Sailors the world over share the belief that every good ship has a heart. The USS Hornet (CV-8) was one such ship, and she was stout hearted as she defiantly withstood monumental punishment by foe and friend alike.
In June 1942, when Captain Charles P. Mason got orders to command the Hornet, I was a lieutenant commander, a rank I had just made at the Naval Air Station, Jacksonville, Florida. He asked if I would like to go with him.
I quickly agreed and was on hand in Pearl Harbor when Mason relieved newly promoted Rear Admiral Marc Mitscher following the Battle of Midway. I was immediately assigned duty as air operations officer. My station was air plot, which was up in the island structure just aft of the bridge and charthouse. The combat information center and air control, where the fighter directors operated, were also in the island structure; they were directly beneath me. I had an open scuttle and discovered during our training period around Hawaii that I could look right down and see what their board showed and what their radars were picking up. That was useful, but, of course, it was an extremely vulnerable place to be, as we found out.
I was feeding everything from air plot to the ready rooms by teletype, and they were firing things back to me. The air officer was Lieutenant Commander Marcel Gouin, who was a real pro. He insisted that every pilot’s navigation—as much as he could foresee before leaving the ship on a mission, be it a search sector or anything with a specific objective assigned—be relayed back to me and I check it. No flight could leave the ship until I checked the navigation calculations. My crackerjack assistant and I worked feverishly; we didn’t hold up a single operation. Nobody ever had to wait to man his plane while we checked the navigation.
Our air group consisted of close to 80 airplanes, plus 20 new F4F-4s and one unarmed F4F-7 photographic reconnaissance plane. Twenty-one fighters were stowed, with wings folded back, up in the overhead of the hangar deck. The gallery deck did not extend all the way across the ship under the flight deck, so there were bays between the girders that were big enough to accommodate a fighter, or, in fact, a spare dive-bomber or two. We took these aircraft aboard before leaving Pearl and preserved the engines and many fittings in cosmoline, taking special care with their guns. We hoisted them up into the overhead not knowing whether we would be the ones to use them. Fate decided that in short order.
On 17 August the Hornet departed Pearl as the flagship of Task Force 17, commanded by Rear Admiral George Murray, with four cruisers, six destroyers, and an oiler. Our mission was to support the struggle for Guadalcanal, where the Marines had landed ten days before. Word of the Battle of the Eastern Solomons reached us en route, too late to help the Enterprise (CV-6), which was damaged and returned to Pearl. Her aircraft were sent to “Cactus” [Guadalcanal], The Hornet joined the Wasp (CV-7) and the Saratoga (CV-3) in a defensive patrol to the southeast. Air battles over Cactus were in our favor, but our operational losses were heavy. The Hornet withdrew and ferried Marine pilots aboard who flew off 20 F4F-4s, which we had recommissioned from the overhead. The replacement fighters participated in an air battle over Henderson Field even before landing there!
We spent quite a bit of time up in “Torpedo Junction”— east of Guadalcanal and north of Espíritu Santo—in the New Hebrides. We were present when the Saratoga (CV- 3) suffered torpedo damage on 31 August. Nevertheless, she managed to recover and fly off 30 aircraft to Guadalcanal. We were also part of a task force torpedoed on 15 September. That day, the Wasp (CV-7) was sunk, and the North Carolina (BB- 55), which was close aboard us at the time, was hit by a torpedo forward. The O’Brien (DD-415), one of our destroyers, lost her bow. I remember that she was right there on our port beam. She took a torpedo that was meant for us, as had the North Carolina. The Hornet recovered the Wasp’s airborne aircraft and flew them off to Guadalcanal.
