At dusk on 26 December 1941, a small vessel threaded her way through the minefields at the entrance to Manila Bay, “destination unknown,” according to the entry in the journal laboriously pecked out by her skipper on the ship’s only typewriter. Ahead, before she reached safety in southwest Australia, lay 4,000 miles of hazardous waters controlled by the powerful Imperial Navy of Japan, behind her, a niche in history missed by the barest of margins.
On her after deckhouse, she mounted a three-pounder quick-firer considered the last word in the fighting top of USS Oregon at the battle of Santiago. On the fantail was a pair of 30-caliber World War I vintage Lewis guns. Stowed away below were cases of salmon and bags of rice; 12 of her crew of 18 were Filipinos. She was the two-masted, 75- ton auxiliary schooner Lanikai, commissioned at the Cavite Navy Yard on 5 December 1941 as a ship of the U. S. Navy.
Sailing in the soft tropic nights, holing up in jungle-fringed island hideouts by day, crossing open water under cover of blessed typhoons, Lanikai worked her way south to Makassar, Soerabaja, Tjilatjap, and Fremantle. Twice given up for lost, arriving unheralded in Australia 20 days out of Java as one of the few surface survivors of the East Indies debacle, Lanikai’s skipper was greeted incredulously by the U. S. Navy in Perth. “My God! What are you doing here?” cried Rear Admiral William R. Purnell, Chief of Staff to Commander Southwest Pacific. “You’re supposed to be dead!”
The summer of 1941 was clearly a prelude to war in the Far East for which the United States was by no means prepared. In the Philippines, desperate efforts were being made to close the gap between near defenselessness and a fair posture of readiness which might give pause to the advancing Japanese.
Secretary of War Henry L. Stimson, who as Secretary of State had crossed swords with the Japanese over the Manchurian incident, was eager to square accounts and vindicate his earlier judgment of the inevitability of continued Japanese expansion. He had taken the line that our only hope for a quick power buildup in the Far East lay in a great augmentation of our heavy bomber force in the Philippines. General George C. Marshall currently urged the President to buy time, to draw out negotiations, to stall off hostilities until at least April 1942. By late November, it had become clearly apparent that Japan was then tactically disposed to commence a major operation. Her naval forces were massed in Indochina. A large convoy was being shadowed by our submarines as it passed south through the Formosa Straits.
The big question in everyone’s mind was where would the Japanese strike next. There was no real clue as to her next target. There was, however, the distinct possibility that Japan would bypass the Philippines, attack Singapore and the East Indies, and thus destroy our potential allies while we sat on the sidelines. American public opinion at this point almost certainly would not have supported a war against Japan.
No one was more acutely aware of this danger than President Roosevelt. A memo by Harry Hopkins stated, “I remember when I was in England in February 1941, Eden asked me repeatedly what our country would do if Japan attacked Singapore or the Dutch, saying it was essential to their policy to know. Of course it was perfectly clear that neither the President nor Hull could give an adequate answer to the British on that point because the declaration of war is up to Congress, and the isolationists and, indeed, a great part of the American people, would not be interested in a war in the Far East merely because Japan attacked the Dutch.”1
Sumner Welles added: “He [Roosevelt] did, however, make it very plain to me that he thought the immediate danger was an attack by Japan upon some British possession in the Far East, or even more probably upon the Netherlands East Indies. What worried him deeply was that, though this would immediately threaten our vital interest, it might be impossible to persuade either the Congress or the American people, that it was tantamount to an attack upon our own frontiers and justified military measures of self-defense. He felt, however, that Japan would not attack the United States directly and unless we found ourselves involved in the European War.”2
The President was by no means alone in this belief. In a letter of January 1961 to the author, Admiral T. Fukuda stated: “I didn't think that war with the U. S. was near because it was a top secret in our Navy Department. Besides, the opinion of most Japanese naval officers was that we should not have war with the United States but keep the Japanese Navy as it was as a stability force in Asia. It was a common idea of naval officers. Admiral Nomura, ex-ambassador to U. S., told me when he came to my office in Hokkaido before the war that we should keep out of war with U. S., and maintain the Japanese Navy as stabilising force in the Far East. Then no country could venture to have war with us.”
Toward the end of November, the Japanese envoys in Washington offered a plan to the President and Cordell Hull wherein the)' promised to stop sending troops to Indochina They did not, however, agree to withdraw any from the large number already there poised to strike south or east. This proposition was rejected by Roosevelt, who must have realized by this time that the game had about run its course.
