Destroyer Squadron 23 (Annotated) E-Book

Ken Jones

• Herausgeber: Kismet Publishing
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Destroyer Squadron 23 is the epic account of Commodore Arleigh Burke and the men and ships under his command in the South Pacific in World War II. Burke's leadership skills and innovative tactics, described in detail in the book, proved crucial to the U.S. defeat of the Japanese navy in the Pacific. 

*Original annotations.
*Handpicked, curated images throughout.

Leseprobe

Destroyer Squadron 23

Ken Jones

Published by Kismet Publishing, 2018.

Copyright

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Destroyer Squadron 23: Combat Exploits of Arleigh Burke’s Gallant Force by Ken Jones. First published in 1959.

Cover, interior design and editing © Copyright 2018 Kismet Press. All rights reserved.

First e-book edition 2018.

ISBN: 978-1-387-67036-9.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Destroyer Squadron 23

Foreword

Preface

1: Night of the Long Lances

2: The Commodore Comes Aboard

3: The Eagles Gather

4: Requiem over Ironbottom Bay

5: “Across the Ocean Wild and Wide ...”

6: Commander Burke Goes to War

7: The Seasoning of 31-Knot-Burke

8: Mosaic in Fatigue and Frustration

9: Sortie Against the Enemy

10: Gunstrike at Skunk Hollow

11: The Battle of Empress Augusta Bay

12: Their Finest Hour

Postscript

Image Gallery

Further Reading: Coral Comes High

PREVIOUS PAGE: Arleigh Albert Burke (October 19, 1901 – January 1, 1996) in 1951.

For my beloved wife, Iris

Foreword

FOR MANY DECADES, MEN have searched for a magic formula for leadership. Volumes have been written in an attempt to describe those personal qualities that kindle the spark of inspiration among others in great human undertakings. But a master equation has not yet been evolved, because leadership is a product of many variables; among them human character, individual personality, and the times and circumstances in which men live.

History has recorded many instances in which the right man was present at the right time to further a just cause and bring credit to his nation at a critical moment.

This book tells the story of such a man and such a time.

Commodore Arleigh Burke provided the fire of leadership that fused a squadron of destroyers into a superb combat organization, DESTROYER SQUADRON 23, the Gallant Squadron of this book; a real fighting outfit with that vital combat ingredient we know as “fighting spirit.”

Fighting spirit, like leadership, is difficult if not well-nigh impossible to describe; yet that spirit is brought to life in these pages. Here is a narrative that captures the elusive and mysterious combination of human qualities that add up to inspiration, because here is a story of action, human action, and reaction, in the heat of battle.

But this is more than a story of ships and their tactical deployment in sea battles that will live as classics of naval warfare. Most of all, it is a story of men in action; over thirty-six hundred officers and men of the United States Navy and how they lived and fought as a magnificent combat team.

Men of the sea have known for generations that individual ships develop qualities of personality and character all their own.

“A ship is as good as the men who man her!”

The whole-hearted effort and teamwork of every last officer and man on board are required to give a ship the capabilities so necessary to become an effective fighting unit. Each officer and man is proud of his ship and his own important part in making her an efficient weapon of war.

This story of the Gallant Squadron describes the rare phenomenon of a spirit which extended beyond the individual ship to create a, sense of pride in, and loyalty to, the entire squadron.

Each ship was good, not only because her men were good, but also because she belonged to DesRon-23! In this, each ship contributed to a higher standard, and each ship strove to live up to the reputation earned by the whole squadron.

While the period covered by this book is relatively short, it was a crucial period in the Pacific War, and the vital part played by Destroyer Squadron 23 under the inspiring leadership of Arleigh Burke was, in a sense, only a beginning, but the vital beginning, of a steady drive forward which gained momentum and power until United States naval forces steamed victoriously into Tokyo Bay.

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W. F. Halsey

FLEET ADMIRAL

UNITED STATES NAVY (RETIRED).

Preface

FOR AN AUTHOR, REACHING the end of a book is like reaching the end of a journey. In the case of Destroyer Squadron 23 it has been a long journey and the most rewarding of my life. Many have accompanied me briefly along the way ... Cavenagh, Lampman, Reynolds ... Others have peeped helpfully over my shoulder ... Armstrong, Gano, Hamberger, Stout. All have given generously of their mellow wisdom and, more importantly, of the inspirational spirit of the Squadron which abides in them.

In all candor, Destroyer Squadron 23 is not a writing for those who would dwell overlong upon or cuddle the dolorous sentiment of John Donne, “... never send to see for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee,” unless they are willing, also, to accept its rational corollary, which is that the bell can peal as well as it can toll, and that it peals for thee, too.

Many things are recorded of United States Destroyer Squadron 23. The one thing never recorded of them is that they took counsel of their fears, for they did not. They were confident in competence, strong in faith, and for them the bell never tolled and it never will. It pealed a clear signal of their courage, their conviction, and their dedication even unto death. And in pealing for them it peals also for thee and for me.

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A Word of Explanation and Appreciation

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THIS CHRONICLE HAS been taken from and faithfully reflects the official records of the United States Navy. In perhaps two or three instances which the reader will have no difficulty identifying, I have found it desirable to supply names for individuals whose participation in the events recorded seemed something less than champion. With these inconsequential exceptions, however, all persons are identified by their proper names. In the matter of dialogue the words spoken may be accepted as interpreting reliably the personality of the speaker and the sense of the situation portrayed. All TBS transmissions are recorded word for word as they appear in the official record compiled at the times the conversations took place. All other dialogue is substantially supported by log entries, by signed battle reports, by war diaries, or by official memoranda, or else reported orally or in writing to the author by the speakers. All times given are as they appear in the officially accepted record. Interpretation of senior Japanese officers is supported by post-war interrogations of enemy nationals, in many instances including the subjects themselves.