Since the Enterprise (CV-6) had already gone to Pearl Harbor for repairs, the Hornet became the only U.S. carrier in the South Pacific. An intercepted message passed on by Commander South Pacific read: “Destruction of ‘Blue Base’ [our tactical call] is primary objective of Imperial Fleet!” This aroused a roaring cheer of defiance within the ship. On 2 October our carrier and four cruisers— without our destroyers—raced northward to attack concentrated shipping in the Shortlands. During the Battle of Cape Esperance, a savage surface action off Savo Island on 11 and 12 October, Task Force 17 acted as a covering force. Battle damage was heavy on both sides, but our troop reinforcements did get through. On 16 October the Hornet launched a squadron strike against Santa Isabel to the northwest. Meanwhile, Task Force 17 closed the south coast of Guadalcanal and launched a day-long series of strikes on numerous targets of opportunity, particularly around Tassafaronga, not far from Henderson Field. We remained for some days, charging up and down off the southern coast of the island, launching repeated strikes. The only thing that ever got around our way was an enemy submarine. The Japanese aircraft seemed to ignore us, and the wind was so light that we were making high speed most of the time.
The month wore on, and the Japanese began marshaling major forces to regain Guadalcanal. Their composition—initially unknown to us—consisted of 5 battleships, 4 operational carriers, 12 cruisers, 27 destroyers, and 12 submarines, plus 220 land-based aircraft near Rabaul. The Hornet was operating with the Enterprise as part of Task Force 61, which was conducting a counterclockwise sweep north of the Santa Cruz Islands. On the night of 25 October, the Hornet had a large group poised for a moonlight strike with heavy weapons, but contact reports were sketchy. An enemy force was spotted about 0700 the next day about 300 miles northwest. The newly repaired Enterprise launched 16 armed scouts in a 90°-arc to investigate more closely. At 0832 the Hornet launched a strike of 24 SBDs, 15 TBFs, and 15 F4F-4s. The Enterprise flew off a 19-plane strike. Leaders reported passing Japanese attack groups about 60 miles out, attesting to the jump they had on us.
About 1010 the enemy struck. The Enterprise, temporarily shielded by a rain squall, was literally ignored. Concentrating on us, the Japanese attacked savagely despite heavy antiaircraft fire, which splashed many. A heavy bomb hit the flight deck aft, causing severe damage; two near misses shook us up. The leader of 15 dive-bombers, his plane on fire, bore in, hitting us with three bombs. One detonated on the flight deck, another as his plane plummeted into the stack, and the third was a heavy dud that penetrated to the gallery deck. The shattered signal bridge, just over my head, suffered 12 killed or wounded and was aflame from a gasoline fire.
Closely coordinated with this dive- bombing from port came a perfectly executed torpedo plane attack from starboard. Twelve Kates, in line abreast, bore in so low that many had to hop over our screen to avoid hitting the destroyers’ masts. Disregarding our murderous point- blank gunfire, they planted two torpedoes into us amidships, adjacent to the forward engineering spaces. Flooding commenced immediately. A third underwater detonation followed closely thereafter: a torpedo explosion in our wake during a hard-right turn that jammed the rudders.
A lone Kate in a shallow dive lengthwise pulled out low ahead, executed a tight 270°-flipper turn, then bore back into us to port, forward of the 5-inch gun gallery. Its fuselage came to rest under the forward elevator, which resulted in a stubborn fire that was enlivened by the Kate’s machine-gun ammunition. At this point 11 separate fires were raging in the ship, and we had no fire-main pressure. Our P-500 “handy billy” water pumps were soon out of fuel, so bucket brigades took over. Destroyers started coming alongside to fight the fires, to give us power, and to receive some 80 seriously wounded crewmen. The aggressive seamanship and indefatigable efforts of our “small boys” were priceless.
We had no power whatsoever. The engine rooms were flooded by the torpedo damage, and the ship began to list. We were being attacked by successive waves of Japanese twin-engine land planes that had flown all the way from New Guinea and Rabaul. The ship was dead in the water.
The Northampton (CA-26), one of our cruisers, tried to tow the ship, but as soon as the line was taut, the Hornet started shearing out to starboard because her rudders were jammed. The minute there was any slack in the towline, out she would shear again. Then an attack would come in and the cruiser would have to cast off because she was a sitting duck. That happened three times. Our own 2-inch wire towing cable, roused from the after elevator pit, was manually snaked to the forecastle over the hangar deck—which, with foam all over it, was slippery as hell— but it was time consuming for the crew to haul it by hand. There must have been 500 people working on it, hauling that heavy wire lengthwise up the deck. With a 15° list then on the ship, this was difficult.