Secretary Stimson, attending a cabinet meeting late in November, confided in his diary his surprise at hearing the President say that, “we might be attacked soon, perhaps over the weekend.” In further describing the President’s remarks, he said: “The problem was how we should maneuver them into the position of firing the first shot without allowing too much danger to ourselves.”3
On 12 December 1937, antedating Pearl Harbor almost four years to the day, the Yangtze River gunboat USS Panay had been bombed and sunk near Hankow by Japanese military hotheads anxious to precipitate war.
This action had served to incite American public opinion to a high point. Tempers were cooled only by a swift Japanese apology and over two million dollars in reparations. It was a good object lesson in casus belli.
Thus, on 2 December 1941, Admiral H. R. Stark, Chief of Naval Operations, personally received a directive from the President—a somewhat unorthodox order directing in detail the carrying out of “reconnaissance” by the Commander in Chief, Asiatic Fleet, Admiral T. C. Hart. The preamble to the CNO’s message to Admiral Hart left no room for doubt as to the source. “President directs that the following be done as soon as possible and within two days if possible after receipt this despatch.” The message continued: “Charter three small vessels to form a defensive information patrol. Minimum requirements to establish identity as U. S. men of war are commanded by a naval officer and to mount a small gun and one machine gun would suffice.”4 The Philippines were our major base of operations in the Far East; it was essential that the Filipino people be rallied enthusiastically to the U. S. cause. To this end, the following would contribute, provided, of course, that the Japanese could be provoked into a repeat performance of Panay: “Filipino crews may be employed with minimum number naval ratings to accomplish purpose which is to observe and report by radio Japanese movements.” . . . The specific geographic locations to which the three ships were to be sent were carefully laid down; they were the entrances to the concentration points of the Japanese fleet in Indochina.
In the Report of the Joint Committee on the Investigation of the Pearl Harbor Attack, Representative Frank B. Keefe said of this project: “The President’s directions were that . . . the ships were to observe and report by radio Japanese movement in the West China Sea and Gulf of Siam. The President prescribed the point at which each vessel was to be stationed. One vessel was to be stationed between Hainan and Hue; one between Camranh Bay and Cap St. Jacques; one just off Pointe de Camau. All these points are clearly in the path of the Japanese advance down the coast of Indo China, and towards the Gulf of Siam. The Navy Department did not originate this plan. The Navy Department would not have directed it to be done unless the President had specifically ordered it. Admiral Hart was already conducting reconnaissance off that coast by planes from Manila. So far as the Navy Department was concerned, sufficient information was being received from this air reconnaissance. Had the Japanese fired upon any one of these three small vessels, it would have constituted an overt act on the part of Japan.”5
Indeed, the CNO, according to his testimony before the Committee, not being party to anything more ulterior in the President’s directive than its wording stated, was sufficiently mystified as to this unusual intervention on the President’s part to add a postscript on the directive to Admiral Hart. “Inform me as to what reconnaissance measures are being regularly performed at sea by both army and navy whether by air surface vessels or submarine and your opinion as to the effectiveness of these latter measures.”
Admiral Hart’s reply covered in some detail the extensive reconnaissance already in effect and concluded with a touch of the brusqueness for which he was well known: “When it is considered called for will increase air patrols and send out more subs.” In another message, Admiral Hart reported on progress with the “three small vessels.” He told the CNO, “have obtained two vessels. One now en route Indochina coast. Second one sailing soon as ready.”
The “one now en route” was Lanikai. She lay at the entrance to Manila Bay awaiting the dawn of 7 December to transit the minefields. Her young skipper gratefully recalled the training in sail which the Naval Academy had given him, as he cogitated over his unusual instructions, the seal of which he had broken on leaving Manila for what now appeared to be the last time. The instructions were short and to the point, “Patrol off the entrance of Camranh Bay and report the direction taken by the Japanese Fleet when it emerges.”
There had also been additional verbal instructions. “If the Japanese want to know what you are doing, tell them you are looking for the crew of a downed plane,” said the Fleet Operations Officer at a final briefing' Lanikai had been built for the island trade in the South Pacific; her fresh water capacity was calculated to supply a crew of four or five whose thirst traditionally ran more to beer than to water. Lanikai now carried 19 men. “If you run short of water,” added the Operations Officer, “use your international signal I book. Ask the first passing Japanese man of war for some.”
