In thefall of 1923 the United States Navy lost, by stranding, more combatant ships in ten minutes than she had lost by enemy action during all of World War I. This unusual disaster is still used as an example of "how not to do it" wherever men gather to learn the science of navigation. And yet, though many mariners have heard of "those tin cans that went on the beach in California," few know the details other than that the cause of the mishap had to do with a reciprocal radio-direction-finder bearing.
On Friday, September 7, 1923, most of the ships comprising Destroyer Squadron Eleven lay at anchor in San Francisco Bay, having recently arrived from extensive maneuvers in the Puget Sound area with the Pacific Battle Fleet. Signals from the Delphy, the Squadron Commander's temporary flagship, ordered all Commanding Officers to report on board for a conference. There they were informed that the squadron had received orders from Commander Destroyer Squadrons, Battle Fleet, Rear Admiral Sumner E. W. Kittelle, USN, to proceed to San Diego and while en route to run a 24-hour test at 20 knots on their main-engine cruising turbines. Further, the Squadron Commander told his officers to be prepared for gunnery exercises during the morning and tactical exercises during the afternoon.
At 0700, Saturday, September 8, 1923, led by the Delphy, the squadron, less the Reno, J. F. Burnes, Farquhar, William Jones, and Zeilin, got underway and stood out through the Golden Gate. The weather was fair, but became hazy about 0800. At 0830 the base course was set at 160 degrees true and speed was increased to 20 knots. The flagship was steering by magnetic compass, her gyro being out of commission. During the forenoon targets were rigged in several of the ships and during the day the squadron engaged in simple tactical and gunnery exercises.
About 1130 the formation passed Pidgeon Point and plotted its position. This was the last visual fix. At 1430 the base course was changed to 150 degrees true. Shortly afterwards the weather closed in, visibility dropped to between 2,500 and 4,000 yards, and at 1630 the flag ordered all ships to form column astern. Speed remained 20 knots. The order of ships in column was the Delphy with the Squadron Commander; then Commander Destroyer Division 33 in the S. P. Lee, followed by the Young, Woodbury, and Nicholas of his division; then Commander Destroyer Division 31 in the Farragut, followed by the Fuller, Percival, Somers, and Chauncey; and finally Destroyer Division 32 composed of the Kennedy, which was the Division Flagship, the Paul Hamilton, Stoddert, and Thompson, in that order.
Early that morning Captain Charles J. Holland, Master of the Cuba, of the Pacific Mail Line (not to be confused with the present Pacific Mail Steamship Company of San Francisco) was asleep in his cabin. He had left written instructions in his night order book that he be called if the weather thickened or became hazy. The Cuba was en route from Cristobal, Panama, and San Pedro to San Francisco with a $400,000 cargo of coffee and silver bullion. During the first watch on the morning of September 8, a light fog set in, but as the officer of the watch, the Second Mate, could still see some little distance, he did not bother to call the Master. At four o'clock the First Officer relieved the watch, noticed the Captain's orders, and informed him that the weather had, indeed, thickened. Captain Holland came on the bridge and ordered the ship's course changed several degrees to the westward in order to allow a safer margin past San Miguel Island. Thirteen minutes later, the Cuba was aground off Point Bennett, near Santa Barbara Channel. Although she was a total wreck, no lives were lost.
What had gone wrong? In the ensuing investigation, the Second Officer was found at fault because he did not call the Master as ordered and because his dead reckoning was in error.
When laying down a course, particularly one that will take a ship near land or other dangers to navigation, due regard is taken of all possible influences on the course to be made good as well as of known currents. It is inconceivable that Captain Holland and his Second Officer had not taken such factors into consideration when laying down their course past San Miguel Island. They knew that they would be in the California Current, which at this point flows in a general southwesterly direction. This, then, should have forced Cuba away from Point Bennett rather than toward it. But a force great enough to overcome the current and the allowance for error made by the vessel's officers had caused the ship to go aground. On the previous Sunday, September 2, the headlines in most papers had read, "TOKYO AND YOKOHAMA WIPED OUT BY EARTHQUAKE, FIRE, TYPHOON, AND TIDAL WAVE SATURDAY MORNING." Almost at once the U. S. Coast and Geodetic Survey noticed abnormal fluctuations of currents and tides on the Pacific Coast, but in the time available there was no way of predicting their set and drift, or how long they would last. That they were evidently strong and contrary to the established current was the misfortune of the Cuba's Second Officer.
