboat and the tankers to ascertain whether there were truly no Chinese soldiers on board. To such an insolent request Commander Hughes gave a firm and most categorical refusal.
All of the conversation was laboriously jotted down on a pad by the Japanese officer, who shortly after, apparently considering his mission accomplished, went back to his motor launch without the courtesy of a parting salute, and returned ashore.
I am convinced that Commander Hughes, notwithstanding the extreme exasperation he must have felt during the "interview,” must have considered this chance encounter with the Japanese not altogether ineffectual. Reasonably enough, he must have believed that by this time the Japanese military commands had been made aware of the presence of U. S. shipping in their area of operations, because certainly the unit we had just met was going to pass this information to higher echelons. These in turn would pass it over to other Japanese units operating in the region with the warning to be careful before attacking river traffic because of the presence of foreign shipping.
We resumed our navigation upriver and shortly before toon the Panay and the SOCONY tankers anchored midriver at a spot near the small town of Hohsien, about 28 miles from Nanking. At that spot, the Yangtze River is about one-and-a-half miles wide and runs almost in a north south direction. It seemed a safe place to stay because there were no signs of warlike activities.
Soon after we dropped anchor, we radioed a second Message to the U. S. consulate general in Shanghai requesting him to inform the Japanese military authorities about our new anchorage. A message was also radioed to the U. S. Embassy’s office in Hankow, at the moment the Provisional seat of the Chinese Government, informing them of our new location. Then we settled down to wait for the situation to develop.
It must have been about two o’clock in the afternoon. We had just finished our lunch. The day was sunny and Unusually balmy for December. Sandri, Barzini, and I were having cigarettes on the upper deck outside the sick hay, which had been made available to the civilians on hoard as a sort of temporary lounge.
Barzini, who had always been openly critical of Benito Mussolini and of the Fascist Regime, was bantering with Sandri for his fanatic attachment to Fascism, when all of a sudden we were knocked off our feet by a tremendous explosion.
I had not noticed, as some of the others said they did, that aircraft were flying over our gunboat, so that for a foment I thought that we had been hit by a stray shell from some hidden Chinese or Japanese battery on either bank. But when immediately after the explosion I heard the roaring of airplanes’ engines and the whistling followed by the blasting of bombs falling close to the Panay, I realized that we were being deliberately attacked by unidentified airplanes.
All of us who were on the upper deck instinctively made a dash to the sick bay, seeking the dubious protection it could offer from fragments of the bombs exploding close to either side of our gunboat. While lying flat on our stomachs we were showered by broken pieces of glass, flakes of paint, and all sorts of wreckage.
Looking out during a lull, I could see that the SOCONY tankers also were receiving their share of the bombing. One of them was adrift and ablaze, and the river’s current was drawing her dangerously close to our gunboat.
The first bomb had hit close to the pilot house. Commander Hughes, who happened to be there, suffered a fractured leg and a badly cut face when the concussion threw him hard against the engine room telegraph. Moreover, his face was so covered with soot from a collapsed galley stovepipe that he looked as if he were about to take part in a minstrel show.
The executive officer, Anders, was severely wounded in his throat by bomb fragments, so that while Commander Hughes was temporarily unconscious, he had to resort to giving orders by scribbling them on scraps of paper.
When we thought that the bombing had ended, Barzini, Sandri, and I began moving below to the engine room. By a sort of instinct for survival we believed it to be the safest place to take shelter should our attackers, whose nationality was still unidentified, resume their bombing.
While on our way below, we heard a new wave of aircraft flying over the Panay. This time they were flying so low that we could distinctly see on their wings and on their fuselages the characteristic Red Sun markings of the Japanese Air Force (we later came to know that these aircraft were airplanes operated by the Japanese Navy).
We were then just opposite the chief petty officer’s quarters when the Japanese began strafing, splattering machine gun bullets all across the ship’s side. It was at that moment that Sandri was hit by a machine gun bullet. I saw him suddenly raise his hands to his chest, crying out in agony “questa volta mi hanno fregato!” (“this time they have got me”).
All his life Sandri had been a daredevil. He had fought in World War I and had been a war correspondent in the Ethiopian campaign and in the opening phases of the Spanish Civil War, always reporting from the firing lines.