These instructions rounded out 24 hectic hours of preparation. Arriving in Manila from Shanghai aboard the flat-bottomed Yangtze river gunboat USS Oahu, Lanikai prospective skipper had been ordered immediately to the Commander in Chiefs headquarters ashore. “At Cavite,” he was told, “you will find a schooner. Commission her. Man her with a naval crew including Filipinos. Have a gun mounted, load ammunition, food and water, and report back here in 24 hours ready to put to sea on a voyage of not less than two weeks.” To the prospective skipper’s feeble protests about requisitions) work requests, and certain delays inherent therein, it was made quite clear that the Commandant at Cavite had been thoroughly impressed with the fact that the President himself had given the order. No paper work would be involved.
Probably never before in recent peacetime has a fitting-out been less encumbered by conferences and signatures in triplicate. The 12 simple Filipino fishermen who came in 3 package with the lease for the ship found themselves in white hats and sworn into the Insulaf Force of the U. S. Navy with only the dimmest understanding as to what was happening; few of them spoke more than a dozen words of English. Six U. S. Navy chiefs and petty officers drifted down to the dockside an intervals through the morning, each surveying Lanikai in obvious doubt, scarcely believing she could indeed be the Lanikai to which they had been shanghaied on half ahour’s notice. Filipino workmen streamed aboard to strengthen the deckhouse for the three-pounder and its bright brass pedestal. The moss-encrusted radio resisted all efforts to make it produce a beep and so it remained a silent witness to the fable that Lanikai was on a “reconnaissance” mission.
Thousands of inch-long cockroaches scuttled for concealment as bags of rice and cases of salmon came slamming down the hatches. Sails were shaken out and running rigging checked. The auxiliary engine groaned and coughed and chugged into action to test its all-out speed of six knots. The skipper found space for a portable typewriter, camera, and three sets of tropical whites. Class ring, sword, uniforms, and all the small treasures of a young bachelor were consigned to storage ashore and never seen again. It was at the end of this frantic day that he sailed his first command toward war’s commencement.
But even as Lanikai awaited the dawn, Japanese forces already had struck a blow at Pearl Harbor that was to provide an incident infinitely more spectacular and satisfactory than anything Lanikai could have furnished. The skipper’s journal notes: “0615 underway on orders to return to Manila, feeling very glad to be alive. Notified the crew a state of war existed with Japan. Hoisted foresail, jib staysail and jib.” The radio could receive, even if not transmit.
Transition from peace to war in Manila was easy, the 9 December entry reveals. “Not much change in the general situation ashore except that people now dare appear in CinCAF headquarters in shorts. War had been expected anyway and came as no surprise to anybody. Blackouts long in effect and AA batteries manned.”
Ten December brought a crackling change in the local complacency, as the yard air alarm brought to a hasty close the dessert course aboard the minesweeper where Lanikai's skipper was lunching with a classmate. Don Bell, Radio Manila’s newscaster, had just concluded his report of additional Japanese landings at Legaspi, on the east coast of Luzon. “General MacArthur reports that our forces are doing well!” said Don, a euphemism which was already recognized as meaning that our retreat continued. In the ensuing hour and a half, one of the classic bombing raids of the war effectively erased the Cavite Navy Yard from the American defense map. In four stately and measured runs over the area at about 10,000 feet, some 70 Japanese planes ploughed furrows of flame and explosion through the base, majestically ignoring the hail of antiaircraft fire spouting skyward from every manner of gun from 3- inch down to absurdly popping Lewis guns. A U. S. fighter plane blundered across the yard and was shot down, the only success for our gunners in their new and unaccustomed game of playing for keeps. Lanikai recorded an immediate move to areas receiving less attention. “Stood out toward Corregidor,” says the journal. “At 1500 lay to, awaiting Naval Ammunition Depot motor launch.”
Thus did Lanikai go to war. “Your mission primarily to search for and report to Station Cast all approaching vessels and aircraft. Patrol Stations Affirm and Baker under sail. Report enemy contacts to Station Two.” The days wore on. “Fired seven blind-loaded and one service round from three-pounder to test ammunition, mount, gun and ship structure.” To everyone’s amazement nothing collapsed. The cannon balls went skipping out of sight and the only regret was the inability to elevate sufficiently to join in the fusillade at the Japanese planes which came and went at will, masters of the local sky.