Together with all who write of this period of our naval history I must acknowledge my indebtedness for guidance to the impressive works of Samuel Eliot Morison, naval historian; and to Theodore Roscoe whose compilation of destroyer operations in World War II often saved me much time by indicating appropriate areas for intensive research. I should like, also, to acknowledge my debt to Colonel Allison Ind, Army of the United States, for the guidance derived from his study of the intelligence network of coast watchers and secret agents, of which he was a part, which functioned for the Allies throughout the campaign in the Solomons.

I am, of course, indebted to a great many individuals for their kind and unselfish assistance which has enabled me to present herein a study with more dimensions than a mere flat projection of continuity in time. At the top of this list I must place Admiral Arleigh Burke, the Chief of Naval Operations, and Mrs. Burke. Both received me graciously, answered my many questions patiently, and supplied invaluable documentary material. Next I must express my deep appreciation to the following officers for sustained personal assistance:

Vice Admiral Bernard L. Austin, USN.

Rear Admiral Robert Cavenagh, USN.

Rear Admiral Roy Gano, USN.

Rear Admiral Henry Jacques Armstrong, USN (Ret.).

Rear Admiral DeWitt Clinton Ellis Hamberger, USN (Ret.).

Rear Admiral Ralph Lampman, USN (Ret.).

Rear Admiral Luther Kendrick Reynolds, USN (Ret.).

Rear Admiral Herald Franklin Stout, USN (Ret.).

Commander John H. Davis, USN.

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EVERY ONE OF THESE officers has contributed personally and importantly to this study of United States Destroyer Squadron 23. Indeed, their contributions, have been so unique that without them the story could not have been written.

For official co-operation, great courtesy and patience and expressions of confidence, I wish to record my gratitude to Rear Admiral E. M. Eller, USN (Ret.), Director of Naval History; Captain F. Kent Loomis, USN (Ret.), Assistant Director of Naval History; Commander Herb Gimpel, USN, and Commander C. R. Wilhide, USN. Finally, for unfailing encouragement and many helpful suggestions, I wish to thank three very dear friends, Mr. Edmund L. Browning, Jr., attorney; Dr. Ivor Cornman, scientist; and Mr. Alex Jackinson, of New York City.

In conclusion, in Destroyer Squadron 23, I have made far less attempt to record deeds of heroism than I have to study and present clearly the origins of the compulsions which prompted such deeds. That, to me, is the greater challenge, and its accomplishment the more enduring achievement. It was denied me to be of their company. As second best I can only hope that in the telling I have been as faithful and as worthy as they were in the doing.

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KEN JONES

1: Night of the Long Lances

THE QUARTERMASTER ON the bridge of destroyer Waller took an appraising look at the barrel-shaped brass clock on the bulkhead, then stepped around to the flag bridge behind and struck six sharp taps on the ship’s bell affixed to the foremast, thus officially certifying the instant to be 2300 hours on the night of 5th May, 1943. Waller, the ‘flag boat’ of Destroyer Division 43, swung obediently around her anchor in Havannah Channel off the island of Efate at the bottom end of the New Hebrides group, 18 degrees south of the equator.

The topside temperature was a humid 88, but a relentless sun blazing day long on the DD’s steel deck plates had converted her lower compartments into a fireless cooker. Even at the late hour of 11 and with ventilating fans making top revolutions, temperatures below ranged upward to 100 degrees.

A young ensign had the deck and the vessel was dark and quiet, for Waller was enjoying an unaccustomed respite from her usual busy pattern of escort and battle employment. She was on 12 hours’ notice; a sabbatical for a ship of her class at the time and place. She steamed one boiler which gave her available power to shift anchorage, operate her generators and turrets in the event of a surprise surface attack, or take evasive action should enemy aircraft appear. And she maintained a skeletal watch: engine-room, communications, bridge. Otherwise Waller slumbered.

In a below-decks cubicle screened from the wardroom and adjacent spaces by a pleated and heavy dark green curtain, a shaded bulb cast spare illumination over the tiny rectangle of a drop-leaf desk at which an officer sat writing. He was of well-knit, medium stature, blond and blue-eyed. A fresh film of perspiration covered his throat down into the V of his open-necked shirt, and droplets of moisture beaded the fine reddish hairs on the backs of his stubby hands. He was 42 years old, and in 20 years of naval service he had risen to the rank of commander, an achievement attested by the silver leaves flanking the wilted collar of his shirt.

On the Navy’s roster this officer’s name appeared as Arleigh A. Burke, and he was taken for an Irishman by all save his intimates. He was, however, not an Irishman but a Swede. His patronymic was Bjorkegren, which means limb of a birch tree. His grandfather had changed the name to Burke many years before and thus young Arleigh, upon entering the Naval Academy in 1919, had registered as Burke, and he never was known by any other name in the Navy.

Burke commanded the four ships of Destroyer Division 43. Thus he wore the designation Commodore, which is not a Navy rank but rather a title denoting command of a floating force composed of several units. In official correspondence he also carried the ideographic identification “ComDesDiv-43,” which is the Navy’s contraction of “Commander, Destroyer Division 43.”

Twenty-two lined tablet pages covered with his bold, school-boyish calligraphy piled up at Arleigh Burke’s left elbow. The document he struggled to produce was a memorandum to higher authority recommending new techniques for the employment of destroyers with cruiser task forces. With Japanese and American task forces repeatedly locking horns in the Solomons, it was a tactical subject of stature and immediacy. With an intensity reflecting two of his own dominating characteristics, audacious aggressiveness and superb technical mastery of the destroyer as a weapon, Burke concluded his doctrine:

When contact with an enemy force is made destroyers in the van should initiate a coordinated torpedo attack WITHOUT ORDERS.

Then he added (for he was fully aware of the sensitive ground upon which he intruded):

This last recommendation is the most difficult. The delegation of authority [by a task force commander] is always hard and ... where such delegation of authority may result in disastrous consequences if a subordinate commander makes an error, it requires more than usually is meant by confidence: IT REQUIRES FAITH.

