Sunday in hell, p.88
Sunday in Hell, page 88
In the early hours of Tuesday morning, the 23rd, the daily routine for Task Group 15.2 held out prospects for a relatively uneventful run into San Francisco Bay. That prospect was shattered by a later warning of another submarine attack, 65 miles further north of Point Arguello. At 3 a.m., the Japanese submarine I-21 had found another target, and Commander Kanji Matsumura, unable to identify his target in the dark, ordered the sub’s deck gun crew to fire on the Richfield Oil Company’s empty tanker, Larry Doheney.
Six miles away in the small beach community of Cayucos, at the northern edge of Estero Bay, the shot awakened Mrs. Roy Genardini, wife of the town’s constable. Twenty seconds later a second shot was heard. On board the 7,038-ton Doheney, no one was asleep after the first shot. The skipper of the tanker, Captain O.S. Brieland, asleep when the first round was fired, was already on the bridge directing the ship’s maneuvers when the second round came. Both missed, while Brieland frantically zigzagged his 20-year old into the night.
After a few minutes, Commander Matsumura was about to call off the chase, after finding the darkness and Doheney’s fishtailing maneuvers too much, when a lookout sighted the tanker inside 200 yards with its port side exposed. Matsumura quickly ordered a torpedo fired.
Still in her bed in Cayucos, Mrs. Genardini was just about convinced the shooting was over, when she was suddenly jarred by an explosion that, in her own words, “nearly threw me onto the floor.” In the city of San Luis Obispo, thirteen miles inland, lights could be seen coming on in homes all over town, as people reacted to a sudden rattling of doors and windows. They were to learn the concussion came from a Japanese Long-lance torpedo that exploded after missing the Larry Doheney.
With the miss, a frustrated Matsumura broke off the chase and submerged. However, his frustration at being outrun by two American tankers in two days, would be more than vindicated in less than two hours. About the time I-21 disappeared below the surface, another American tanker, the Union Oil Company’s Montebello, was pulling away from the company wharf some 20 miles south, off Avila, on its way north with a cargo of gasoline. An hour and a half later it would find itself in a life or death race with a frustrated Japanese submarine commander with vengeance on his mind.
At 5:30 a.m., William Srez, on watch on the Montebello, alerted her captain, Olaf Eckstrom that they were being stalked by what looked to be a submarine. Eckstrom had been the ship’s first mate, until five hours earlier. At midnight, her previous commander abruptly resigned, giving the command to Eckstrom.
“I saw a dark outline on the water, close astern of us,” said the new captain later. “Srez was right. It was the silhouette of a Jap submarine, a big fellow, possibly 300 feet long. I ordered the quartermaster at the wheel, John McIsaac, to zigzag. For 10 minutes we tried desperately to cheat the sub, but it was no use. She was too close…(and) let a torpedo go when we were broadside to her.”
“The torpedo smashed us square amidships,” said Srez, “and there was a big blast and the ship shuddered and trembled and we knew she was done for.”
Fortunately for Montebello, the torpedo hit the only compartment not loaded with gasoline. “The men wouldn’t have had a chance if any other hold was hit,” said Eckstrom. But it did knock out the radio, “and I could not wireless for aid.”
“The skipper was cool as a snowdrift,” interjected Srez. “He yelled an order to stand by the lifeboats and then an order to abandon ship, and there was something in the way he gave those orders that made us proud to be serving under him.”
As the crew responded by lowering lifeboats, the submarine opened fire with its deck gun at nearly point-blank range. “The sub then began to shell us,” continued the captain. “There was from eight to 10 flashes. One…hit the foremast, snapping it. Another whistled by my head so close…I could have reached out and touched it. But there was no panic, no hysteria. We got all four lifeboats into the water. Splinters from one of the shells struck some of the boats, but by some kind of a miracle, none of us was wounded.”
Meanwhile, the gunfire and explosion of the torpedo attracted attention from the nearby shore. Clint Spooner, a rancher on the tip of Point Estero, six miles away, phoned the sheriff’s office that he had seen “three flashes of light and three minor explosions in the dark, and an enormous flash and a loud explosion.” Elsewhere up and down the isolated coastline, people were heading for the water’s edge for a view of the “goings on.”