Barzini, in the meantime had preceded us to the engine room. With the rattling of the machine guns (by now the Panay's Lewis guns had been manned and were being fired at our attackers), the roaring of the diving planes, and the general shouting and confusion going all around us, he could not have realized that Sandri and I had remained behind. I immediately went to call for the doctor and for Barzini. While Dr. Grazier finished attending to those who had been wounded earlier, Barzini and I went back to Sandri to try to help our unfortunate companion.
He was lying on the deck, looking deadly pale but very calm, although he must have been suffering most intensely. He was fully conscious that his wound was fatal, for he kept moodily repeating to Barzini, who was trying to encourage him, “che modo fesso di morire!” (“what a stupid way to die!”).
Before long, the doctor came. He examined Sandri and said that there was not much he could do then and there, but to take him below with the other wounded in the engine room. So we helped him to descend, for he insisted that he wanted to get there on his own feet.
When we reached the engine room, the Panay was already listing to starboard and taking on water. It was doubtful whether she was going to stay afloat much longer. Since there was not enough steam available, the alternative of grounding the gunboat was not feasible. So order to abandon ship was given shortly after.
The Panay had two motor sampans (sort of flat- bottomed skiffs used in harbor and river traffic in China), each about 25 feet long. By sheer luck neither of them had been damaged, but because of their very limited space, both craft were expected to make many runs to the shore. Thus the wounded were carried first, then the civilians, and last, the crew and the officers.
Meanwhile, a few of the crew had responded to the order to abandon ship by going overboard using wooden gratings for support. They had to be picked up later by the motor sampans before the strong current floated them too far downriver and beyond the spot on the western bank that had been chosen for our landing.
The airplanes that had wheeled away after dropping their last load of bombs now came back and began strafing the sampans that were on their first run ashore, wounding a few more men, but luckily not seriously.
The spot where we landed was marshy, but covered by tall reeds that made it a good site to hide from our merciless attackers. The ground was spongy and slippery. It was not an ideal place to remain for long but it was certainly a more secure retreat than a sinking deck.
While we were attending to the wounded as best as we could, men had to be collected from the various spots where the sampans, in their erratic courses to dodge the strafing airplanes, had landed them.
A short time later, when we were all safely ashore, a Japanese craft like the one we had met in the morning approached the sinking Panay. Having first swept the empty decks with a few bursts of machine gun fire, a party of soldiers boarded the ship, but left soon after and proceeded slowly upriver on their craft.
It was from that moment that we began to fear further Japanese murderous intentions against us. We were convinced that since the Japanese had, by now, realized that they had bombed and sunk a U. S. gunboat, they would leave no stone unturned in trying to locate us. They would not be coming to our aid, but coming to wipe us out to the last man, so that there would be no one to bear witness against them and thus prevent them from blaming the Chinese Air Force for the outrage. Moreover, our unexpected expected attack led many of us to believe that the United States and Japan were already at war.
All those were far-fetched conjectures, we know now, but one must consider our particular state of mind after the experience we had so suddenly gone through.
At about four o’clock in the afternoon the Panay, with the Stars and Stripes still flying, slowly rolled to starboard end slid bow first to the bottom of the Yangtze.
Soon after we landed, an advance party led by Paxton, who spoke fluent Chinese, was sent to Hohsien, a small town about six miles inland. Paxton was to ask for assistance and to find a way for us to contact the U. S. Embassy’s office in Hankow to inform it of the bombing and the sinking of the Panay and of our whereabouts.
In the meantime, the wounded were getting restless and were suffering a great deal; the dampness and chill of the oncoming night did not help matters. Unfortunately, we had neither morphine to relieve their pains nor any means to alleviate their discomfort.
From our hiding place in the reeds we could see that some Japanese were still trying to find us from both the river and the air. Captain Roberts, to whom Commander Hughes had delegated the task of organizing whatever measures were deemed necessary for our survival, decided that we were to wait for the cover of darkness before leaving the present location.
When the moment came to leave, Captain Roberts and Atcheson went ahead to a nearby fishing village to secure litters for the wounded, and men to carry them and to tow boats alongside a small creek leading from our place to the fishing village.