“Lay to and received some fruit and news from USS Finch," said the journal, which had become more chatty and informal as Japanese bombs and air raid alarms had become increasingly the order of the day. An even more important entry was of the gift of a 50-caliber machine gun from USS Tanager. Both minesweepers were skippered by classmates of Lanikai's captain. War made brothers of all, but classmates were something special. One did not contribute a 50-caliber machine gun to just anybody. This important augmentation of Lanikai's battery was of no use without a mount, a midnight requisition picked up under less than ideal circumstances. The journal avoided details of the acquisition, a matter of some delicacy, and rather casually stated: “At 1855 moored port side to ammunition dock, Cavite. Took on board 3,000 rounds of 50-caliber machine gun ammunition and one 50-caliber machine gun stand from top of wall. A pitch black, squally night, and feeling the way with difficulty in the blackout. The navy yard still smoldering and sentinels rather with the wind up. Had some difficulty getting through safely.” The sentinels were U. S. Marines, a breed not loosely trifled with.
By 25 December, “our forces,” according to the increasingly terse radio reports, “continued to do well.” Lanikai received instructions to assist in the evacuation of Manila. “At 1535 got underway for Corregidor with a load of Army officers and their baggage,” Lanikai's journal reads.
The squadron of seaplanes that had been counted on to evacuate CinCAF’s staff had been cut to pieces on the water at Subic. Those that remained were desperately needed for reconnaissance. Admiral Hart and some others were scheduled to go by submarine. From the window of the Manila headquarters, Lieutenant Commander Charles Adair, the flag lieutenant, saw in Lanikai a possible means of escape from the Japanese forces which were then quickly advancing on all fronts and about to envelop Manila. “May we take her, Sir?” asked Charley of the CinCAF. “She’s not mine to give. She’s part of the Inshore Patrol; ask her owner, Admiral Rockwell,” replied Admiral Hart. Admiral Rockwell was on the telephone, sitting in his tunnel on Corregidor when Charley passed the question to him. Admiral Rockwell waved his hand for silence while he finished his call. “He said okay,” reported Charley, after a quick exit. “Well I guess he didn’t actually say it, but anyway, he waved his hand.”
Thus it was through Charley’s efforts that Lanikais journal on 26 December reported that, “At 1940, this vessel got underway out of Mariveles Harbor, Luzon, destination unknown. Passengers, Lieutenant Commanders H. H. Keith and C. Adair, Chief Warrant Officer C. A. Walruff and Lieutenant H. P. Nygh, Royal Netherlands Navy.”
Lanikai—the last surface ship with the exception of PT boats to leave Manila and survive—had now commenced the first mile of the four thousand-odd that remained before she reached Fremantle, Australia.
The day of departure had been one of frantic activity. On the foreshore at Mariveles, there lay in profoundest confusion thousands of tons of all types of material hastily evacuated from Manila and Cavite. From this mass, we were able without benefit of requisition to help ourselves to as many items as we could stagger off under. Treasures such as tinned food, manila line, nails, tools, canvas and such disappeared into Lanikais hold during the intervals between Japanese air raids. Commander Keith came on board proudly bearing a five-gallon can of green paint to hide the schooner’s white nakedness. The crew fell to with brushes, swabs, and rags applying the blessed camouflage. In the bay where they had been jettisoned by a fiercely blazing French merchantman floated drums of gasoline. Lanikai fished one out.
Lanikais last stop was alongside the ancient submarine tender USS Canopus, to beg a few gallons of diesel oil and fresh water. The old ship lay almost alongside the cliffs for such protection as they afforded. A layer of sandbags “armored” her deck. Amused sailors and officers leaned over her rail high above Lanikai and scoffed, “Take that thing to sea? You must be crazy! Stay here where it’s safe!” A few months later, those same men had either been killed in action or were staggering along the road of the death march- Canopus had remained to the last, servicing the submarines which furnished Corregidor’s sole remaining link with the outside, hauling in the precious antiaircraft ammunition and taking out key personnel. She was finally scuttled by the Navy when General Wain- wright evacuated Bataan on 8 April. Canopus is remembered with affection by the thousands who over many years past had sailed her “to China in the springtime.”
Lanikai, for better or worse, was now on her own. The first dawn found her in one of the tiny coves of the type which would shelter her during the long tropic days as she island- skipped her precarious way to Java, 30 days ahead. “. . . high escarpments surrounding three sides make an effective place of concealment. At 1055 sighted five twin-motored planes,” reads the journal. It was needless to add that they were Japanese.
From then on to the Celebes, the daily pattern fell into place. There was the dawn approach to the small, protected cove picked the day before from likely spots on the chart. Then came the attempt to make contact with the natives whose first move was invariably flight. In an hour or so, the village schoolmaster or headman would sufficiently muster his courage and his small store of carefully phrased English to cross the open stretch of beach which separated the safety of the jungle from the unknown situation which awaited him. Bravery takes many forms and finds many vehicles. To these simple people, whatever they did not clearly understand represented the enemy.