In order to help ships determine their position when coasting in foggy or inclement weather, the U. S. Navy had established a number of Radio Direction Finder stations (also known then as Navy Radio Compass stations) along the coasts of the country. A radio direction finder is basically a radio receiving set equipped with a special loop-type antenna mounted on a dummy compass and capable of being rotated in bearing. When the loop is rotated so that its plane is perpendicular to the direction of an incoming signal, the signal is received at minimum strength and its direction may be determined by reference to the dummy compass. Unless special circuits (unavailable in 1923) are provided, a loop antenna is subject to a 1800 ambiguity; that is, it cannot distinguish between a signal coming from, say the northwest and one from the southeast. The presence of electrical conductors near the installation also creates errors in the indication of the true direction of the incoming signal much the same as iron near a magnetic compass creates errors in the indication of that instrument. However, the amount of deviation is known for each bearing and is applied to the reading of the dummy compass in order to obtain the true bearing of the radio signal. Certain direction finders, particularly those on islands or extended capes, are equipped to furnish two corrected bearings for anyone observation. A ship furnished with such bearings, which may differ by approximately 180 degrees, chooses whichever is suitable.
One of these bi-lateral Radio Direction Finder stations was located on Point Arguello, and since clearing Pidgeon Point about 1130 the flagship of the destroyer squadron had been receiving bearings from it. By 1800 the formation was approaching the entrance to Santa Barbara Channel. The station was asked for bearings, and at 1813 the flagship received word, "You bear 320 degrees true from us." This same bearing was received again at 1832 and once again at 1848. A steady bearing such as this could only mean that the formation was steaming directly toward the Radio Compass station and, consequently, toward the shore. However, the 1813 bearing checked with the D. R. position and showed the ships well outside the 100-fathom curve. The other two bearings of this group were generally too confused to a permit a fix, but they were believed to indicate that the formation was at least out to sea and safe. To avoid overloading the radio circuit, only the Squadron Commander could request bearings; individual ships of the formation were not permitted to do so. Nevertheless, it was possible for other ships in the squadron to intercept bearings sent to the flagship, although somewhat surreptitiously, perhaps by temporarily leaving one of the two radio channels they were supposed to guard. Many of the ships did so receive some of the bearings requested by the flagship.
Between 1848 and 2035 radio traffic in connection with the stranded Cuba was heavy, and no bearings were received. Consequently, the 2000 position of the flagship was a D. R. position run forward from the last fix off Pidgeon Point at 1130 since no later visual bearings had been obtained and celestial observations were prevented by overcast. This position put the flagship slightly northwest and well to seaward of Point Arguello. The 2000 position report was transmitted in a routine manner by the flagship and, being on the squadron frequency, was intercepted by the other ships. The flag did not request or obtain the customary 2000 position reports from the ships of the formation, the transmission of such reports having been discontinued some months earlier. When the other ships received the flag's 2000 position, many of them assumed, since it was an official report to Commander Destroyer Squadrons, Battle Fleet, that it was reliable, perhaps being based on bearings not intercepted by them or other information available to the Squadron Commander. In any event, most of the ships accepted the flag's 2000 position and plotted it on their charts, even though in some cases, it put them further south than their own D. R. positions.
Those navigating the flagship were convinced that the vessels had passed to the southward of Point Arguello. A message was sent to the station: "We are to the southward. Give us our reciprocal." At 2035 the station answered, "You bear 168 degree's true from us." Further bearings from the Direction Finder station of 330 degrees and 323 degrees at 2039 and 2058 were evidently disregarded. While the 2035 bearing did not agree too well with the D. R. position, it did fix in the minds of the responsible officers the fact that they had passed this dangerous point on the coast. At 2100 the flagship changed course to 095 degrees true, and a signal for the new course was made to those astern.
As the column swung to the east, officers on watch in ships to the rear could see their leader approach and enter a low bank of fog. Nevertheless, most of them made the turn in follow-the-leader fashion. Captain T. T. Craven, USN, said, "It seems most remarkable that in all the group of vessels no one mind could have sensed the danger, and that not a single question should have been asked which might have indicated to others and to the Squadron Commander an uncertainty which would have a wakened a realization of the possibility that the course was hazardous. No such inquiry was made."