Another person wishing to get a view of the “goings on” was Captain Eckstrom himself, who, unsure if the Montebello was going to sink, ordered his lifeboats “to lie a short distance from the ship. But 45 minutes later, just as the dawn was breaking, she went down.”
Two residents of the tiny coastal town of Cambria Pines witnessed the sinking from shore. “She upended like a giant telephone pole and slowly settled into the sea,” said Mr. M.L. Waltz, the editor of the Cambria weekly paper. “But there was no fire or explosions about the ship that we could see.”
Mrs. Harold Waite, from her home on a hill above Cambria Pines, saw the stern of the tanker “lift suddenly from the water and then disappear.” After that, a heavy fog and later a rainstorm prevented anything else from being seen from shore. What they missed was seeing 36 men in four lifeboats rowing frantically for shore. The marauding I-21, with its still-frustrated captain, continued firing his deck and machine gun at the helpless American merchantmen until poor visibility forced him to retire. Although no one was hit or wounded, the boat holding the captain and five other crewmen was hit.
“Shell splinters hit our boat,” said Bill Srez, “and she began to leak like a sieve. We began rowing shoreward, with some of us leaning on the oars for all we were worth and the others bailing.” Slowed noticeably from its leaking hull, the captain’s lifeboat was soon well behind the other three, who, two hours later, were picked up by Standard Oil tugboat Alma and launch Estero, dispatched from nearby Estero Bay.
Fighting fatigue, rough water and a leaking boat, it wasn’t until noon, some six hours since the sinking, that Captain Eckstrom, his first and second mates, the ship’s fireman, and seamen Srez and John T. Smith, hit the shore at Cambria. “We were caught in the surf,” said Srez, “and the lifeboat capsized and we got all wet. Some of the boys were scratched up by the rocks. The captain nearly drowned.” The ordeal of the 8,000-ton Montebello was over, but not forgotten.
Angry crew members cursed the Japanese, Srez vowing “As soon as I dry out, I’m going to look for another ship. Those Japs haven’t scared me yet and they never will.” Eckstrom said, “I’m proud of the men under my command. God bless ‘em, they behaved like American seamen. I only hope the Navy gets that Jap sub before she gets another American ship.”44
While the attacks were in progress further south, Task Group 15.2 was continuing on a course of 070 degrees, still holding 16.5 knots. On board Detroit, general quarters sounded at 0600, flight quarters at 0655, and at 0714 and 0721 scout planes were in the air again. At 0840 hours, the relative calm aboard Scott and Coolidge abruptly changed, when the destroyer Cummings signaled the convoy, “submarine contact, bearing 155 degrees true” - approximately on the starboard beam of the convoy, and in the direction from which an enemy submarine might approach.
Cummings left the formation to investigate. Detroit immediately signaled evasive course and speed changes, and aboard the two liners, the submarine alert brought orders for mandatory wear of life jackets, and more than passing excitement to harried passengers. Though the destroyer shortly reported the contact as apparently false, the passengers’ worries weren’t relieved. They were entering the final 48 hours of a perilous journey - a journey few on Scott and Coolidge would ever forget - and the attacks were continuing, capturing headlines up and down the West Coast, headlines above stories that would soon be read in Hawaii newspapers, and repeated on radios.45
Later the 23rd, Japanese submarine I-9 was coming to the end of a three day harassment of a small 944-ton Texas Company tanker, Idaho, heading south toward Long Beach. The I-9 had arrived at its assigned position off Cape Blanco, Oregon, on 17 December, after sinking the Matson Line freighter the Lahaina, on 11 December, 700 miles northeast of Hawaii. On the 20th, after hunting proved non-existent near the Cape, I-9 signaled the flag submarine, I-15, off San Francisco, and was ordered toward the Panama Canal.