When Burke emphasized the requirement of faith he cut close to the heart of a Navy mystique which he personified to a greater degree than his contemporaries, and which, in six short months, was to set his feet on the road to greatness as commander of the Gallant Squadron: Destroyer Squadron 23. On this humid May night, however, such potent abstractions shared his thoughts with images of blazing, sinking U.S. warships and the blasted, lifeless bodies of American sailors. These images arose in dismaying array from the battle reports which Burke had been studying in preparation for drafting his own recommendations. Of these documents one had been of especial interest to and significance for Arleigh Burke. It was a report of the Battle of Tassafaronga - “The Night of the Long Lances.”

At Tassafaronga a cautious United States cruiser task force commander, for 4 fatal minutes after contact with the enemy, withheld permission for his destroyers to launch torpedoes. In consequence - or at least principally in consequence, as Arleigh Burke saw it - in the ensuing 20 or 30 minutes of lurid action a resolute and skillful Japanese Rear Admiral administered to the United States Navy the most humiliating defeat in its history.

It has been said of Tassafaronga that it needn’t have happened and it shouldn’t have happened but it did. The situational background was encouraging, although the immediate antecedents of the battle itself were unpropitious.

A Japanese labor force had occupied portions of Guadalcanal since June, 1942, and had constructed an air strip near Lunga Point. On 7th August, 11,000 Marines landed on Guadalcanal, captured the air strip which they named Henderson Field, and challenged the Japanese power. The Japs immediately launched a series of efforts to toss the Americans off the island, and in the next five months this ding-dong struggle for Guadalcanal fertilized seed which fruited in no less than six major naval engagements, culminating in the debacle of Tassafaronga.

On the Japanese side, undue confidence in the prowess of the Emperor’s troops, and Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto’s stubborn devotion to classic naval principles, set the stage. Instead of reinforcing their Guadalcanal garrison in overwhelming strength and sweeping the Marines into the sea, the Japs landed new forces piecemeal. Our leathernecks found it possible to deal with forces thus hesitantly committed, and at the same time extend their own perimeters.

On the strategic side afloat Yamamoto held firmly to the Mahan doctrine of seeking to bring the U.S. Pacific Fleet to battle under circumstances favorable to him. Thus naval support and supply of the Japanese troops on Guadalcanal was sporadic and often ineffective. Indeed, the Jap supply and reinforcement situation finally got so desperate that top Admiral Yamamoto dumped the whole sticky problem into the lap of one of his most astute and experienced subordinates, Rear Admiral Raizo Tanaka.

‘Tenacious Tanaka’ (an encomium we were forced to bestow by the time he had whipped the stuffing out of four of our heavy cruisers, one light cruiser, and six destroyers, using nothing but a handful of Jap DDs and the long lance) came up with an ingenious solution to the puzzle. He ordered food and ammunition placed in steel drums that would float and could be tossed overside from fast destroyers. The plan was simple. The Japanese DDs carrying the supplies and some reinforcements, would steam close in along the northern coast of Guadalcanal in the vicinity of Tassafaronga at the mouth of the Bonegi River. At an appropriate point, under cover of darkness, the ammo and food would be flung overside to drift to the beach or be recovered by the shoreside garrison using small boats. Meanwhile, the few reinforcing troops would be transferred to shore boats; in an hour or so the job would be done, and Tanaka & Company would hightail back to their base.

Tanaka’s intentions were not immediately fathomed by the top United States naval command. Successively Admirals Nimitz and Halsey had been forced to give Number 1 priority to the possibility that the Japanese would mount an all-out surface effort to recapture strategic Guadalcanal. This idée fixe, in course of time, imparted its own distortion to U.S. interpretation of reports of Japanese ship movements, and intelligence officers at Pacific Fleet headquarters tended to magnify into formidable intentions reports of many routine enemy surface operations. Thus it chanced that when, as early as 24th November, suspicious enemy ship activity was reported in the Buin-Shortlands and New Georgia—Santa Isabel areas, a major naval strike against our hard-pressed Marines on Guadalcanal was envisioned—a far cry from the modest supply mission which really was being planned.

The job of preparing a plan for a riposte in force to parry the anticipated Japanese thrust was turned over to Rear Admiral Thomas C. ‘Tommy’ Kinkaid, just arrived to take charge of our cruiser force assembled at Espiritu Santo. By 27th November the paperwork was complete. But at this decisive moment the long arm of Washington reached out and plucked Kinkaid back to Pearl for other duty. He was replaced by Rear Admiral Carleton H. ‘Bosco’ Wright, also newly arrived in the area aboard cruiser Minneapolis. Wright examined Kinkaid’s plan, found it good, and accepted responsibility for its execution within 24 hours of his arrival. It was an example of the exigencies of the time that a flag officer should be made answerable for a combat mission less than 2 days after assuming command, and with time for but a single brief conference with the subordinate commanders of his group, which was designated Task Force 67. How much or how little this last-minute switch in command may have had to do with our fumbling performance at Tassafaronga will long remain moot. At best the task force was a scratch team with a plan on paper but lacking the solid body of practiced doctrine which alone can impart the strengths of polished teamwork in combat. That also was a thing at which Arleigh Burke had hammered away in his memorandum.

It was a curious product of Halsey’s staff’s anticipation of a major Japanese strike against Guadalcanal that, at almost precisely the same time on the evening of 29th November, Tanaka weighed his anchors and stood out of Buin while Wright, with shielded lights in small boats to signal the turns through the minefield off Espiritu, sortied with Task Force 67. They had a common destination: the northern coast of Guadalcanal. But that’s all they had in common. Tanaka led eight modern, single-stacked destroyers, each loaded with 1,000 drums of supplies and equipment and a small number of Japanese Army personnel. He was not looking for a fight. Indeed, to be sure he would avoid one he set course north through Bougainville Strait and then east toward Roncador Reef. This, he figured, should throw snooping U.S. aircraft off the scent and permit him, at the last moment, to break sharply south for Indispensable Strait, thus avoiding The Slot and, possibly, a prowling enemy. This was not the first of wily Tanaka’s supply missions; he’d been running them every fourth night for some time, and such devious tactics had served him well.