Led by the flagship Delphy straight for the bluff on Pedernales Point, with the coast and reefs on the left hand, with the bluff ahead, and with outlying islands and sunken reefs on the right hand, neither a turn to the right nor to the left could save these ships. The Delphy was still steaming at 20 knots when, at 2105, followed by the S. P. Lee, Young, Woodbury, Nicholas, Fuller, Chauncey, Somers, and Farragut, she ran aground. The low bank of fog had hidden the rocky California shore north of Point Arguello.
The Young capsized in about a minute and a half, throwing her crew into the surf. Most of them were able to climb up on their ship's bottom. As Coxswain F. Bronski in the Chauncey told it. "The first thing we knew the Delphy was on the rocks. We heard her strike with a terrible grating. The Young was right on Delphy's heels. The latter's propeller helped turn the Young on her side. She went over with a groaning splash. Then, before we knew it, we were on. Our engines had been reversed, but only for a second. The lights went out, and everything was black, with the fog swirling about us and the water roaring over the rocks under us. The others piled up rapidly behind us. Rescue work started at once. All anyone thought about was getting the other fellow out of the mess." Chief Boatswain's Mate Arthur Peterson from the Young was one of the outstanding figures of the tragedy. At the risk of his life, he jumped into the tumbling seas and swam forty yards through the rocks to the Chauncey with a life line. Over this line seventy of the Young's crew were led hand-over-hand from the vessel's upturned hull to safety.
The Delphy's bow was piled high on the rocks in the crash. Her stern was washed around so that she was parallel to the shore, and she was hammered minute by minute, by each succeeding wave. Watching their chance between waves, her men jumped ashore onto the slippery, oil-covered rocks. One fireman coming on deck saw several of his shipmates in the water and jumped overboard to help them. When he hit the water, his glasses were broken and pieces of glass pierced his eyes. Blind, he called for help and was hauled back on board the wrecked ship only to lose his reason and rush madly about bruising his body in a terrible manner until he finally fell unconscious on the deck. With the oil-covered ship breaking up in the surf and loose equipment banging about, it was impossible to get him ashore. Orders were given to lash him to the mast until the seas calmed and he could be rescued. Shortly thereafter the Delphy broke in two and the mast was carried away. The fireman's body was found several days later, still lashed to a section of the mast.
The Nicholas had struck a reef farther out from shore and been turned around so that she was heading out to sea again. Throughout the night her crew was forced to remain on board, watching the black water boil over the rocks near the ship, which threatened to break up at any minute. Because of the darkness and the rocks, boats and rafts could not be lowered; it was not until a life line was run out from shore the next day that the men were taken off.
Captains Joe Nocenti and Giacomo Nocenti of the fishing boats North America and Buena Amor de Roma were seining off Point Arguello when they met the Somers which, like the Farragut, had struck the bottom but had proved able to back off.
The fishermen were told of the other ships aground at Honda, and upon going to Honda, the Buena Amor de Roma saw five men from the Woodbury clinging to a rock, unable to move or get back to their ship. Putting out an anchor to hold him off, Captain Nocenti defied danger by maneuvering his little boat up to the very edge of the rock and succeeded in rescuing the men with lines. Then he rescued about one hundred and fifty men from the Woodbury and the Fuller, making trip after trip to the beach and back to the wrecked ships. Sunday morning, after the last of these men were safe, without fanfare and without even making his identity known, he threw out his nets and slipped back into the fog to resume his work as a fisherman.
Though the other fisherman for some reason went to Surf, five miles north of Honda, he also had an interesting experience. Near shore he was almost run down by a large freighter whose bow loomed out of the fog twenty-five feet from his boat. He was able to hail this freighter and another, warning them to change a course that would have taken them almost to the same spot where the destroyers had beached.
The S. P. Lee was forced broadside to the shore when she went aground; her officers and men were able to make their way to the beach by a line rigged from the bluffs to the ship. Later she was pounded close enough to the beach to allow boarding at low water.
A few sailors from one of the ships made shore in a life raft. Three or four more in another life raft were reported taken out to sea by the tide and not found again.
The last survivor was rescued Sunday afternoon. A muster revealed twenty-three men missing, most of them from the Young. At first it was feared that they had been trapped inside their ship when she capsized, but several days later this was found not to be so. Most of them had drowned while trying to make their way ashore.
