I felt as though we had jumped on a merry-go-round, grabbed a handful of brass rings, and then had jumped off without paying for our ride. It was hard to believe that four rickety, rusty old 1917 four-pipers could do such things.
But my story really starts back in Manila in the days when the Army-Navy Club was a place where a tired destroyer sailor could get a good, cold San Miguel beer without too much trouble. Now I understand that Japanese naval and army officers lounge in the club bar in their kimonos. On December 8, 1941, the day the war came to Manila, the John D. Ford and the Pope were anchored in Manila Bay in front of the Army-Navy Club. I was the Gunnery Officer of the Ford, then, and had been for some time. During all that hectic first day of war we had made final adjustments to our guns, readying the ship for the expected Jap bombing attack, but none came. Not until we had taken a convoy south and had returned on the 10th did we see a Nip plane over the harbor. 1 hat was a black day. We had expected to S° into Cavite Navy Yard for a badly needed overhaul, but we certainly were thankful that we weren’t there when flights pf 27 Jap bombers started making bombing runs on the navy yard. While waiting their turn, the off flights made runs on a group of merchant ships in Manila Bay and on Clark Air Field. Our feeble popgun joined in with the Army anti-aircraft defenses, but its noisy bark didn’t reach half Way up to the Japs.
Cavite went up in jets and spurts of sickening flame and debris. Not a man who Watched from our ship will ever forget that picture, nor will he ever want to. It was in front of us that day in Macassar. If I ever get to Tokyo I know we’ll see it there, too.
Later that day we sadly headed south with another convoy, and this time we were heading south for Java. Down there we hoped we’d have a chance to start over again, to get our ship in fighting condition, and then to fight. The trip down was long and uncertain. We knew nothing of the whereabouts of the Japs, but we were sure they’d never let the valuable convoy we were protecting get away. In spite of our worries we got through the Southern Philippines and down through Macassar Straits.
On Christmas Day we entered Surabaya for a well-deserved rest and a few days in which to make feverish repairs to our wheezing engineering plant, now two years without overhaul. We worked hurriedly, trying to get the old crate into shape for the fight we were spoiling for. We didn’t have long to wait. Early in January we got orders to prepare for offensive action. That sounded good, but it wasn’t. Back and forth along the Malay Barrier we shuttled, waiting for some definite word, fueling frequently to be sure we’d be full when our time came. We weren’t much, just four old cans, the old light cruiser Marblehead, and our pride and joy, the new light cruiser Boise. Little by little our force dwindled. First the Marblehead had an engineering casualty; then the Boise hit an uncharted reef and ripped a disabling hole in her bottom. Still we didn’t care. Four old cans were enough. We’d have fought in rowboats.
Finally it came. We had been monotonously patrolling off the Postillion Islands, at the southern entrance to Macassar Straits. We knew the Japs were coming. Borneo was next on their timetable after Manila and Davao. The planes of Patwing Ten had been sending reports of a growing Jap Force at Davao. This Force could have only one objective, Balik-papen, on the eastern coast of Borneo, fronting on Macassar Straits.
Our orders were clear, “Make a night attack on a Japanese Force heading for Balik-papen.” Reconnaissance reports began to trickle in. The job was going to be tough. “Twenty transports, twelve destroyers, several cruisers.” We figured that the Japs would have so many ships there they’d never even notice us. That’s exactly what happened.
We started up the straits that evening, timing our approach to arrive off Balik-papen at about 2:00 a.m. The seas were extremely heavy; we had to make 27 knots to get there. The result was something even old William Cramp would have shuddered at. He built well when he put those boats together. They bucked mountainous seas that threatened every minute to strip the bridges right off their hulls. I could only moan every time my guns went under green water. I was sure they’d never fire when the time came.
The long run up the Straits gave us time to organize for battle. We weren’t much, but we were full of fight, and what’s more, we were the “Fighting Fifty-ninth.” Destroyer Division Fifty-Nine was under the command of Commander P. H. Talbot, U. S. Navy, and was composed of the John D. Ford, flagship, the Pope, the Parrott, and the Paul Jones in column in that order. We’d made many a practice night torpedo attack, but never one with the chips down. In fact, we were to make the first one ever made. I remember running over in my mind the lofty War College comments on the expected life of a destroyer in a night action. I couldn’t remember whether it was measured in seconds or minutes, but I knew it wasn’t much of either. Our crews were well trained, tough, and eager for action. Our officers were the same, and as experienced as any in the peace-time Navy. We were confident, but we made all preparations just the same. The charts showed 300 miles of trackless jungle south of Balik-papen. I knew we’d have a long walk south if any of us were fortunate enough to survive and get ashore if we were sunk. I sewed a box full of fish hooks, twine, razor blades, quinine pills, and Dutch money in my life jacket and tied a pocket compass and knife on my pistol belt. After checking over my gun firing circuits as best I could between submergings and giving last-minute instructions to my gun crews, I felt I was ready for anything. My men were spoiling for a fight. I didn’t have to tell them what to do, just when. They were about to take part in the first American naval engagement in the East since Dewey fought at Manila Bay, and they were proud of it.