For Wright the run to “Cactus,” which was our code designation for Guadalcanal, was 580 miles by the most direct route passing eastward of San Cristobal and thence via Indispensable Strait into Lengo Channel and the waters our men had dubbed Ironbottom Sound because of the number of ships sunk in the area. That was the route he chose. His destroyers got under way at 2310 and his cruisers at 2335, a trifle earlier than he had thought possible. The average speed of the Task Force was 28.2 knots, and as the darkened ships plowed silently through the mellow night Admiral Wright strolled out on the starboard bridge wing of his flagship, Minneapolis, spread his forearms along the teak rail, relaxed, and reviewed in his mind the intelligence he had received up to that moment and the details of Operation Plan 1-42 which now was to govern the tactical evolutions of the force under his command.

The intelligence he had was confusing. Original estimate of the enemy force to be anticipated was eight destroyers and six transports. Subsequent information indicated that combatant ships might be substituted for the transports, and a still later report warned that a Japanese cruiser task force comparable to his own might be on the way. On balance, Bosco Wright had little real notion of what he might be poking his nose into.

Task Force 67 was a sturdy formation which any Rear Admiral might have been proud to command. It was composed of four 10,000-ton heavy cruisers mounting 8-inch batteries— Minneapolis, New Orleans, Pensacola and Northampton—and one 6-inch cruiser, Honolulu. Wright had split this force assigning Northampton and Honolulu to his next in command, Rear Admiral Mahlon S. Tisdale, who rode in Honolulu, and this unit of two cruisers was designated Task Group 67.2. Only four destroyers— Fletcher, Drayton, Maury and Perkins—sortied from Espiritu. Two more, Lamson and Lardner, were to join the Task Force en route. The destroyer force was designated Task Group 67.4 and, under Commander William M. Cole, in Fletcher, was assigned to lead the formation on what Wright assumed would be his engaged bow should he meet the enemy.

The essentials of Operation Plan 1-42 were standard for the kind of mission. Should the enemy be met at night as was expected, the plan specified that the van destroyers, using their radar advantage (the Japanese didn’t yet possess radar) would launch a surprise torpedo attack and then steam clear so the cruisers could open gunfire. The cruisers were not to shoot, however, until the DDs’ torpedoes had time to run to target.

The cruiser float planes, more of an encumbrance than a help during a night engagement, were to be flown ashore, all but two returning to “Base Button,” which was Espiritu. Two planes were to go to Tulagi, there to await Wright’s summons to rejoin and illuminate the enemy if met. Recognition lights—green over white over white—were to be flashed on momentarily only to check the fire of one friendly ship upon another should the chaos of battle produce such a situation. Searchlights were forbidden as providing the enemy with too accurate a point of aim, and to thwart the effective use of searchlights by the Japanese the U.S. cruisers were instructed not to close the enemy under 12,000 yards (about 7 miles) unless special circumstances required it.

So far as Bosco Wright could tell, Operation Plan 1-42 was a good enough instrument. Essentially it was. But no plan can be of much effectiveness unless it is followed, and “1-42” was followed but loosely and briefly at Tassafaronga. Beyond that, probably no plan could have accommodated three of the enemy’s principal strengths. The first was the Japanese “long lance” torpedo. It has been described as “blue murder,” and it was exactly that. The second enemy strength lay in the high skill and the cool courage of the Japanese destroyermen in general and torpedomen in particular. For nearly 2 years, as the interrogation of Japanese officers revealed after the war, they had been practicing at night the precise evolutions to which Wright found it impossible to reply effectively at Tassafaronga. They could go through the drill blindfolded, and they were as battle-hardened as wharf rats and as self-reliant as eagles. The third factor was the very high technical competence and contempt for danger or the odds against him of Rear Admiral Raizo Tanaka.

Tanaka was of Samurai lineage. He was of medium stature, his shoulders sloped, and his bearing was short of the pouter pigeon carriage encouraged by some military classicists. He had a wedge-shaped face, broad across the forehead and slanting obliquely downward from the temples to a heavy jaw and a decidedly pointed chin. His eyebrows were black and bushy and the menacing mien they imparted to his countenance was italicized by a similarly bristly black mustache. His neck was thin and his head, above an overly prominent Adam’s apple, seemed to have precarious support. However, despite his unprepossessing appearance, there were other and better measures of the man.

As Tanaka approached Indispensable Strait his Chief of Staff, Captain Yasumi Toyama, stepped forward with a sheaf of messages. They were from Japanese Army headquarters on Guadalcanal and naval headquarters at Rabaul, and all sounded an urgent warning: Japanese snooper planes had “spooked” a United States cruiser task force entering the area for which Tanaka was bound. His decks were cluttered with cargo and Army personnel who would be in the way in the event of battle. The ⅜- inch steel plates and the 5-inch popguns of his 2,000-ton destroyers were fragile things with which to oppose armor-clad giants of five times his displacement hurling 8-inch salvos. A single cruiser salvo registering on one of his DDs could tear it to bits. Here, then, was ample excuse for Admiral Tanaka to “make a 180” and withdraw the way he had come. But he did not. He had consummate confidence in his own tactical skill, the technical ability of his crews, and the devastating characteristics of the long lance. He barely glanced at the warnings; then shoved the messages back at Toyama and snapped, “Tell the men to prepare for a fight!” Destroyer Squadron 2 of the Imperial Japanese Navy, with attached destroyer transport units, stood on course. Tanaka’s was a valiant resolution.