Not long after getting under way down the American coastline, the Idaho was spotted moving in the same direction. For the next three nights and two days, I-9 hounded the small ship, forcing it to zigzag in constant fear of being torpedoed. The second night, Commander Akiyoshi Fujii sent a message in international code demanding the tanker identify itself. The captain responded by ordering full speed ahead. The Idaho’s ordeal ended December 23, when it reached the port of Long Beach.46
In Honolulu on the 23rd, preparations for the departure of the second evacuation convoy were proceeding at a lurching, almost chaotic pace, although Joey Border was certain she would be leaving for home that day. Packed and ready to go, she went down town, only to learn departure would be the next day. The entire day was hectic for her. The back and forth was wearing, both physically and emotionally. Excited, anxious to get started, carrying and loading luggage in transportation, rushing to ensure being on time, attempting to check-in and process - then disappointment. Back to the apartment, where the only saving grace was a letter that arrived from Sally Smoot, who had given her away at Bob’s and Joey’s wedding in Long Beach in mid-July. Behind the scenes at the Port of Honolulu, not visible to Joey and all other evacuees preparing to leave, there was much confusion as to who would do what, and who would give direction in managing the evacuation.47
The intent in loading for the second convoy to San Francisco was to carry the maximum number of evacuees allowable. The first convoy could carry a relatively smaller number because Coolidge and Scott brought a normal passenger load into Honolulu, and the ability to accept wounded and additional passengers on the two vessels was limited.
The second convoy, disembarking a full load of troops, unit equipment and supplies from the three Matson vessels, could carry a much larger number of evacuees. By the 22nd, the Fourteenth Naval District had counted 15,313 people, exclusive of wounded, needing evacuation, the Army’s Hawaiian Department submitted a total of 4,996, not counting wounded, and the District Chief of Staff informed the evacuation manager by letter on that date.48
But there were problems the evacuation manager, Captain Frucht, didn’t anticipate, which needed to be quickly resolved. Further, he and his small staff and the Castle and Cooke office were giving conflicting guidance in preparing for departure.
The Lurline was short of crew members. The Fourteenth Naval District’s Port Director, who controlled the movement of all ships in and out of Honolulu’s port after martial law was declared, asked the District’s Personnel Officer in a 23 December letter to provide 100 Navy enlisted men to be put on board Lurline to assist with the passengers and “…to help work the ship.” He explained, “The Lurline is 70 short of her crew and the morale of the civilian crew is reported not too high.” He went on to say, “This movement should be accomplished today. The Lurline will shift to Pier 11 early Wednesday morning, December 24th. All passengers must be aboard by 1300, that date.” The Navy augmented Lurline’s crew, but on the 23rd, Castle and Cooke, Limited, established a different date for loading passengers on Matsonia.
After the Matsonia arrived on the 21st, Castle and Cooke, which was managing ticket sales for the evacuation, learned that the ship, managed and equipped by the Army, had been stripped of beds, and had only cots and standee bunks available for passengers. Captain Frucht didn’t learn of the problem until the 22nd, when he was informed by the ticketing agency the ship had no beds, mattresses, blankets, or any bedclothes. There were approximately 750 to 1,000 tourists signing up to leave Oahu, including those who had already left on the first convoy. Castle and Cooke wanted to know, could tourists, who were the next priority behind the wounded, be brought aboard Matsonia? Further, what was the maximum passenger load allowed on the ship, and which service, Army or Navy, would be paying shipping and ticket costs? Could automobiles, pets and other personal belongings be evacuated on this vessel? What would be the allowable charges for tourists - adults and children - boarding Matsonia?49
In a memo to Admiral Bloch on the 23rd, Captain Frucht told the District Commandant, that the Army had authorized 900 mattresses to be obtained from Fort Armstrong, and they would be delivered to the Matsonia’s captain, who would sign for receipt of the mattresses. He then asked Admiral Bloch to inform him as soon as is practicable, the number of Navy evacuees to be on Lurline, that he could release additional, unused spaces to Castle and Cooke - and in the same memo telling the Commandant Matsonia’s cargo is being discharged, and the estimated time to complete the work is tentatively Christmas Day, Thursday, the 25th.
The same morning, Fucht called Mr. A.J. Pessel, the General Passenger Agent at Castle and Cooke, and told him the “the Matsonia will be handled by the Navy; that Castle and Cooke are to accommodate tourists on the Matsonia; that [you] are to start selling tickets for the Matsonia; and that [you] are to inform passengers to go aboard the vessel at Pier 28 not before Thursday, December 25th, at 1 P.M. and not later than Thursday, December 25th, at 4 P.M. Later in the day, Pessel wrote a letter to Fucht, confirming the contents of the conversation.50
While the passenger loading difficulties were being ironed out in Honolulu on the 23rd, and word of submarine attacks off the West Coast were flooding the newspapers and radio news broadcasts, Wake Island fell, bringing more bad news of defeat. Having bombed Wake Island almost daily since 7 December, and seen their first invasion fleet driven off with heavy losses on 13 December, the Japanese returned on the 22nd with powerful forces, including carriers, to ensure they took the island.