I’ve always wondered how a person felt before battle. I still don’t know. I fell asleep, or as near to sleep as you can get on a four-stacker that is making 27 knots in a rough sea. When the General Alarm awakened me at 11:00 p.m., the sea had calmed considerably, and as we passed up the straits in the lee of Celebes, the sea was almost calm.
Again I checked my guns, mustered my crews, passed last-minute instructions, and then reported ready to the bridge. I had plenty of time to think now. As my eyes became accustomed to the darkness I was able to make out our division mates astern. Down on deck the repair party was assembling its gear, the cooks were passing out cold rations, and the torpedo tube mount crews and gun crews were making last-minute inspections.
We settled down to that last-minute wait, familiar to any athlete. That’s the only way I can describe it, just like that gone feeling just before the kick-off. For more than an hour we plunged on through the night, alert, ready, hopeful. Shortly before midnight the spotter in the foretop sighted an intermittently flashing light on the starboard bow. For a moment I thought it was a searchlight, but soon we made it out as flames from a burning ship. Its position showed it to be near a part of a Jap convoy reportedly bombed by our air force that afternoon. In half an hour we had left it astern, burning as a monument to the accuracy of some bombardier.
At 2:00 a.m. we came abreast of Balik-papen. The loom of gigantic fires became visible. The Dutch, we knew, were busy destroying everything burnable to deny it to the Japs. We could smell burning oil 20 miles at sea. Using these fires as beacons, we turned west and set a course to the area just north of Balik-papen and its mine fields, where we suspected the Japs would attempt to land. At 2:45 a.m. I saw my first Japanese ship. I can’t describe the feeling it gave me. I could remember the hours I’d spent studying silhouettes of Japanese warships. Suddenly, here was one, a silhouette all right, but not a picture, a big, black, ugly ship. We passed it so close and so fast that neither of us could take any action. Our plan was to fire our torpedoes as long as they lasted and then, and only then, to open up with our guns. That way we could conceal our presence as long as possible. Consequently, we couldn’t fire our guns at this ship, and couldn’t train our torpedo tubes fast enough to bring them to bear on him.
We didn’t have long to wait for more game. A whole division of Jap destroyers burst out of the gloom and oil smoke on our port bow and steamed rapidly across m front of us and off into the darkness to starboard. Again we kept quiet and attempted to avoid them. Our objective was something far more important, the troop and supply laden transports farther inshore. I don’t know why these destroyers didn’t see us. Possibly several of their own destroyers were patrolling in the vicinity and they mistook us for their own forces. Maybe that was why the first ship we sighted had not fired on us.
Suddenly we found ourselves right in the midst of the Jap transports. Down on the bridge I could hear Captain Cooper saying “action port, action port,” and Lieutenant Slaughter, the torpedo officer, giving quick orders to his torpedo battery. Back aft the tube mounts swung to follow his director. “Fire one,” he said. “Fire one,” repeated his telephone talker. Then came the peculiar combination of a muffled explosion, a whine, a swish, and a splash, that follows the firing of a torpedo. I watched the torpedo come to the surface once and then dive again as it steadied on its run. Astern, the Pope, Paul Jones, and Parrott were carefully picking targets and firing. We fired our second torpedo. So did the ships astern. My talker was calmly counting off seconds as our first torpedo ran toward its target. “Mark,” he shouted, as the time came for it to hit. Seconds passed. Nothing happened. We knew our first had missed. Then came a blinding, ear-shattering explosion. One of our torpedoes had hit. The explosion of a torpedo at night at close range is an awe-inspiring sight. The blast is terrific, blinding; then comes the concussion wave, which leaves you gasping for breath. It is seconds before your dazed eyes can see anything at all.