The long lance in which Admiral Tanaka had such faith was a formidable weapon in the hands of those who knew how to employ it, and the Emperor’s sailors knew precisely how. It was the Japanese Model 93 torpedo and it was superior in every respect to the 21-inch Mark XV torpedo which was the best we could offer to oppose it. The long lance took its name from the fact that it could and did run hot and true for distances up to 11 miles at the high speed of 49 knots. Oxygen-fueled, it could travel twice as far at the slower speed of 36 knots, which made it out-range an American battleship’s main battery. Its payload was an incredible 1,036 pounds of high explosive, better than twice the payload of our Mark XV. It was an altogether superior piece of ordnance which we were unable to match during the entire course of the war.

Plowing north by west through the daylight hours of Monday, 30th November, Bosco Wright’s task force was a picture-book formation. The sky was slightly overcast, which imparted to the waters offshore a deep blue color on top of which the wakes cast up ivory fretwork. The rollers which lifted under his bows were long, low, and lazy, and the peacefulness of the scene gave little signal of the grim night to follow. The ships of the task force, however, were pregnant with latent power— hundreds of tons of high explosive and armor-piercing projectiles, and the instruments for their efficient delivery on target. Also they were heavy with fuel. Minneapolis displaced 3,400 tons above her rated 10,000 “dry” tons and her engines throbbed at better than 300 revolutions to enable her to maintain 28 knots.

Aboard their respective ships, officers went methodically about preparing their units for battle. In Northampton the executive officer, meticulous Commander J. S. Crenshaw, made a careful inspection above and below. He found eight cans of lard and six cans of salad oil in the general mess issue-room and pondered their danger as a fire hazard. Finally he decided to let them remain where they were. He noted with satisfaction that his damage control officer had set out 100 buckets to be used either for bailing or fighting fire. Finding forty 100-pound bags of salt stacked handily against a midship bulkhead, he inquired their purpose of a grizzled chief. “I’ll tell you, sir,” replied the seasoned shellback. “Blood makes decks pretty slippery. If we need traction to move around that salt could come in mighty handy. Then too,” he added as an afterthought, “we might could use it to smother fires.” Commander Crenshaw was well pleased with the foresight of his ship’s company. By 1700 hours he was back on the bridge reporting to Captain Willard A. Kitts, III, commanding, that Northampton was in proper posture for battle.

The tally of preparation and inspection throughout the rest of the task force was comparable. Aboard New Orleans Captain Clifford H. Roper, commanding, ordered that tubs of sandwiches be brought topside and served to the men along with hot coffee at 2100, when they would be at general quarters. Minneapolis was temporarily missing an “exec,” her executive officer having been detached an hour and a half before the task force sortied. Her gunnery officer, Commander R. G. McCool, was slated to take over as Number 1, but Captain Charles E. Rosendahl, commanding, preferred to keep McCool as “guns” until after the anticipated battle, and so split the “exec’s” responsibilities between himself and two other officers.

Wright catapulted his planes beginning at 1613. The pair which flew to Tulagi, there to await Wright’s summons to rejoin and illuminate, carried four Mark V parachute flares each. As matters turned out, these two planes were jinxed. When the summons came their pilots shoved throttles forward and made long, furious runs across the smooth black waters of Tulagi harbor, but it was no use. The night was so absolutely flat calm at Tulagi that the float planes could not get airborne. They kept trying and eventually they did manage to stagger into the air, but by that time the battle was over.

This was one of several bits of bad luck that harassed Bosco Wright on the evening of 30th November. Another minor bit of ill fortune had to do with destroyers Lamson and Lardner, which he was forced to carry into battle at the tail end of his cruiser column. Wright picked up Lamson and Lardner, on orders from Admiral Halsey, from an east-bound convoy which he met as he entered Lengo Channel. Aboard Lamson was Commander Laurence A. Abercrombie, commander of Destroyer Division 9, and thus the senior destroyer officer present with the task force. However, Abercrombie had no copy of Plan 1-42 and didn’t even know the proper recognition lights to display for identification if fired on by his own forces. In the circumstances, Wright had no choice but to order Abercrombie to join up in the rear. Indeed, when the battle roared to life, the senior destroyer officer present found that his main job was to keep from being sunk by his friends, and his engagement of enemy units was rather a left-handed affair.

When, at 2245, Task Force 67 entered Ironbottom Sound, Wright’s silent ships were steering a bit north of west, perhaps 20 miles off the northern coast of Guadalcanal, with Henderson Field bearing broad on their port beam. The moon had not yet risen and the night was very dark, with a completely overcast sky which limited visibility to 2 miles. The wind was from the southwest at 12 knots, the sea calm and glassy. On the decks and in the turrets of destroyers and cruisers alike, men wearing steel helmets and lifejackets crouched at their weapons and waited. Many of them were new to combat—and many of them would not see the dawn of another day. As they passed moistened tongues over dry lips they shared common thoughts, although few realized it: “What shall I be called upon to do—to endure? Shall I be able to meet this challenge? What will it be like ... ?”

In dimly lighted compartments below decks practiced eyes were riveted on radar screens, not alone to catch first glimpse of the enemy but also to check the navigator’s calculations. Lights burned bright in combat information centers and officers huddled around tables and panels laden with sensitive instruments to calculate range and bearing and the score of other details, including the temperature of the powder which must be correlated for efficient modern fire control.

The skippers of most of the ships were on the bridges, but Captain Frank H. Lowe, of heavy cruiser Pensacola, preferred to fight his ship from sky control, above and forward of the pilot house, and had made arrangements to take that station in the event an enemy appeared. His “exec,” Commander Harry Keeler, Jr., was in the pilot house; Lieutenant L. K. Taylor was officer of the deck. Aboard Minneapolis another officer, Marine Captain A. R. Schirman, had provided himself with a lofty perch from which to observe the festivities. Night binoculars in hand, he manned “sky aft,” a station better than 60 feet above the water. Admiral Wright had reduced speed to 20 knots; Task Force 67 was on-the-prowl and as ready for battle as ever she would be!