Admiral Pye, acting CinCPac, alerted to increased Japanese air activity in the Marshall Islands, including the presence of one and possibly two enemy carrier task forces, had called off the surprise raid on Jaluit in the Marshalls, and changed the mission of Task Force 11 (Lexington). They were to turn north to support a possible engagement with the Japanese forces or evacuation of Wake by Task Force 14 (Saratoga). Saratoga was still 430 miles distant when the powerful Japanese force landed and began overwhelming the island’s defenders. At 0652 the morning of the 23rd, Commander Winfield S. Cunningham, the Navy’s commander of the island’s defense force, sent his final message to Admiral Pye, reflecting the situation as he knew it: “Enemy on island. Several ships plus transport moving in. Two DD [destroyers] aground.” Later in the day, Pye, engaged by message with the Chief of Naval Operations, receiving additional information of possible enemy battleships with their carriers, and fearing he was risking one, possibly two of the Pacific Fleet’s three carriers, after the heavy losses sustained at Pearl Harbor, called off any attempt to evacuate the defenders, and directed the two carrier task forces to retire to the east.
Author Robert J. Grossman recorded the reactions of men in Task Force 14 when word reached them they were to reverse course:
[Vice Admiral] Frank Jack Fletcher’s Task Force 14, meanwhile, was right on schedule, and was in fact further west than Pye knew. His ships fully fueled and ready for battle, Fletcher planned to detach the Tangier and two destroyers for the final run-in to Wake, while the pilots on board the Saratoga prepared themselves for the fight ahead. Fletcher, not one to shirk a fight, received the news of the recall angrily. He ripped his hat from his head and disgustedly hurled it to the deck. Rear Admiral Aubrey W. Fitch, Fletcher’s air commander, similarly felt the fist-tightening frustration of the recall. He retired from the Saratoga's flag bridge as the talk there reached “mutinous” proportions.
As word of the recall circulated throughout Task Force 14, reactions were pretty much the same. Pye's recall order left no latitude for discussion or disobedience; those who argued later that Fletcher should have used the Nelsonian “blind eye” obviously failed to recognize that, in the sea off Copenhagen, the British admiral could see his opponents. Fletcher and Fitch, then 430 miles east of Wake, could not see theirs. They had no idea what enemy forces they might encounter. The Japanese had beaten them to Wake.
Of the 449 Marines (1st Defense Battalion and VMF-211 detachments) who manned Wake’s defenses, 49 were killed and 32 were wounded. Of the 68 Navy officers and men, three were killed, five were wounded and the rest taken prisoner. The small, five-man Army communications detachment suffered no fatalities and were all taken prisoner. Of the 1,146 civilians involved in construction programs on Wake Island, 70 were killed and 12 were wounded. Five of Wake’s defenders were executed on board Nitta Maru. With the exception of nearly 100 contractors who remained on Wake Island, all the rest joined Wake’s Marines, sailors and soldiers in prisoner of war camps.51
In Hawaii the same day, Admiral Bloch, responding to increasing submarine attacks, especially on unescorted United States as well as foreign flag vessels - and the need to establish tighter control and increased security of commercial operations - sent a letter to steamship owners, operators, and agencies of the Territory of Hawaii regarding movements of commercial vessels. Distributed to Castle and Cooke, American Factors, Ltd.; F.L. Waldron & Co., Norton Lilly Co., Inter-Island Steamship Navigation Co., Theodore H. Davies Co., C.C. Brewer & Co., Alexander & Baldwin, Lowers & Cooke, Haw’n Pineapple Co., Lt.; and Contractors Pacific Naval Air Bases, the letter provided clear, unambiguous guidance:
1. No movements of United States or foreign flag commercial vessels, regardless of type and tonnage, will be undertaken beyond harbor limits in the Fourteenth Naval District, except as authorized by the Port Director, Naval Transportation Service, Fourteenth Naval District.
2. Steamship owners, operators and agents are hereby enjoined to see that no information on such movements is transmitted by telephone, telegraph, cable, or radio, except as may be authorized, and in manner prescribed, by the Port Director.