By a lucky chance we found an inexplicably abandoned motor launch belonging to the Allied Petroleum Company in a nearby cove. The motor launch and our two motor sampans would have helped us to carry the most seriously wounded of our party. But all three craft were to be towed because Captain Roberts had figured that the roar of their engines would surely have attracted the unwelcome attention of Japanese patrols we suspected were not very far from us.
When the stretcher bearers arrived bringing their litters that had been improvised from doors, wooden boards, bamboo cots, and mattings, we began slowly moving toward the fishing village.
Before starting our march, we gave a parting look at the SOCONY tankers aground on the opposite bank. One of them was still fiercely burning and from her were erupting flaming gasoline containers that exploded high up in the darkness like rockets. They looked just like the Fourth of July fireworks.
At the fishing village, the wounded were put ashore. After much haggling with the stretcher bearers, who were most reluctant to proceed further than their village, we started for Hohsien again, making our way on foot.
It was bitterly cold. Many of us were draped in blankets, but a few, like myself, were still wearing our life jackets, which gave us some warmth because of the kapok lining.
The discomfort and the suffering of the wounded were most distressing, but there was nothing we could do to alleviate the pain. They were continuously asking for a drink of water, but we could not give them any because the only water we could get was from irrigation ditches or from muddy ponds, and was therefore unsafe for drinking.
When Sandri began insisting on having a drink of water, Barzini patiently tried to explain the situation to him. It was better to wait to have a drink of tea or of boiled water later at the next hamlet, he suggested, but Sandri kept on insisting on water, moodily responding to Barzini’s solicitude by pointing out that all the fuss made about the water being unsafe was of absolutely no concern to him, who was soon going to die anyway!
Curiously enough, a little later Sandri began trying to convince in broken English those who happened to be near him that the planes that had bombed and sunk the Panay were not Japanese, but Soviet-built. Moreover, he insisted that he had seen that type of aircraft during the Spanish Civil War and that although, according to his strange conviction, they were showing Chinese Air Force markings, they must have been flown by experienced Soviet pilots!
Sandri did not seem to be delirious at that moment, so the only plausible explanation we could find for such a fantastic aberration on his part was that Sandri, while in Nanking, had noticed the presence of a few Soviet pilots who were flying for the Chinese on Soviet-built aircraft. From this small detail he must have gradually built up in his mind his absurd belief of the nationality of the airplanes and the pilots who had attacked us—absurd, because many of us had clearly seen the unmistakable Japanese markings on the aircraft the moment they began strafing the sides of the Panay, almost at deck level.
While plodding our way toward Hohsien, we suddenly ran into a group of armed men who had stopped across the road ahead of us. There was a moment of dramatic suspense on both sides: each fearing that they had encountered a Japanese patrol. Because of the impenetrable darkness, it was impossible to identify the other party by sight, so there was a shouted interlocution in Chinese between the two sides from a safe distance until Captain Roberts, who also spoke the language fluently, succeeded in reassurring the other side of our identity. It turned out to be a Chinese patrol on its way to investigate the rumor that a strange party (very likely ours) had landed from the river somewhere in the neighborhood.
When at last we arrived in Hohsien, it must have been past midnight. The local authorities immediately put at our disposal all the scanty facilities that the little town could offer. It was not much, but to us who were deadly tired, caked with mud, thirsty, and sleepy, it was a place where we could somehow refresh ourselves, find some food and water, and have some sleep, while the wounded could be attended to and made comfortable for the night.
Early in the morning, a U. S. sailor and Sandro Sandri died in their sleep. Both had lapsed into comas soon after arriving in Hohsien. Coffins were prepared for them, but their bodies would have to remain in Hohsien until they could be retrieved. Carrying two heavy Chinese-style coffins would have slowed our march to Hanshan, a bigger inland town about 25 miles from Hohsien.
Atcheson, in the meantime, had found the way to telephone the U. S. Embassy’s office in Hankow. We felt greatly relieved to know that by now everybody concerned had learned of our plight and that sooner or later relief parties would be sent to assist us. We were advised to wait in Hohsien for the help to come, but when Captain Roberts heard the rumor that Japanese soldiers had been seen landing somewhere in the close vicinity, he decided that we would take no chances: we were to proceed to Hanshan regardless.