‘Tenacious Tanaka’ rounded Savo Island at about 2245 and came left to parallel the coast. He was close inshore—only 2 miles off—and with a single exception his destroyers were in column. Destroyer Takanami was stationed as a picket on the port bow of the flagship, several thousand yards to seaward of the advancing column. Tanaka, in destroyer Naganami, led the main column and was followed by the destroyers of Transport Unit 1 under command of Captain Torajiro Sato. Their order of steaming was Makanami, Oyashio, Kuroshio, and Kagero. Following them came Kawakaze and Suzukaze, comprising Transport Unit 2 under command of Captain Giichiro Nakahara. By 2300 Tanaka had reduced speed to 12 knots preparatory to jettisoning his drums of supplies. Although expecting to meet opposition sooner or later, he did not at the moment know of the immediate presence of the United States cruiser task force only a few miles away. The two groups of fighting ships were closing on collision courses; their head-on meeting could be but a matter of minutes.

At 2306 Minneapolis made first radar contact with the enemy. Eight pips appeared on the screen of her “Sugar George” (search) radar, bearing 284 degrees, distant about 14 miles. The targets seemed to be on a southerly course at a speed of 15 knots. Immediately upon receiving this report Admiral Wright brought his formation into column of ships with Fletcher and the other three DDs of Task Group 67.4 out in front. There was a 2-mile interval between Minneapolis leading the cruiser line and Drayton, last of the four destroyers. The cruisers were steaming at a distance of 1,000 yards between ships. The U.S. and the Japanese formations were closing each other at a combined rate of speed of the order of 32 knots.

Within 8 minutes Commander Cole, leading the cruisers by several miles in Fletcher, had the forward elements of Tanaka’s destroyer column on his radar screen bearing 285 degrees true, and a torpedo firing “solution”—the product of computations of ranges, bearings, courses, and speeds which is computed electrically or mechanically and controls effective torpedo aiming and firing—which would enable him to fire torpedoes at a range of about 7,000 yards. His means of communication with the Task Force Commander was by TBS, which is the Navy’s contraction for Talk Between Ships. TBS is a radio-telephone circuit of limited range linking an ordinary telephone handset on the bridge of each ship with a standard loudspeaker on the bridge of each other ship. Through this simple network voice communication was maintained among all the ships of a formation. Code designations for ships and individuals often were used as a precaution on TBS, but despite fears to the contrary there is no solid evidence that the enemy was aware of or monitored our transmissions.

Cole had been standing with the TBS phone in his hand. Now he pressed the activating button, called Admiral Wright, and sang out, “Request permission to fire torpedoes!” The time was 2316.

That precise moment marked the beginning of the fatal 4 minutes during which Bosco Wright “hung in stays,” not yet sufficiently sure to act himself and unwilling to relinquish the initiative to his destroyer commanders. Arleigh Burke was to put his finger unerringly on this flaw in his recommendation demanding faith in subordinate officers by task force commanders, but at Tassafaronga that sort of faith was in short supply.

Instead of granting permission for Cole to launch the surprise torpedo attack called for in Plan 1-42, Wright replied, “Range on our bogey [enemy force] is excessive; 14,000 yards.” Cole was lashed to the mast; under Navy protocol there was nothing he could do but stand by until it suited the Task Force Commander to grant him permission to fire torpedoes. Meanwhile, the positions of the opposing forces relative to each other were changing fast, and not to the advantage of the destroyers of Task Force 67.

There followed 2 minutes of extraneous TBS traffic after which Wright came back to Cole and inquired, “Do you have them located?”

“Affirmative!” snapped Cole. And then, making a final effort to secure permission to go into action, he added, “Range is all right for us!” Again he waited hopefully; once more he was disappointed. Still temporizing, Admiral Wright merely observed, “Suspect bogies are DDs. We now have four.” The flagship seems temporarily to have lost half of Tanaka’s formation from her radar screens—not an unusual occurrence with some types of radar.

At this point Northampton broke in to report a flashing light on Tassafaronga, and it was not until 2320, his doubts finally resolved, that the Task Force Commander told Cole to “Go ahead and fire torpedoes.”

For Bill Cole and the destroyermen of Division 45 the golden moment had come and gone. On opposite parallel courses the two formations were sweeping past each other by the time he was free to act. Now, instead of having a comfortable shot at ships approaching, he had to accept an “up the kilt” shot at ships going away. At the moment Cole was granted permission to fire torpedoes, his range to Naganami, Tanaka’s leading destroyer, had opened to 9,600 yards and his “fish” would have to travel considerably farther than that to intercept the passing enemy. At best this meant a long overtaking run for his torpedoes, but Fletcher fired ten in two salvos anyway and Perkins, next in line, got off eight. Maury was having trouble getting a “solution” and she held her fire. Drayton fired two on a very wobbly “solution” and more out of desperation than hope. It was an ineffective bit of business; all twenty of the Mark XVs sailed off into the void of missed targets. Following doctrine, Cole now led his little ships northeast toward Savo Island to clear the area for the gunfire of the cruisers. He was subsequently censored for this by Admiral Halsey, who regarded his lack of offensive action after firing torpedoes as “contrary to instructions” and reported to ComSoPac [Commander, South Pacific] that “in future such actions will not be tolerated.” Cole was the only officer to receive official reprimand for his part in the defeat at Tassafaronga.

Having unwittingly fumbled the surprise torpedo attack called for in Plan 1-42, which might conceivably have been successful if launched in time, Admiral Wright now practically threw the plan out of a porthole. Cole’s torpedoes had scarcely buried their noses in the black offshore rollers and started their runs when, at 2321, the Task Force Commander ordered his cruisers to “Stand by to Roger,” which meant stand by to open fire with guns. A moment later he gave the order, “Commence firing!” and the whole cruiser line blazed into a thundering salvo of radar-aimed 8- and 6-inch gunfire. If ever there had been hope of surprising Tanaka with the torpedo barrage, the cruiser gunfire effectively disposed of it. You can hardly be shot at by five cruisers and still be unaware of the presence of an enemy or where he is!