When the Delphy struck, she sounded her siren to warn the ships following that she was aground. Although this could not help those next astern, the ships bringing up the rear were warned in time to sheer off or reverse their engines. The siren awoke Mrs. James Thompson, who lived on a lonely ranch about a mile from the Point. Her first thought was that something had happened at Honda, near Point Pedernales for even then this section of the coast was known as the "Hatteras of the Pacific." After dressing hastily, she rang the ranch bell to summon the hands. Loading all the bedding she could find, along with coffee and provisions, she set out for Pedernales with everybody that would fit into her automobile. Just the sight of her auto lights approaching the beach was enough to cheer the cold shivering sailors, some of whom- were clinging desperately to the outlying rocks wondering if they had been wrecked on San Miguel Island. Mrs. Thompson set up camp, handing out coffee and blankets to the men as they struggled ashore. Many a man wore little more than one of her blankets when he detrained in San Diego the next day.
After everyone had been rescued or counted as lost, a patrol of sixteen men under the command of the Chauncey's Executive Officer was left to guard the wreckage and keep a watch for the missing shipmates. Some of the injured were sent to Cottage Hospital in Santa Barbara, but the majority of the survivors returned to their base in a special train run by the Southern Pacific Railroad Company.
A Court of Inquiry was immediately ordered by Admiral Samuel S. Robinson, USN, Commander of the Pacific Battle Fleet. Rear Admiral William V. Pratt, USN, was senior member. However, as the Commanding Officers, the Division Commanders, and the Squadron Commander of the vessels were all defendants, it was difficult to bring before the court navigational data and details to picture the catastrophe correctly. For example, after the navigator of the Delphy had testified to certain details, he found himself placed in the status of a defendant and withdrew from the stand. Consequently he became ineligible for cross-examination by the defense. It appeared to the Squadron Commander that if this process were to be continued, the defendants would automatically be barred from presenting versions of the disaster other than those revealed by the interrogations of the court and the judge advocate, and the complete account would not be obtained. Accordingly, he was anxious to take the stand and explain what had prompted certain of his decisions on the evening of September 8. "The Squadron Commander hopes the responsibility for this disaster, which he considers entirely his own, may not descend upon the able and loyal subordinates who supported him on all occasions, and whose actions in saving their men and limiting the number of ships stranded to a minimum, seemed to him to have shown ability and initiative of which the Navy may well be proud."
The Delphy's charts were recovered from the wreckage and the plotting of bearings and courses was checked. The Squadron Commander's counsel maintained that currents possibly caused by the Japanese earthquake—the same currents that had caused the Cuba to ground—had forced the formation back fifteen miles in almost the opposite direction from the one in which those navigating had every reason to expect to be carried. Small wonder the radio bearings had seemed confused to them. Since the navigators had no reason to expect such contrary currents and had every reason in the world to expect favorable ones, it is understandable that they had insisted their dead reckoning was correct, or nearly so. The Squadron Commander said during the Inquiry, "When the messages came telling us we were to the north of Arguello, I could not believe it. Remember we had traveled about 120 miles from the time we had received our position earlier in the day. I did not believe it possible we were still north of Arguello. I asked for our bearings. From 6: 30 to 8 o'clock, that most vital period, we were unable to get radio bearings from the station. I had every reason to believe in my own mind that we were south of the Point. When we did get our bearings they were confused. It seemed to me that they had made a mistake. I insisted we were to the south of the Point and asked for confirmation. The station insisted we were north. There was only one thing to do—to make a decision as to whether or not the station was correct. Remember there was much interference because of signals from the stranded Cuba and other vessels in the vicinity. I accept the responsibility. I was convinced the station was wrong. But they were right."
The following words by the Captain of the flagship were written to the Secretary of the Navy a year or so later: "It was dark at the time of the change of course, but I could see the lights of ten or more ships astern before we turned a visibility of at least 4,000 yards. Believing that this visibility obtained in every direction and knowing that a destroyer making 20 knots can stop dead in the water in 600 yards and turn 90 degrees in less than 400 yards, I felt no hesitation in turning. After turning, the Delphy straightened out on the new course, and plunged almost immediately into a thick fog bank. There was just time for the thought to cross my mind that we must slow down (for there was a great deal of shipping in the Santa Barbara Channel that night) when we crashed, followed by all the other ships except those which were so far astern that they were able to see or sense trouble ahead by the time they reached the turning point or shortly thereafter, for there were few which did not make the turn."