We were to travel to Hanshan on junks towed alongside the banks of a narrow canal. Soon after we had finished our lunch and were ready to move, a Japanese seaplane came flying very low over the town. By now we were more convinced than ever that the Japanese were still intent on hunting us down and eliminating us. Captain Roberts therefore ordered us to remain indoors and to wait for darkness before proceeding to our new destination.
We learned later from a Japanese official report about the Panay incident that the moment that the Japanese authorities realized what a tragic and regretful “mistake” their air force had committed, they had sent a seaplane carrying doctors, corpsmen, and medicines to find us and to assist us. But after our terrifying experience, we were at that moment more than justified in our distrust and suspicion of the Japanese and of their motives.
When darkness came, we boarded the junks that were to carry us to Hanshan. Six or seven of us cooped in the open folds of each junk, fore and aft. Their tops barely reached our chests, leaving our heads and shoulders level to the deck and exposed to the icy gusts of wind. We tried to doze in a standing position, for it was quite impossible to lie down in the cramped deck below. It surely was one of the most uncomfortable nights I can remember having spent.
It was already dawn when we arrived at a landing place located about a mile or so from Hanshan. As usual, Captain Roberts and Atcheson went ahead of us to announce our arrival so that the Chinese garrison would not take our party for Japanese attackers and start firing at us. They found the main gate to the city barred shut, but by dint of much shouting and expostulating they finally succeeded m getting the gate open for us.
The mayor, who strangely enough happened to be a graduate from an American university, immediately gave us warm hospitality and all possible assistance, and sent men to the landing place to help to carry the stretcher cases. A school building was placed at our disposal and a hearty breakfast prepared for us. The wounded were brought to a small dispensary where their wounds were cleaned, disinfected, and dressed again.
Later in the day, Atcheson received a surprising telephone calf from Hohsien, of all places. The caller was Rear Admiral Holt of the Royal Navy informing us that he had just arrived in Hohsien with the gunboats Ladybird and Bee to assist us and that the Panay's sister ship, the USS Oahu (PR-6), was on her way at flank speed from Kiukiang to pick us up and to carry us back to Shanghai. We were thus requested to retrace our steps to Hohsien without delay.
So far as the Japanese were concerned, he added, they seemed to be in a state of utter consternation and embarrassment for the “unfortunate” and “regrettable” mistake. As a matter of fact, they had sent two destroyers to escort the British and U. S. gunboats to Shanghai with the survivors of the Panay, so as to avoid another case of “mistaken” identity by the Japanese Air Force.
I must have been in a state of daze from lack of sleep and from emotional stress, because I can hardly remember boarding the junk that was to carry us back to Hohsien. All I can remember is that when we reached the place it was deep at night.
When we arrived at Hohsien we proceeded to a spot on the riverbank where we were to embark. From there we could see the blazing lights of the small armada midstream, for accompanying the two British gunboats were the two Japanese destroyers that were to escort us to Shanghai.
On the riverbank, close to the spot of our embarkation, the Japanese had erected a stall with tables loaded with drinks, sandwiches, cakes, cigarettes, and all sort of dainties for us. We just passed by disdainfully ignoring their Pendants, who, with most ingratiating gestures, were beckoning us to help ourselves.
Although at that particular moment I could hardly suffer the sight of a Japanese, I yet felt sorry for those attendants who found themselves in what must have been for them a most embarrassing and humiliating position. After all, I have never been of a revengeful nature.
Since the Oahu had not yet arrived, we were distributed for the night on board the two British gunboats that had been secured side by side.
As a welcome preliminary treat, we were first given a tong of hot cocoa Royal Navy style and next a huge portion of sandwiches that we washed down with beer. Then we went to sleep on cots placed on deck under awnings. It was very chilly outside, but the place was kept comfortably warm by kerosene heaters. To me it was like relaxing in heaven.
The next morning we were transferred to the Oahu, which had arrived while we were asleep, and in the afternoon we proceeded downriver towards Shanghai, escorted all the way by the two Japanese destroyers.
We arrived in Shanghai after noon on 17 December.
When the news flash was heard about the sinking of the USS Panay by the Japanese, there were many who, recall- fog how the destruction of USS Maine in Havana in 1898 had sparked the Spanish-American War, must have remarked: “This is war!” It did not come to that then, but it came very close to touching off the war that was to start four years later.