Their planes still grounded at Tulagi, the cruisers were forced to illuminate with star shell, which they did. However, the illumination of targets was only partially effective. The cruisers’ salvos, landing around Tanaka’s destroyers, kicked up such a curtain of fire and smoke that the Japanese vessels were often obscured from view. Wright continued to pump out salvos, however, with these principal results:

As we did not have flashless powder, the winking flashes from the guns of the cruisers gave the Japanese torpedomen the points of aim which Kinkaid had sought to deny them by prohibiting the use of searchlights. For this precise reason Tanaka’s doctrine specified that his destroyers were not to open gunfire, and this order was violated by only one ship, picket destroyer Takanami.

As the battle opened Takanami was between the two opposing formations and considerably closer to the American ships than any of her fellows. She immediately fired torpedoes and reversed course, turning away to the right. Her nearness to the cruisers, however, made her a sitting duck, and she was pounded unmercifully. Aboard Pensacola Lieutenant Commander J. C. Landstreet, gunnery officer, observing the effect of his tracer fire, shouted to a comrade, “Boy, look at those tracers! They’re penetrating that tin can—look, they leave a glowing red ring at the point of impact! That’s what I call shooting!” It was shooting indeed, the only effective shooting the U.S. ships were to do in the entire battle. Pummeled into helplessness, Takanami finally replied with her own feeble 5-inch guns and actually managed to fire about 70 rounds before she was rendered dead in the water, on fire, and with all of her battery silenced. She finally went down at 0137, leaving few survivors.

The killing of Takanami was observed by hundreds of American eyes from many different points of vantage alow and aloft. Marine Captain Schirman in his sky aft aerie above Minneapolis saw her die and chalked her up for a cruiser. But it remained for the Task Force Commander and his staff to proliferate this single sinking beyond even a tenuous reflection of reality. In his action report after the battle, Admiral Wright wrote, “Probable Japanese losses are two light cruisers and seven destroyers.” Thus, to American eyes thrown out of focus by the refractions and magnifications of battle, poor Takanami, the only Japanese ship to be hit, became a whole task force by herself!

With the fire from Wright’s cruisers lifting solid curtains of water around his ships and garlanding them with wreaths of cordite smoke, Tanaka’s stern courage did not falter and the iron discipline of his destroyermen held firm. At the first wink of a cruiser’s guns Tanaka surmised that torpedoes already would be streaking toward him. Flagship Naganami immediately countermarched to the right and wasted no time clearing torpedo water. Meanwhile, on the bridge of Makanami, Captain Sato resolutely led his four transport destroyers of Unit 1 on a southerly course while their crews worked diligently to cast off the lashings and toss overboard the drums of supplies which Tanaka was determined to deliver. This accomplished, he rang up 24 knots and led the formation in a column turn to the right, which was according to doctrine. He had, meanwhile, been readying his long lances.

Captain Nakahara’s two DDs of Transport Unit 2, Kawakaze and Suzukaze, followed in train behind Sato, jettisoning their deck cargoes and turning away. By 2333 Tanaka’s entire force less Takanami was on a retirement course at 24 knots. Their doctrine had been precisely complied with. Reflecting the first part—“Make liberal use of torpedoes”— Suzukaze had fired a salvo of long lances at 2324, Kuroshio fired five a minute later, Takanami had fired torpedoes earlier when the U.S. cruisers first opened on her, and at 2330 Kawakaze launched the first of eight. Thus, by the time he undertook the second phase of his doctrine—“Retire without employing guns”—Admiral Tanaka had more than twenty long lances reaching out through the black night to pierce the heart of his more powerful antagonist.

Twelve minutes earlier Bill Cole had requested permission to surprise Tanaka with a torpedo barrage. Now, at 2328, pluperfect hell descended upon the American cruisers at latitude 9°—16’ —0” South; longitude 159°—15’—0” East. And it was U.S. Admiral Bosco Wright, not Japanese Admiral Raizo Tanaka, who was surprised!

The gunfire of the United States ships was dazzling in volume and shell were flying at a rate to suggest a veritable canopy of whistling steel spanning the ocean between Wright and Tanaka. Aboard New Orleans Lieutenant Commander J. H. Howard, gunnery officer, noted that at the range of 11,000 yards the salvo interval and time of flight of projectiles exactly coincided, so that, as each salvo landed near a target, a new salvo was leaving the gun muzzles. It was an altogether busy and boisterous scene.

By 2327½ Wright had closed the range to a point-blank 6,000 yards and in the white overhead glare from the star shell being liberally fired by all ships he looked across the water and saw three Japanese destroyers dead abeam of his cruiser formation to port. He reached out his hand for the TBS transmitter, but his intentions were arrested in mid-execution. For at that moment two long lances buried themselves in the vitals of Minneapolis and blasted her apart.

The first torpedo hit forward of Number 1 turret, abreast of the aviation gasoline storeroom. Within seconds a blanket of flame and fumes from mingling gasoline and fuel oil lapped the ship from bow to stern, and streamed from the fantail like the train of a comet. The second torpedo hit at Number 2 fireroom. The sledge-hammer impact of the detonation instantly snuffed out the lives of twelve men in the compartment. Inrushing water trapped and drowned twenty-four more in adjoining Firerooms 1 and 3. Topside, two tremendous columns of water were sent skyward by the blasts, and as they fell back they deluged the stricken ship. The descending seawater swept a good bit of the flaming gasoline and fuel oil overside. It also swept away Seaman, 1st, Arthur Peltier and a mate who were in the 5-inch battery. On the bridge Captain Rosendahl and his officers struggled to remain upright against the whip of the ship and the foot of water which roiled around their feet. With a banshee scream of tortured metal 60 feet of the cruiser’s bow caved downward at a 270-degree angle and in short minutes she was drawing 40 feet of water forward and her forecastle deck was awash to the roots of Number 1 turret.