We regained tactical communication on the TBS voice radio and task force warning nets, but were incommunicado with our strike aircraft. Our combat air patrol could see the disabled carrier, but the strike crews didn’t know our condition. The enemy turned all his guns on the Enterprise, which was gathering in all the airborne returnees, the Hornet's, SBDs having made six 1,000-pound bomb hits on the Japanese carrier Shokaku and three on the cruiser Chikuma, putting both out of action.
My job in air plot was about over, but I had reams and reams of intelligence material. I must have had 50 feet of it, all lying out on the deck in air plot. I figured that we had better save it, so my teletype operator and I rolled it up into a tight bundle, put waterproof tape around it, and I tucked this package—which looked like a cartridge for a player piano—into my shirt. I joined the fire fighting on the flight deck.
Commander Apollo Soucek, the executive officer, came down and said, “Francis, come with me to make an inspection of the ship.” We were mainly concerned about what was happening on the forecastle. We had to climb down on the port side. The ladder had been damaged by the second plane that had flown into the ship, but we wormed our way down.
We managed to get down from the flight deck to the forecastle deck, and the first thing we saw was a 250- pound bomb sitting on the deck—fuzed, of course—which apparently had been knocked off the wing of the Jap plane in the elevator well. Exchanging only a nod of assent, we managed to free the bomb and roll it gingerly into the shallow scupper, then worm it over the side. It splashed harmlessly into the sea, to our immense relief!
Hundreds were gathered up forward, struggling with the towing problem. Consulting with the first lieutenant, the exec agreed to have the Hornet's own towing wire roused out and brought forward to help. Going aft to the hangar deck, we oversaw efforts to deal with the burning suicide plane in the forward elevator well, as its machinegun ammunition continued to cook off. We next over saw the transfer of the wounded to a destroyer on the port quarter. On the fantail we found many casualties and critically wounded crewmen. Another destroyer was nosed in, using a busy highline to transfer them.
We lost 135 men; the remains of several shipmates, placed in weighted bags, were being consigned to the deep. Two chaplains were saying prayers, and, of course, the senior medic and an honor guard were there. Down below, the damage control people were doing everything that could be done to get those engine rooms back in commission, but they couldn’t get the water out of the ship. No power, no nothing. The exec and I inspected after steering, consulted about the still-jammed rudders, and agreed that we should use emergency blocks and tackles.
In mid-afternoon six torpedo planes attacked, scoring one hit to starboard that started flooding in the after engine room. Another detonated close aboard to port after passing under the bow. Our list increased to 14-1/2°. The word “Stand by to abandon ship” was passed. At 1640 five dive-bombers attacked, scoring very near misses. The defiant Hornet's list increased to 18-1/2°.
At 1650 we were ordered by Vice Admiral William Halsey, who was down in Nouméa, to abandon ship and sink her. My abandon-ship station was on the fantail where I was the senior line officer present. The men had already started breaking out the several dozen life rafts—each would hold 12 men and support a lot more—stacked up under the ramp area. The wind was maybe three or four knots at the most, and the ocean was like a mill pond. The trouble is, the rafts had been drifting away. That meant that the one closest to the ship was the one that everybody started going for, and some of the men were jumping over the side. Most of them were going down man ropes that we had rigged.
I went down the rope carrying a .45 pistol, a whistle, the teletype roll that was still tucked in my blouse, and my Abercrombie and Fitch watch. I got in the water and could see that I was virtually helpless. What the hell to do with all this fighting to get on the life rafts going on? So I started blowing my whistle, yelled “Follow me!” and swam away from the ship. The rest of our task force was circling around the ship like Indians around a wagon train. One destroyer at a time would peel off and come in and pick up survivors and then get back out. When she was full, another one would come in. I kept blowing that whistle and yelling, and shipmates followed me.
