This war has brought out two uses of the word “battle.” One has broad implications of time and space, as the Battle of the Atlantic, or the Battle of Russia. The other is limited in time and space, as the Battle of the Coral Sea. There was a second Battle of Manila Bay in each sense. In the larger sense it began with the commencement of hostilities and ended with the fall of Corregidor, May 6, 1942.
That there was a 3-hour free-for-all up and down the length of Manila Bay the afternoon after Bataan fell is not generally known, as there was no press release of this event. I am the only survivor of that battle not now a prisoner of the Japanese, except for the “Eighteen Men in a Boat” whose remarkable escape to Australia was portrayed in the Saturday Evening Post last winter. Let us now examine this second Battle of Manila Bay, the afternoon of April 9, 1942. It is a fitting time to do this, and to remember that its unsung heroes have been prisoners of the Japanese for about a year now.
The United States naval force involved consisted of the China river-gunboats Luzon, Mindanao, and Oahu; the minesweeper class Quail, Tanager, Finch, and Pigeon. These latter were the sturdy “birdboat” class of veterans from World War I. They were each equipped with two 3-inch anti-aircraft guns and about six .50-caliber anti-aircraft machine guns. For this reason these four small ships assumed the major role in the anti-aircraft defense of the naval forces in Manila Bay. The river gunboats were equipped with about twenty .30-caliber machine guns each. A half dozen small tugs taken into the Navy from local sources after the war completed this little fleet. I was the commanding officer of the Finch.
The Japanese force consisted of about 30 dive bombers and fighters which had been harassing our troops on Bataan, and were now free to concentrate on us. They also had shore batteries on the south shore of Manila Bay hidden in gullies and caves, and newly established batteries on the north shore (the famous Bataan Peninsula), firing from behind a smoke screen. We had orders from the commanding general on Corregidor not to fire back at Bataan because of the presence there of captured American troops. The south coast batteries were not visible to us. Our targets for the battle, therefore, were the Japanese planes, which kept shuttling back and forth between us and their airfields in Manila. About a dozen of these planes were in an attack position overhead the entire three hours of the battle, others sliding in at our flanks continuously, strafing and dropping light bombs.
The battle came about in this way. After Bataan fell we all did what we could to cover the retreat of the few personnel and limited equipment, which reached Corregidor. Then we anchored just off the north shore of Corregidor, 3 miles from the now Japanese Bataan, to await developments. For four months of the war this little fleet had fought daily skirmishes with scattered Japanese planes, whose main efforts were directed at Bataan and Corregidor in the knowledge that they could concentrate on us when the bigger job was done. We had denied the use of the waters of Manila Bay to the Japanese, thereby protecting one flank of the Bataan Peninsula, as Lieutenant Commander Bulkeley had protected the other flank with his famous PT boats. We had kept open the traffic between Bataan and Corregidor for the passage of water barges, food, ammunition, and hospital boats; and had made periodic minesweeping forays to seaward at night. Now the situation was changed.
I was aboard the Quail discussing with Captain Morrill of that ship "What do next?" We wanted to discuss "Where go now?" but there was not enough fuel among the lot of us for even one ship to reach Australia, the only health resort worthy of the name at that time. At 4:00 P.M. April 9, the Japanese batteries on Bataan opened fire on the little fleet of anchored ships. A shell whistled over the Quail, landing a scant hundred yards beyond. Another followed, even closer. I Jumped into my boat and headed for the Finch. All the ships got under way in record time and commenced a violent zigzag course for the center of Manila Bay. Several shells landed 50 yards from my boat in the brief passage between ships. We sent the small boat to Corregidor and our ship joined the exodus from that immediate area. Two tugs were sunk in these first few minutes before they could get under way. The captain of one of these, Lieutenant Donaldson, a young reserve officer from Seattle, died a hero’s death while seeing that all his crew got off the sinking ship. The last man aboard, he was helping a wounded Filipino deckhand into the boat, when a shell exploded close by and killed him.
As if a referee’s whistle had just blown, happened at once. Two long trailing tails in the sky bent in our direction as one after another the nine dive bombers in each peeled off and came at us. The 3-inch guns and all the machine guns in our little fleet seemed to fill the sky with bursting shells and tracer bullets. Splashes from shells fell close aboard to port, then to starboard. I remember thinking in that half second hesitation, when life seems to stand still, that a shore battery had “straddled” us, and that we could expect to be hit soon. I wondered which shore it came from. We had been dive-bombed and strafed several times already and had always felt some satisfaction in giving it back just as hard as the planes could dish it out. But our 3-inch guns were too busy firing anti-aircraft shells at planes to bother with the shore.