“Are there any Japanese here?” would be the first question after the head man had been offered a cup of coffee brewed over a small wood fire in a sandbox amidships. “Yes, there were some Japanese, but unfortunately they were killed resisting arrest by the constabulary,” would be the usual reply. (Roosevelt need have had no fears on the issue of enthusiastic Filipino support of the war effort!) Then, the friendly identity of the visitor having been confirmed, there would be the modest gift brought out from the village. “Several chickens and some coconuts were obtained and a box of buck loaded shotgun shells presented to the schoolmaster for the protection of the barrio.”
There were times when aggressiveness seemed the better course. One could not tell how far the Japanese had penetrated; there was no source of news other than that provided by the eyes of the crew.
“At 0640 anchored in three fathoms of water with ten fathoms of four-inch manila out to a 300-pound handy billy, south side of Cabulan Island. Two men put off from a small fishing boat in the harbor. Sent a motor boat with an armed party to investigate. All were discovered to be Filipinos, and all were of the opinion that this vessel was probably Japanese. Considerable alarm ashore at our approach. About 20 gallons of water secured ashore by carrying it in buckets for nearly a mile.”
Three stretches of open water lay between Luzon and Australia that offered no friendly cove for daylight concealment: the Sulu Sea, Celebes Sea, and the long reach between Java and Australia. Lanikai crossed each of these perilous areas under cover of heaven-sent storms. Her roll wag held down by light sails, but nothing could help the murderous pitching that made any preparation of food impossible. Spars and hull groaned and creaked, but the bilges remained dry as Lanikai drove her way south to Jolo.
“Pangutaran Island . . . bright moonlight . . . heavy explosions to eastward . . . sea calm, wind zero. Anchored Tagao Island. Moro natives stated that Japanese planes seen daily . . . Jolo being attacked. Four white aviators had recently passed through via canoe . . . shot down over Jolo while bombing Japanese transports.”
The calm moonlight of Sulu was mercifully replaced by “wind force one, northeast. Overcast and squally. Very poor visibility and heavy clouds. At 1700 sighted two flying boats on the horizon at low altitude. Went to general quarters and hoisted the American flag. Two Netherlands tri-motor Fokkers circled at low altitude with cockpit guns trained on us.” They were the first Allied planes Lanikai had sighted in weeks. The three-pounder and the machine guns were once more put under cover as Lanikai reverted to the unsuspicious role of schooner, unidentified.
Sabang, the first Celebes port, was superficially not unlike those tiny villages Lanikai had come to know in the Philippines, but here the similarity ended. The cheerful friendliness and easy, informal attitude of accepted equality of the Filipino was replaced by the suspicious, unsmiling correctness of the people of Celebes. It was with difficulty that Lieutenant Nygh found anyone with whom he could communicate. “We do not encourage the natives to learn Dutch,” explained Nygh. “They are difficult enough to handle as it is.” A Netherlands government agent had heard the news by grapevine and had pedaled his bicycle over from the neighboring town to arrange for coffee at the government rest house and to interpret for the Imam Hadji. The Imam visited on board, bearing in one hand a brilliantly feathered rooster. The bird appeared to have been hypnotized, a state not unlike that of the small group accompanying the Imam. Clearly they had found themselves in a world beyond their imagination. The Imam was presented with some cigarettes and matches and in return favored the ship with a small parting ceremony guaranteed by the interpreter to bring good luck. The preliminary results appeared almost at once in the form of a drenching shower that filled the water barrels to the top.
Lanikai departed for the south at sunset, hugging the coast. This precaution was not unwarranted; silhouetted against the evening sky in the dim distance were Japanese warships in column, headed south. Lanikai had been pressed by the government agent to remain overnight in Sabang, so that someone might bicycle with him to the nearest telephone 15 miles away, “to identify himself,” as the agent mysteriously explained. Lanikai, however, did not accept the invitation.
Donggala was a metropolis. It even boasted a gunboat by the improbable name of Willi- brod Snellius, which came charging out to intercept Lanikai, guns unlimbered and skipper on the bridge in flowing pajamas attempting to determine the character and intentions of the little green schooner of which he had received ominous reports from Sabang. “Take care!” they had telephoned from the north. “An enemy ship is headed your way, manned by Japanese and Germans pretending to be Filipinos and Americans.” Snellius cautiously approached within hail and Lieutenant Nygh was pressed into service as mediator. “VolloW us in!” bellowed the skipper. “Your Dutchman hass got a zuzpicious aggzent.”