The promptness with which the Japanese Government and the people of Japan apologized, admitted responsibility, and offered amends considerably eased the tenseness. The Japanese insistence, however, on claiming that the attack had been made by mistake—that the pilots had been unable to identify the nationality of the U. S. gunboat— was easily disproved when films Norman Alley of the Universal News had taken aboard the Panay during the bombing and the strafing were later developed and projected. Strips of the films clearly showed that during one phase of the strafing the Japanese aircraft were flying at almost deck level. It was thus impossible to believe that at such a low altitude their pilots had been unable to identify the U. S. flags that were conspicuously displayed on both the Panay and the SOCONY tankers.
Therefore, for an enraged American public to believe the Japanese claim of mistaken identity, those compromising strips had to be removed before releasing the film. Because of the absolute unpreparedness of U. S. armed forces for a war against Japan, President Franklin Roosevelt wisely decided upon their removal. And so it was done.
When I went to the Italian Embassy the next day. Ambassador Cora showed me a telegram he had just received from our Ministry of Foreign Affairs that peremptorily ordered Barzini and me not to attend the court of inquiry that was going to be convened aboard the USS Augusta (CA-31), the flagship of the U. S. Asiatic Fleet stationed in Shanghai, in regard to the loss of the Panay.
Because I had been asked to submit my own witness report on the attack on the Panay while on board the Oahu, a report that I gave without any hesitation or regard for my particular status due to Italy’s “special” relations with Japan, I did not feel too badly about such a churlish and discourteous attitude on the part of our government. It was evidently inspired by Italy’s desire not to contribute to the embarrassment of our Japanese friends. Yet I considered that sort of attitude to be a manifestation of sheer ingratitude for the hospitality, kindness, and assistance extended to us by the U. S. Navy and the Department of State in a moment when we badly needed them.
Moreover, Barzini and I were ordered not to press any claim against the Japanese Government either directly or through the U. S. Government for the losses we had suffered from the sinking of the Panay. I do not know about Barzini, but so far as I was concerned I received from my ministry a paltry amount as indemnification for everything I had lost in the ordeal.
In memory of Sandro Sandri, the Italian river steamer Yungkong and a small street in Milan were renamed. The Japanese Government expressed its regret for the death of Sandri and paid an indemnification to his family.
For the small part I played on the Panay episode, I was awarded the U. S. Naval Expeditionary Medal which, through various vicissitudes, reached me only in 1948.
The Pantless Gunner of Panay.
Commend me to that noble soul
Who, in the battle’s heat.
Rushed to his post without his pants,
The bomber’s dive to meet;
Who stood upon the rocking deck
In careless disattire,
With shirt tail flaunting in the breeze,
To deal out fire for fire.
Old Glory’s color deepened
As she floated o’er this son—
The man who had no time for pants
But plenty for his gun.
Come, name a million heroes,
But to me there’ll never be
A finer show of nerve and grit,
On any land or sea.
Then dwell upon your epics
Should you feel an urge for chants,
Recall the sinking Panay
And the gunner minus pants!
—Vaun Al Arnold
The “Pantless Gunner” was Chief Boatswain’s Mate Charles E. Mahlman. Just as the first bomb struck he had been starting to get dressed, and was part way into his trousers. He climbed the ladder as the second bomb struck the Panay, and hit the deck clad only in a long, wool shirt and a life jacket.
Mahlman was an old China hand, a hard-bitten marlinspike seaman and, above all, a fine leader. For his heroic action during the attack—pants or no pants—he was awarded the Navy Cross.
Rear Admiral Carlton B. Jones, U.S. Navy (Retired)
We Sunk Panay
It was an hour past noon on 12 December 1937, and six dive bombers under my command were flying west along the Yangtze River about 20 miles south of banking, in company with other groups of planes of His Imperial Japanese Majesty’s Navy. I was leader of the dive bomber squad- ton of one of the command’s air Stoups. With the other three Stoup commanders I had come from Japan just eight days before. Our targets were Chinese merchant vessels reported to be loaded with troops fleeing the city. We were all eager to carry out this longed-for opportunity to bomb enemy ships.