It is funny how vivid a picture a split second’s action can paint in the mind. The second plane of a Jap diving column overhead just folded up and plunged towards the water. I remember wondering if the various machine gunners from the two or three ships firing at that group of planes had been aiming at the leading plane and hit the second one. For months I had been drumming into their heads that they were all shooting behind their targets. I remember watching the plane fascinated, wondering if it was gaining in speed, or losing, relative to the others. But the first of the bombs were about to be released, and my job was to guide the helmsman in our zigzag course, and try to avoid the bombs. Bombs started landing all around us, but no ships were hit; only badly jarred from concussion. The planes retired, probably for more bombs, some wobbling badly.
The gunboats were faster than the mine sweepers. When they had got too far ahead in their maneuvering at one time, they turned back to share in the relatively greater security of our heavier armament. This maneuver now threatened a general collision of ships, all zigzagging. I remember ordering “Right, full rudder” to the helmsman in order to head directly toward some splashes off our starboard bow. They were coming from the south shore and were getting nearer each time. I gave the Jap gunners credit for being plenty good, and thought the next “up” spot would most likely bring them right “on.” We were heading for the spot where they knew we had not been, so that the next correction would automatically be an over-correction. I remember the thought coming into my mind that I had read about “salvo-dodging” in accounts of naval battles, and wondered if it worked as it was supposed to. But my meditations were interrupted by the capable young reserve ensign standing out in the center of activity where he could see everything. He was pointing with one arm outstretched at a gunboat ahead, coming for us, and a sweeper off our starboard quarter. Obviously I was being quite properly cautioned against turning too far and risking a collision. The gunnery officer had been coaching his gunners at a flight of three “glide” bombers which had tried to sneak down out of the setting afternoon sun at the Quail. Tanager and Finch opened fire on these planes a second before the Quail, whose gunners were shooting into a blind spot of tropical sunshine. One of these planes seemed to explode a few hundred feet over the Quail as the other two limped off. Quail sent by flashing light “Thanks” in the general direction of Finch and Tanager, generously giving credit for the downed plane. I couldn’t help thinking it reminded me of an English hunting print, with one bird hunter saying to the other, “Your bird, sir.”
Just then the gunnery officer grabbed my arm and pointed to three planes high up, over our port quarter. One was just starting a dive. By turning to the right we were bringing these planes astern and masking the fire of our forward guns. I shifted rudder immediately, decided to risk the skill of the shore gunners; to let the gunboat ahead miss us instead of our missing her; and to bring all our guns to bear on the planes. They opened fire just in time, because you could see the planes jolt and shudder, drop their bombs hurriedly, and turn away. The bombs came close enough as it was. We ducked for a second or two after the whistle of a close bomb to minimize exposure to the explosion in case it should hit the ship.
The Luzon now took a shell hit in the Admiral’s quarters. She had been flagship of the Commander Yangtze Patrol. The fire was soon put out and I was glad to hear later that no one was killed. Several ships were severely strafed, but the crews were so well drilled and experienced by this time that they would fire until the last instant, and just as the stream of bullets would get real close they would fall flat on the deck for about three seconds while a stream of bullets would whistle over their heads. Then they would jump up, wrench the machine gun around in a jiffy, and pour it into the retiring plane for the few seconds it was in range.
From the planes’ point of view the situation presented some difficulties. Their targets were ships about two-thirds the size of a destroyer, zigzagging. They were faced with a far greater concentration of heavy machine guns and 3-inch anti-aircraft fire than they had met so far in the Philippine campaign. On their side of the ledger, however, was complete control of the air; the use of near-by airfields; and the knowledge that we were being shelled from two shores simultaneously. Furthermore, we could not retreat. There was no place to go; and there was no way to get out of Manila Bay since the fall of Bataan, as our mine-field channel ran close to the Bataan coast. The Japs knew that if they did not finish us off that day, there was always the day after.