From Donggala south, the coast was a mass of small islands and incredibly beautiful harbors, colorful sails, and small Dutch outposts. “Be out of the harbor by sunset,” they all told in warning. “Malaria is everywhere and you are not protected against it.” In the larger villages a company of 20 or 30 native troops awaited the Japanese attack. The anxiety of the single Dutch officer could well be imagined when one contemplated the ancient rifles which constituted the sole armament of his command.
Makassar was the first real city. Gorgeous and languorous, broad avenues a riot of tropical color, the rich capital of the Celebes looked more like a movie set than an imminent prize of war. The ripeness of the Celebes for the plucking was less appreciated by the high titled Makassar officials than by the new arrivals from the north who had already seen the mighty Japanese military machine in action. “The Governor of the Eastern Islands! The Resident of the Celebes! The Colonel Commanding!” rolled off the host’s tongue like the names of characters in an opera .as he announced the guests at the welcoming banquet given in honor of Lanikai's officers. The Japanese seemed far away.
When the U. S. Asiatic Fleet’s train had withdrawn to the south en route to Australia in mid-December, no one had bothered to inform the Dutch at Makassar. The grapevine had reported a large convoy passing down Makassar Straits. Were they enemy or friend? The question had been resolved by the senior Dutch naval officer. He had taken off in the one available plane, an ancient two-seater. “If I don’t come back, they are Japanese!” he had jokingly said as he adjusted his goggles.
The Dutch told us that Japanese submarines were all around. They suggested that we go to Java via Lombok and the Paternoster Islands. They also advised us always to fly a Dutch flag, because “the natives think anything else is Japanese.”
The Paternosters, a string of small islands stretching across the open water between Celebes and the main chain of the East Indies, seemed afloat in incredibly clear water. One felt that the ship was suspended in air. Fish on the sunny bottom 50 feet down appeared to be within easy hand reach. There, too, one felt far from the war until one noticed that even flying the Dutch flag at the gaff" was not enough to reassure island villagers; the beaches and huts were devoid of human signs.
The big island of Lombok, pushing its 4,000 foot peaks into the sky, was visible long before Lanikai worked her slow way into a small bay. “Shore fringed with palms . . . rice paddies . . . thatched houses . . . small pier. Sent party ashore. Local populace led party by signs to telephone with which communication established with Dutch resident at Mataram who stated that he previously had received information that a Japanese vessel had arrived and was unloading troops. Arrangements had been made to dispatch the local police with orders to shoot on sight. Detachment in command of Mr. Smit. Please contact him and explain identity.” The entry closes with the note that some fresh fruit and half a barrel of water had been obtained.
Lanikai’s departure was marred by drifting aground on a reef, and a night’s sailing time was lost in kedging off. The sandbags which had so far served as armor for the deckhouse roof at last earned their keep. Consigned to the deep, they lessened the ship’s draft sufficiently to float her clear.
If Makassar seemed far from the reality of war, Bali was infinitely more remote. No military uniforms were seen. The pace was as slow as the buffalo that drew the loads or tilled the rice paddies.
From his meager resources, the shirt- pocket bank, the Skipper furnished liberty money to the crew—25 cents each. It had been many a day since Lanikai had seen a real paymaster.
The idyll of Bali had faded into the stark reality of war by the time Lanikai had worked her way into the crowded harbor of Soerabaya, Java. Dozens of merchantmen running from the dangers of the high seas competed for mooring space with warships of the United States, the Netherlands, Britain, and Australia. Fifteen thousand workmen produced a hum of activity in the big Dutch navy yard, which had not yet been hit by Japanese bombs. The old cruiser Sumatra lay alongside while the combined American, British, Dutch, and Australian command staff (ABDACom) wrangled over who would man her and what colors she would fly. American submarines loaded antiaircraft ammunition for Corregidor as their skippers growled into their beer at the club over the deficiencies of their torpedoes. The division of ancient four-pipers which had done such a valiant job shooting up the Japanese convoy off Balikpapan was in with Houston, representing the major part of all that remained of the surface navy of the United States in the Far East. Proud Dutchmen pointed out their “new” cruiser DeRuyter, just arrived and now taking on supplies for what was soon to be her last voyage in the Java Sea. Americans chiefly noted her sad lack of effective antiaircraft armament.