We had been informed that day that an advance Army unit had reported seven large merchant ships and three smaller ones fleeing the capital, loaded to capacity with Chinese troops. Ground forces were unable to reach them, and so it was requested that the naval air arm make an attack. It was rumored that a successful attack might earn a unit citation.
There had been a standing order to avoid bombing vessels on the Yangtze because of the danger of involvement with foreign neutrals. But learning of these obviously legitimate targets, we were thrilled when the order came for all available aircraft to participate in the attack—the first opportunity to attack a floating target in combat. Our excitement was further increased by the prospect of a unit citation, a thought particularly appealing to men newly arrived at the front. It did not take us long to get ready.
Our force was to consist of nine Type-95 fighters (led by Lieutenant Ryohei Ushioda) and six Type-94 dive bombers (led by Lieutenant Ichiro Komaki) from the 12th Air Group; and from the 13th Air Group there were to be three Type-96 bombers under Lieutenant Shigeharu Murata and my six Type-96 dive bombers. Each squadron leader was ordered to conduct independent and varied methods of attack. I instructed my men to attack the largest ship of the group and reminded them to dive from high altitude with the sun at their back. Four of my planes carried two 60-kg. bombs apiece, the other two—one of which was my own—were each loaded with one 250-kg. bomb. We sped toward the ships, flying at 4,000 meters since our planes were not equipped with oxygen.
It was at the northern end of Wade Island that I spotted four or more ships. Having complete faith in Army intelligence, I was convinced that these vessels were loaded with enemy troops and pointed them out to the other pilots of my squadron who seemed to go wild with joy.
The attack was opened by Murata’s high-level bombers while the rest of us were still approaching. Each of his three planes dropped six 60-kg. bombs, some of which scored two direct hits on one of the smaller ships at the southern end of the group— which proved to be the gunboat USS Panay. As the rest of us raced earthward I lost sight of the distant horizon, then the far reaches of the river, and by the time our 60° dive had brought me down to 1,000 meters, my vision was completely filled with the ever-growing target on the yellow surface of the water as it filled and overflowed the viewer of my primitive bombsight. At 500 meters I released the bomb and pulled out of the dive.
While climbing I looked back and was surprised to see that my bomb had missed! More water rings appeared all around the target: the rest of my planes had also missed. In circling the area I observed no antiaircraft fire and saw no hits scored after those initial ones by Murata’s planes. My most vivid memory of the attack was that the decks of the ships were crowded with men, many of whom were wearing black suits. When I took a last look before returning to base, there were not more than two ships in any danger of sinking; the others were only lightly damaged, if at all.
The next morning I was awakened and handed a message from the commander in chief of Japanese naval forces in China which read, “Squadron commanders of the flying units which attacked vessels on Yangtze River are ordered to report to the flagship Izumo tomorrow morning.”
The four of us made a hurried trip to the old cruiser Izumo at Shanghai. The atmosphere on board the flagship was tense. Lieutenant Commander Kurio Toibana, staff officer for air operations, informed us, to our consternation, that among the ships attacked and hit the day before were the U. S. gunboat Panay and a ship belonging to the Standard Oil Company.
On 11 December our high command in Shanghai had received word from Admiral Harry Yamell of the U. S. Asiatic Fleet that the Panay was located four miles upstream from Nanking. Lieutenant Commander Toshitane Takata, senior staff officer for air operations, had thus advised Lieutenant Commander Toibana to notify our air forces immediately of the Panay's change in location. Toibana considered it wise to delay announcing the Panay's move until her new location was known so as to avoid confusion. Commander Takata was not convinced on this point until Toibana firmly assured him that naval pilots could be counted on not to commit any blunders.
Unfortunately, it was not until five o’clock that afternoon that Toibana succeeded in learning the Panay's new position and it had taken numerous telephone calls before the information was complete. During the last three hours of these attempted communications, the U. S. fleet flagship had lost contact with the Panay. Thus it was that Toibana became filled with a dreadful fear when he read the daily battle report from our base at Changchow. As he explained it to us, his faith in our naval air force had led to the worst mistake of his whole life. The real magnitude of our crime was first brought home to us as Toibana concluded his narration with a profound bow.