But even if the Squadron Commander erred, why did not the ships astern sense the danger and take appropriate action? What was the situation at 2100 when the flagship turned toward the coast? It was dark; there was no moon. Visibility parallel to the coast was one to two miles; but toward the east, the coast was obscured by a fog bank along whose invisible western edge the destroyers were now steaming. Shortly after 2000, the ships astern had intercepted the flagship's 2000 position sent to Commander Destroyer Squadrons, Battle Fleet. This position put the flagship some twelve miles northwest of Point Arguello and on a course which would clear the point by seven or eight miles. Surely the flagship was confident of her position to have sent it out officially. Running the 2000 position forward for half an hour put the leading ships slightly southward of Point Arguello and approaching the entrance to Santa Barbara Channel, beyond which, about one hour's run away, lay unlighted San Miguel Island even then crunching the bent frames of the stranded Cuba.
Suddenly at 2100 and without previous warning, the flagship turned left to course 0950 and almost immediately plunged into the unsuspected fog. What action should the officer of the deck of the second ship take? Should he follow the leader? Was there any reason for not following? At 20 knots, he had 45 seconds to make up his mind before reaching the turn in the leader's wake. He turned, and six minutes later—even while the Captain and Navigator were evaluating the new situation—the ship hit the jagged rocks of Pedernales Point.
This was the scene on the bridges of the other ships astern—with increasing time for evaluation before reaching the turning point—until frantic signals by radio, siren, and flashing light indicated to the ships at the rear of the squadron that there was trouble ahead. Undoubtedly, many of the subordinate commanders would have acted differently—and they so testified—if conditions had been different. If they had been steaming independently, if they could have obtained their own bearings, if they could have slowed to take soundings. But conditions were not different, and once they made the turn they were trapped.
The men at the Radio Compass station testified that they had never sent the 168 degree true bearing at 2035 and their log showed no record of it. The Captain of the Delphy said that he and two radiomen had heard it come in, that he had seen a typewritten record of it on the desk of the Communication Supervisor of the Eleventh Naval District, and that the logs of two other ships in the formation which had been listening in on the same wave length had recorded the bearing. It was further reported that one of the masts at the Direction Finder station had been taken down around noon that day. No warning was issued to ships and no correction was made in the station's calibration. This could, and perhaps did, change the deviation of the station and help confuse the bearings received by the Delphy. The flagship's navigator received a message during the inquiry from a New York mariner who said that he could produce records of radio bearings taken August 23, 1923, "which, had we not disregarded them, would have put us ashore on San Miguel Island."
On October 31, 1923, the findings of the Court of Inquiry were made public. The Squadron Commander, the Division Commanders of the two divisions that had lost ships, the Commanding Officer of each ship lost, and the Delphy's Navigation Officer were ordered tried by General Court-Martial on charges of "Culpable Inefficiency in the Performance of Duty" and "Through Negligence Suffering Vessels of the Navy to be Run Upon the Rocks." The Court, which met in November of the same year, was composed of a Vice Admiral, two Rear Admirals, and four Captains. The Judge Advocate of the Court had once been the Commanding Officer of the USS Stoddert, one of the destroyers that did not go aground. Of the eleven officers tried, four were found guilty; one of the four, the Commanding Officer of the USS Nicholas, had his conviction set aside by higher authority. The blame for the accident rested with the Squadron Commander, plus the Captain and the Navigation Officer of his flagship. The Squadron Commander was sentenced to lose one hundred fifty numbers on the list of Captains, and the Commanding Officer of his flagship one hundred numbers on the list of Lieutenant Commanders. His navigator's sentence is not known. It is interesting to note that President Calvin Coolidge wrote a friend concerning the trial, "Just learned court-martial has been very lenient with everybody."
Lieutenant Commander Hadaway served in destroyers during World War II and was C.O. of the USS Dupont (AG-80). During the Korean War, he was operations officer in an attack transport, and had duty with MSTS in Seattle. Since then he has been C.O. of the USS Haas (DE-434), Damage Control Officer and First Lieutenant in the USS Tucson (CLAA-98), C.O. of the USS Twining (DD-540), and Licensed Merchant Marine Officer with MSTS. Mr. Hadaway is now a student at the University of Washington School of Law.