The Japanese moved south against feeble and disorganized opposition. The first bombing raid on Soerabaya did little material damage, but the immediate collapse of native morale—if indeed the word could ever have applied to the uninspired attitude of the Indonesian workmen—clearly spelled the end of the usefulness of Soerabaya’s great base.
The entry in Lanikai's journal indicates that she once more felt herself in familiar surroundings: “3 February. At 1030 sighted 26 enemy twin-engine bombers. Expended 150 rounds 50 caliber on Japanese fighters flying low over harbor. Netherlands plane with one wheel down careened crazily over navy yard, was shot at by practically all ships present and soon crashed. Bullets from Netherlands cruiser Tromp cut our foresail halliards. Ship straddled by three bombs. Filipino crewmen put off in skiff and picked up a quantity of stunned fish. One bomb fell amongst several tons of jam in warehouse ashore and produced a really fantastic mess.”
Day by day, almost bomb by bomb, the ranks of workmen grew thinner as fear drove them to their native hills. The old four-stack destroyer Stewart lay on her side, toppled in drydock. Merchant ships now trapped by the Japanese pincers sealing the northern coast began to slip beneath the surface of the harbor their masts and bridges still visible. Scuttle and run, or sometimes, just run. Lanikai ran.
The glare of fires lighted the eastern horizon as Lanikai felt her way south in darkness via the tortuous channel between Bali and Java, Bali, the lovely, languorous isle of enchantment was now in process of investment by the Japanese. The Dutch were burning their supplies and bridges behind them as they withdrew.
The south coast of Java presented the same general air of unreality which Lanikai had first encountered in the Celebes. On 23 February 1942, the only indication of the war which was at that moment searing north Java and Bali appeared from time to time in the ominous presence of a lone Japanese reconnaissance plane, droning high in the brilliant blue sky. The unaccustomed air of peace prevailing undoubtedly contributed to the length of the journal’s recording for the day. “Lay to until daylight, then entered Patjitan Bay, flying the Netherland’s colors to avoid alarming the natives. At 0615 moored in Pollux Bay in the eastern end of Patjitan Bay, with an anchor forward and a stern line to rocks ashore. This delightful, tiny harbor is about 100 yards across, 400 yards long, and with banks about 100 feet high, mostly straight up. Trees and shrubs in profusion overhung the ship, concealing it effectively from the air and Z offering entertainment in the monkeys and vividly colored birds therein. Explored the river in the northeast end of bay via motor boat and found the natives friendly and unafraid. Purchased a native dugout for five guilders and a quantity of fresh fish. Two requests were received during the day from the Assistant Resident at Patjitan to come to his side of the bay for identification, as it was supposed we were Japanese. In each case the messenger was sent back with an answer requesting we be excused until dusk in order to escape detection by chance Japanese planes. At 1810 got underway and crossed the bay, lying to off the pier. The Commanding Officer went ashore and met the Assistant Resident and Chief of Police, satisfying them that we were Allied. The Assistant Resident explained that firstly, we were unexpected, secondly that the Filipino crew had excited much suspicion, and lastly the purchase of a dugout and several native hats had led them to believe we planned to attempt a landing. A brisk shower of rain y shortly after clearing the bay furnished enough water to fill all the barrels on deck.”
“The fish purchased at Patjitan now drying on the forward deck house provide a powerful stench when sailing close hauled,” says the journal, covering the leg to Tjilatjap, last ditch base on the south Java coast and then in the confusion of imminent abandonment.
The venerable China coast gunboat USS Tulsa, protecting a minefield which one suspects existed more in fancy than in fact, lent her skipper to pilot Lanikai in. He recounted his latest test of the Allied night recognition signals, wherein the tedious exchange of blinker signals required to identify friend or foe had left considerable doubt in the mind of a merchant captain approaching the entrance. The captain had expressed his skepticism by throwing all his code books, money and papers over the side and was at the point of personally following them when Tulsa's friendly character became apparent in the opening light. The incident had not enhanced the state of local relations.
The old tanker USS Pecos, soon to go down in the general massacre south of Java, proved a stout reed on which to lean. Water, news, rice, salmon, even clothing was cheerfully provided gratis by her kindly commanding officer, who clearly understood that there was a war being fought, a sentiment not shared by his supply officer, however This operator, armed with the Supply Corps manual, pointed out that Lanikai's shorts-clad, threadbare crew had no pay accounts, no records of any sort and in fact gave the impression that the whole log was bogus. “Forget the damn manual! Give ’em the goddam uniforms!” roared the skipper of Pecos, terms a sailor understood and appreciated. The general moratorium on legality did not, however, stretch so far as to include currency of the realm. As Lanikai’s bowsprit once more pointed southward, her grateful crew and skipper were happy enough to find themselves in warm undress blues, even though the pockets thereof might not jingle to the tune of the preceding two month’s pay.