Our violation of the restrictions on ship bombing had been a product of our temporary excitement inspired by a reliance, in fact an overreliance, upon the information conveyed to us by the Japanese Army. We had approached our targets at high altitude certain that they were Chinese. The number of ships and their location made them reasonably fit the description supplied by army intelligence.
The similar appearance of gunboats of all nations made them hard to distinguish from the air; and the Murata group, which had apparently hit the Panay, had done so from an altitude of 2,500 meters, which meant that they were some 4,000 meters distant from the ship at the time of bomb release. It was absolutely anything but a premeditated attack that was carried out on the Panay. This tragedy was solely the result of a terrible mistake.
Another thing—which perhaps only a naval pilot would understand—was our joy and excitement at the realization that for the first time in our lives we were going to attack actual vessels. It was like a race. This desire to be first to the target, and the desire for distinguished service also caused us to begrudge the time required for identifying the target. Our complete negligence in this regard can never be denied; but has been and, while the last of us fives, will always be regretted.
Furthermore, and lastly, we did not want to give the enemy time to prepare for the attack, a viewpoint and desire which will, I believe, be understood by any pilot.
Admiral Hasegawa and his staff Were convinced of our sincerity and took no further action against us. But we again felt the gravity of our unfortunate error upon seeing Rear Admiral Rokuzo bugiyama, the chief of staff, grave-visaged and sorrowful as he departed to tender apologies to Admiral Yarnell for our action.
The tragedy of this accident find, in the meantime, become a serious diplomatic issue between the United States and Japan, one that was exacerbated when The New York Times headlined an account of the incident as witnessed by one of its correspondents on board the Panay.
The newspaper stressed that not only had Japanese naval planes stacked the Panay, but two small surface craft had then machine-gunned her, inflicting further damage. It was contended that since these small craft had ample opportunity to ascertain the nationality of their target before firing, the attack must have been the result of an intentional plot. Official Japanese explanations that there were no ground or surface forces in the vicinity at the time of the air attack were received with great suspicion in the United States.
Investigation revealed that in the morning of 12 December after Wuhu was occupied, an advance unit of the Japanese Army continued on down the Yangtze in small boats. This group passed several ships including the Panay, which a lieutenant visited, proceeded toward Nanking, but soon turned back. They were just repassing the Panay and the other ships when the Japanese planes made their sudden attack.
The Japanese soldiers opened fire with machine guns at what they thought to be Chinese soldiers fleeing to the riverbanks.
After the bombs had been dropped the strafing planes made their runs, from which the Japanese boats were not exempted. The frenzied soldiers strove to ward off this attack by their airborne compatriots by waving Japanese flags. But, like other national insignia present, these too went unseen by the exuberant attacking pilots, and Japanese soldiers were killed and wounded by the aerial strafing. No official report had been made of this episode by the army unit involved and so this information remained unknown until uncovered by the special investigation.
The Japanese Army officers involved in the incident did not show common sense in regard to international matters, nor did they display good judgment, or even a proper knowledge of military etiquette; and their actions seriously aggravated the confusion at the time. It made matters worse when they fired on the boats from the stricken vessels, and their failure to report this action to the authorities seemed like the height of senselessness to us in the navy.
We pilots are also, of course, open to criticism for having been unobservant, but the American flag—unlike the Japanese flag—is extremely difficult to distinguish at any great distance, especially from that altitude. And because the Panay's deck had been damaged in the very first attack by the high-level bombers, her deck markings were rendered even more indistinguishable.
The gravity of the situation inspired prompt action all along the line and the War and Navy ministries joined at once in the decision to make full representations to the United States and tender their sincere apologies. Thanks to U. S. Ambassador Joseph Grew’s understanding efforts, the critical situation was eased and a settlement concluded.
Of the four lieutenants who led the planes that attacked the Panay and her consorts, I am the only one alive today. I hope that this narrative will serve to clear up any misunderstandings regarding our actions that fateful day in 1937.
Masatake Okumiya (assisted by Roger Pineau)
Editor’s Note: This recount of the Japanese attack on the USS Panay is excerpted from an article that Proceedings published in June 1953.
Editor’s Note: 12 December 1987 will be the 50th anniversary of the bombing and sinking of the Panay.