Close on the heels of the first close range hit came other hits. The crippled ships began to list and sink. We reversed course and ran through the convoy again, firing torpedoes on both sides as transports loomed out of the dark. By now there were only three of us, the Paul Jones having lost us as we came around the last turn. At one time I could count five sinking ships. A third time we reversed course and ran through the demoralized convoy. Once we had to veer to port to avoid a sinking transport. The water was covered with swimming Japs. Our wash overturned several lifeboats loaded with Japs. Other ships looked as if they were covered with flies. Jap soldiers were clambering down their sides in panic. It was becoming difficult to keep from firing at transports that had already been torpedoed. Again we turned for another run through the convoy. So far I believed the Japs had not discovered that we were in their midst, attributing the torpedoes to submarines and believing we were their own destroyers.
Down on the bridge I heard “Fire ten.” Just two torpedoes left. Now only the Pope was left astern of us. We fired our last two torpedoes at a group of three transports. Now I knew the stage was mine. Many a time I had fired at target rafts, but this was the real thing. “Commence firing” rang in my earphones. I was ready but how different this was from peacetime firings! I could still remember the sonorous arguments of the publications I had studied at the Naval Academy over the relative effectiveness of searchlights and star shells. I didn’t use either, nor did we use any of the complicated fire-control apparatus installed. This was draw shooting at its best. As targets loomed out of the dark at ranges of 500 to 1,500 yards we trained on and let go a salvo or two, sights set at their lower limits, using the illumination furnished by burning ships. Finally we sighted a transport far enough away to let us get in three salvos before we had passed it. The projectile explosions were tremendous. Deck plates and debris flew in all directions. When we last saw her she was on end, slipping slowly under. We had sunk the first ship to be sunk by American gunfire since Manila Bay! I only had a minute to reflect on that fact because a transport began firing at us. I turned my guns on her, but before we could silence her a shell had hit us aft. Flames grew and spread around the area. Over the telephones I could hear a torpedoman describing the damage—“four men wounded, the after deckhouse wrecked, ammunition burning.” Thirty seconds later the burning ammunition had been thrown over the side, the wounded cared for, and the gun crew was firing again.
By now the Pope had also lost us, and we were fighting alone. One more transport we mauled badly, then there was nothing left to shoot at. On the bridge I heard our Division Commander give the order to withdraw. Back aft the blowers began to whine even louder as the Chief Engineer squeezed the last ounce of speed out of the old boat. Later I learned we were making almost 32 knots, faster than the Ford had gone since her trials. In the east the sky was growing uncomfortably bright. Astern of us the sky was also bright, but from the fires of burning ships.
For almost 30 minutes we ran south before dawn came. All hands strained their eyes astern for signs of pursuit that we thought inevitable. We could see none. The only ships in sight were three familiar shapes on the port bow that we knew to be the Parrott, Paul Jones, and Pope. Proudly they fell in astern of us, and we sped south together. Down on the bridge a flag hoist whipped out smartly. “Well done,” it said.
All that morning we kept a wary eye cocked astern and overhead, but the Japs must have been licking their wounds, for we never saw a Jap. Our crew ate in shifts, refusing to get more than 10 feet from their guns. Only when we started in the mine fields off Surabaya next day did they relax and drop off to sleep on deck.
At noon we tied up at Surabaya with barely enough fuel to make the dock. On the way in we had put a canvas patch over the hole in our after deckhouse and had cleaned up the ship as best we could. The Dutch met us in grand style, and Admiral Hart came aboard to inspect us. The Dutch provided men to help us fuel and provision ship. That done, every man in the crew slept 16 hours.
Desdiv 59 was officially credited with at least six ships sunk and three damaged, but not until the Japanese release their records after the war will it ever be known just how many ships we did sink. A Dutch submarine captain who saw the battle later said he had seen about 12 torpedo hits and had seen at least 9 ships go down. The actual number means very little. The importance of this battle was more than the sinking of a number of ships. It furnished a morale uplift to the thousands of men of the Allied Forces in the Asiatic Theater who had been making a succession of strategic retreats. For the first time an Allied Force had taken the initiative and had demonstrated that any determined force, no matter how small, could inflict heavy damage on the Japanese and live to fight again.
The John D. Ford did fight again—at Badung Strait off Bali, and at the Battle of Java Sea. But those battles are stories in themselves and take time to tell. The heroine of them all was that grand old ship, the John D. Ford. Built to fight during the last war, she showed the way during this war to her modern sisters. Her day is gone now. She’s been retired to pasture, where she gallops around her convoys like a worried old mare. Now the fighting will be done by modern destroyers with complex fire-control systems and high-pressure boilers. It’s their day now, but the old John D. Ford will never forget the night that she was the fightingest horse on the Macassar merry-go-round.