Sauve qui peut was in effect the spirit of late February 1942 at Tjilatjap. The bigger ships, seeking to outwit the supposedly lurking Japanese, sped 50 miles east or west along the coast before heading south to safety in Australia. Lanikai could allow herself no such luxury of wasted mileage on a lee shore. Due south from harbor entrance she clawed her way at 3 knots. February 28 saw “seas and winds increasing to gale force from south. Visibility reduced to one mile. At 1610 changed course to southwesterly after having rejected a considered alternative via Christmas Island and Cocos Islands to India. Pitching and rolling heavily. Majority of crew deathly seasick.
It was in this immediate area at this time in this storm that a Japanese task force of four battleships, five cruisers, a destroyer division, and an aircraft carrier charged through en route to the Indian area. Swept away by this powerful force were the gunboat Asheville, tanker Pecos, ancient aircraft carrier Langley, and the destroyers Edsall and Pillsbury, some without record or survivors. Lanikai wallowed through, saved by good luck and her own utter insignificance, one more whitecap only slightly larger than the others on that gale-torn sea.
On 6 March, nine days after setting out from Java, navigating by a general chart of the entire continent of Australia, Lanikai anchored off what clearing weather and celestial sights suggested was Montebello Island, Northwest Australia. “Sent a party ashore, which found the island barren and uninhabited, with sparse covering of sagebrush and shelving beaches. No human evidence. . . . Six 50-pound sharks caught immediately the line hit the water but only three eating fish landed intact, all the others having been nipped off immediately abaft the gills by sharks as soon as the fish were hooked. Fish head chowder for dinner.”
One of the items of useful information not included on the chart was the tremendous rise and fall of tides in the area—20 feet and more. “The bottom rarely exceeds six fathoms below us,” notes the journal, as Lanikai gingerly eased her way down a barren, rainless, fresh-waterless coast, the crew slaking its thirst carefully with Dutch beer taken aboard in Tjilatjap. “There are occasional reefs which may or may not break. A very poor coast on which to experiment. Lay to four miles off the coast in vicinity of a town indicated on chart as ‘P. Weld,’ but could find no trace of human habitation. Set course to southwestward, with the intention of anchoring and awaiting daylight.
On 12 March 1942, not having sighted a ship, man, or plane for half a month, eyes sharpened by months of looking for enemy planes sighted Geraldton Light. Lanikai began to feel that the happy end of the trail might well be near. “At 1800 anchored, Geraldton light 12 miles distant, after having logged about nine knots since midafternoon under inner and outer jibs, jib staysail and foresail.”
On 18 March 1942, 82 days out of Manila, all sails set, rigging taut and shipshape, brass gun pedestal glistening in the bright sunshine, a little weather beaten schooner triumphantly entered the port of Fremantle, Southwest Australia. Flying from her gaff were the flags of the United States and the Philippines, swallowtailed and tattered. Proudly above them floated a whisp of bunting that curious onlookers aboard the Allied warships thought looked something like a commission pennant. The Skipper and crew, burned and weathered by months on the deck of a windjammer, stood in ranks on the after deckhouse. Lieutenant Commander Charles Adair, U. S. Navy, passenger, supercargo, guest navigator, and good friend, prepared to disembark. By his timely intervention in the release of the ship at Manila, Soerabaya, and Tjilatjap, he had most certainly saved from death or capture all who sailed in her.
Four thousand miles, most of them hazardous ones, had passed beneath Lanikai’s keel. On her deck stood 12 Filipinos, who without military indoctrination of any kind had served with loyalty and devotion, displaying magnificent seamanship. One or all could have faded into the landscape a dozen times in the Philippines, but none had chosen to do so. The unpredictable hand of Fate, and a little skill had allowed Lanikai and her crew to live while many ships and men died at Pearl Harbor and all around her.
Lanikai’s mission had been accomplished.
1. Robert E. Sherwood, Roosevelt and Hopkins (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1950), p. 259.
2. Sumner Welles, Seven Decisions That Shaped History (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1951), p. 89.
3. Reiman Morin, East Wind Rising (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., 1960), p. 353.
4. OPNAV 012356 CRO213 of 2 December 1941 to CinCAsiatic.
5. Report of the Joint Committee on the Investigation of the Pearl Harbor Attack (Washington: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1946), pr. 266-P.