A U.S. destroyer and Japanese land-based bombers came in simultaneously. I remember hearing those twin-engine bombers and thinking, “My God, how did they get way down here?” Then those damn bombs came through the clouds. We all thought, “If we get away with this, we’re really going to be lucky.” But the bombs, of course, were aimed at the Hornet, not the people in the water. Some hit. One blew a 5-inch gun—the whole gun mount—30 feet in the air! When those bombs hit the water, we felt like we had been hit by a blockbuster.
I swam away from the ship with these people behind me, and then a destroyer, the Barton (DD-599), stood in. The chief boatswain’s mate up on the bow had a linethrowing gun. He’d see somebody out there having trouble, and he’d shout through a megaphone, “Hey, sailor, sailor! Heads up!” And he’d put the projectile right over the guy’s head, saying, “Just hold on. Wrap it around your waist and hold on.” He did that with 20 people until he ran out of line. I swam to the cargo nets over the Barton's side and climbed aboard.
Two hundred and thirty-five people from the Hornet joined me aboard that destroyer. Once again, I was the senior man. We had to find out who they were: get their names, rates, and serial numbers. We separated them by divisions and, with help from the Barton, set up their berthing and messing. It was a hell of a lot of work and organizing in a big hurry.
After they got all the ship’s company off the Hornet, the task force retired to the southeast at high speed. The destroyers Mustin (DD-413) and Anderson (DD-411) were assigned to give her the coup de grace. Of the 16 torpedoes they put into the Hornet, only 9 detonated. All that did, apparently, was put the ship back on an even keel! She was very low in the water, helpless, but not sinking. They then fired 350 rounds of 5-inch ammunition—-including some star shells—into her, hoping to rupture and ignite the gasoline system. Burning furiously, the Hornet still remained afloat. Japanese records reveal that four more torpedo hits were required to put her down. Few combatants have ever successfully withstood heavier punishment: 7 major bombs, 16 live torpedoes (plus 7 duds and 2 close detonations), 2 suicide planes, and 350 rounds of point-blank 5-inch ammo.
Loss of the Hornet was serious, but the enemy had suffered, too. Two Japanese carriers plus a heavy cruiser were out of action for months, and many other ships were seriously damaged. Their aircraft and experienced flight crew losses were twice as great as ours. The formidable enemy force retired from the Solomons, giving us time to regroup, and they never again initiated a major carrier action in that area. The Battle of Santa Cruz proved to be a turning point in the Pacific theater. And the Hornet proved herself to be a good ship with a great heart.
A Boatswain’s Mate’s Worst Nightmare
The first visit by Commander Naval Surface Forces Atlantic to an underway Coast Guard cutter called for detailed preparations. Under the chiefs watchful eye, the young boatswain’s mate had prepared the fantail and the side boys, and he had rigged a Jacob’s ladder that would please Noah. The side boys stood ramrod straight, no distracting Irish pennants and no offending smiles in their cap covers.
All was ready except one last detail. The boatswain’s mate had to disconnect the lifeline above the Jacob’s ladder before the admiral could climb aboard. No problem.
The admiral’s launch approached as the cutter rolled with the swells. The waves slapped hard against the side, sending spray across the fantail. With a leap and outstretched arms, the admiral propelled himself across the gap separating the launch and Jacob’s ladder. Simultaneously, the boatswain’s mate grabbed the snap hook holding the lifeline. Panic. The snap hook did not open. Fear. Despite his strength and numerous silent oaths, the snap hook refused to cooperate. Desperation. More oaths, more muscle power, and even a prayer. Still no joy and no more time. Despair.
His face pressed against the locked snap hook, the boatswain’s mate watched his career disappear in the ship’s wake. The admiral climbed until he was level with the sailor’s forlorn face. Holding onto the wretched lifeline, he said with a laugh, “Your worst nightmare has come true. An admiral dangling on the side of your ship, who can’t come on board. It can't get much worse.”
“Admiral, you don’t know my chief,” came back the anguished reply.
Captain Bruce Stubbs, USCG