We were burning precious fuel at a furious rate, and all ships were short on fuel by that time. I never had a chance to count up later, but we must have fired 200 rounds of 3-inch and many thousands of machine gun bullets during the afternoon. As the setting sun faded into a beautiful tropic flaming sunset, we all heaved a grimy, dirty, hot, and weary sigh. The enemy quit for the day. We looked around and counted noses. It was 7:00 p.m. and we had been shelled and dive-bombed for three solid hours. The only ships missing were the two tugs sunk at the start. All the paint was blistered off our two 3-inch guns. It hung down like small pieces of wrapping paper treated roughly in the mail. The guns were nearly red hot. You could see heat waves rising, or maybe it was the smoking paint. The decks were all chewed up from the butts of empty cartridge cases having been thrown down hard from a recoiling gun, sharply elevated. In peacetime target practices we had protected those beautiful hardwood decks with matting and canvas. The decks were covered nearly solid with empty machine gun shells. We had brushed them off frequently, but more piled up. There were dozens of pieces of twisted steel from our own A.A. shells bursting overhead. We had had to wear steel helmets as protection against this stuff which had been falling all afternoon. We picked up a piece of Japanese wing and a few aluminum rivets. Now we wanted a swim, a little supper (there wasn't much), and some sleep. We were dog tired.
I attended a conference on Corregidor that night. I remember falling into a tank trap as I went up a side road that was strange to me. As I came into the bright lights from the pitch dark of outside, rubbing my skinned elbows and sore knee, I was asked sympathetically if I had been wounded during the day. "No sir," I replied, "Just fell down one of your d____ tank traps on the way to the conference."
The Japanese had won the second Battle of Manila Bay. Although our little fleet had fought off the local Japanese air force for an afternoon, it was obvious that we did not have the fuel and ammunition to go on indefinitely. Also, the reasons for keeping Manila Bay open no longer existed. No one said the words, but we all knew it was just a matter of time. We were ordered to man defense positions ashore by day, and carry the machine guns back aboard at night. One or two ships continued the patrol of the bay by night for a while longer. Each day a ship or two would be sunk at anchor just south of Corregidor. Some were sunk by shellfire, some by bombing attacks. The Finch was sunk the day after the battle We were ashore being assigned defense positions with the Marines when a bombing attack sank the Finch, moored alongside a cliff to benefit from our machine gun positions ashore.
Five volunteers had stayed aboard to fight possible fires. The first big bomb was a near miss and blew in the bottom. The men ran below to see if they could minimize the damage. A second string came over, and one bomb detonating on the side of the cliff raked the topsides of the ship with a thousand holes, many as big as your fist. The men then ran back on deck. The ship was on the bottom and the main deck was awash. They jumped into the little dinghy and rowed the short distance to the dock. A third flight came over. The little party sought ostrich-like safety under the dock. Bombs landed all around. The dock was blown up except for about a 100-foot section, under the center of which was the boat. When we got to the scene a few minutes later from the various fox holes we had piled into, we found the five men sitting on the float giggling like school girls. They were shaken up but unhurt. You would have thought it all very funny if you had seen the giggling without the background.
Concussion had stunned thousands of fish, which hundreds of Filipinos from Corregidor tunnels now rushed out to gather for an evening meal. They seemed unconcerned by just another routine bombing, but vitally interested in the sudden fish supply. Like all of us, they were a skinny and hungry lot.
A few nights later we swept a little channel through one of our own mine fields with launches dragging chains. Bataan and Manila Bay were lost to us, and Corregidor seemed somehow a little less isolated when we had a small channel to the outside world. But on May 3 that outside world was Australia—a long way off. To my humble and eternal gratitude I was ordered out on a passing friendly submarine, along with a few officers and nurses. We so tragically hoped that many others would follow. But we learned three days later that the end had come; Corregidor had fallen. We hoped it would bring some rest to the weary survivors.
Admiral Dewey, in the first Battle of Manila Bay, committed the United States to a far-reaching Far East policy. This actual battle was a tame, one-sided affair, though famous in American history books because of its results. The second Battle of Manila Bay produced more action, was a really closely fought battle, and would be classed as a draw except for its tragic aftermath, inevitable with the fall of Bataan. It is fitting that the heroic veterans of the second Battle of Manila Bay, now Japanese prisoners, have their story told in these pages. They await a Third Battle. Their passionate faith in America was wonderful to see.