Sore hurt, Minneapolis slewed out of line to port and limped away at 3 knots. Her first lieutenant and damage control officer, Lieutenant Commander H. W. Chanler, left his station at Battle 2 and organized parties to fight fire and jettison all movable weighty objects in a desperate attempt to maintain what little freeboard the ship still had. Powder cans and projectiles went overside and Minneapolis managed to remain afloat. By 2333, power had failed aboard the flagship, and with communications about to go Admiral Wright relinquished tactical command to Admiral Tisdale in Honolulu. The men of Minneapolis fought on to save their ship and in Number 4 fireroom the watch, with flooded compartments above and all around them, stood to their duty. Chief Engineer Lieutenant Commander Alston E. Parker fed seawater into the boilers of his one remaining fireroom and managed to turn the engines over for a time. Painfully Minneapolis started limping away toward Tulagi. The first of the long lances to arrive had torn up the flagship and knocked the task force commander out of the battle. It was very nice shooting for Tanaka & Company!

In line behind Minneapolis came a second armor-clad monster, heavy cruiser New Orleans, her guns belching out director-aimed salvos. Her skipper, Captain Clifford H. Roper, was on the bridge; her executive officer, Commander W. F. Riggs, Jr., at his station in Battle 2, aft. Captain Roper saw the flagship hit and he had but seconds in which to maneuver to keep from running her down. He hadn’t even a prayer of checking the momentum of his 10,000-ton vessel within the time and distance provided, so he ordered hard right rudder in an effort to avoid a collision.

New Orleans had barely begun to swing her head away in response to the helm when a long lance grabbed her by the throat. The resultant blast shook her like a rat in the teeth of a terrier. The torpedo struck on the port side forward, in the area of the two forward magazines and the gasoline storeroom, all three of which instantly blew up. Dazed officers on the bridge, clutching wildly for support as the ship shuddered and bucked beneath them, saw a pedestal of flame and water leap upward from the bow to twice the height of the foremast. Whirling grotesquely on its periphery were the bodies of more than a score of officers and men who, an instant before, had been fighting the ship forward.

By the time the water flung up by the explosion fell back, New Orleans had lost 120 feet of her bow back to Number 2 turret. The bow section, with Number 1 turret intact and the guns cocked crazily skyward, floated close aboard the port side. As the ship, still with way on, plowed past it, the floating bow section tore two great gashes in her side aft, and ripped off two blades of Number 3 propeller. When she pulled free of her own bow a seaman in the fantail mistook it for Minneapolis and reported that they had just passed over that vessel which he insisted was sinking beneath them.

Death, mercifully swift or agonizingly tortured, peopled the below-decks compartments of the cruiser with the bodies of officers and men. A large party was trapped below in Central Station and faced certain asphyxiation from poisoned fumes. All three damage control officers— Lieutenant Commander H. M. Hayter and his two assistants. Lieutenant R. A. Haines and Ensign A. L. Foreman—rushed to the rescue. They finally were able to free the trapped men, but in so doing they became trapped themselves. All three perished. A check of compartments at a later time yielded the bodies of five officers and 53 enlisted men. Three more officers and 117 enlisted personnel were forever missing, either blown to bits or overside to drown.

Steering control and communications forward were lost with the detonations which gutted the whole front part of the ship, and within minutes New Orleans was down by the head, with 4 feet of water in the forward part of the wardroom. At his after station in Battle 2 Commander Biggs tested the bridge talker circuit and found it dead. He then rang the steering alarm and took the conn. Below, Chief Engineer Lieutenant Commander H. S. Parsons was still answering bells, and by midnight New Orleans too was limping off toward Tulagi. She could make but 2 knots, and her survival depended on the shoring of a forward bulkhead which had to withstand the tremendous pressures of the sea. To relieve this strain Commander Biggs endeavored to turn the ship around and back to Tulagi. However, because of the extreme distortion of her underwater plating forward, the vessel was unmanageable going astern. Biggs had to turn her once more and risk the weakening bulkhead. She finally made Tulagi at 0610 on 1st December, and, as all her ground tackle had been blown away, she was forced to tie up alongside a destroyer.

Pensacola was a shooting ship. She came thundering along behind New Orleans before that vessel was hit, long ribbons of flame licking from her gun tubes like the fiery tongues of mythological serpents. She hurled a greater weight of metal at Tanaka & Company than any other U.S. ship: 120 rounds of 8-inch armor-piercing, 80 rounds of 8-inch common, and 140 rounds of 5-inch illumination. Had her gun pointers been as apt at range and deflection as her gun loaders were at the speedy recharging of their breaches, the story of Tassafaronga might well have been different!

As has been noted, Captain Frank H. Lowe preferred to fight his ship from the anti-aircraft station, sky control forward, and it was from this lofty perch that he saw New Orleans ahead of him stagger and then sag to the right. Captain Lowe ordered his helm hard down to the left, and scraped by New Orleans with but feet to spare. Then he made a mistake. He brought Pensacola back to her base course of 300 degrees true—and at 2339 the long lance cut her down!

The thrust which took the lives of seven officers and 118 enlisted men (only 92 bodies were recovered) and sent Pensacola to join Minneapolis and New Orleans in a full 12 months of rebuilding before she could fight again, produced the most spectacular pyrotechnical display of the battle. The torpedo took her in the port flank and the ship whipped so violently that Captain Lowe and those with him aloft were thrown from their feet. A full oil tank just forward of Number 3 turret absorbed the major blast, with devastating results. Blazing oil was forced into the after living compartments and the after engine-room— blown into the after control station, and all over Number 3 turret and adjacent areas. It blanketed the main deck and the decks below, and coated the mainmast which blazed like a huge wick, trapping many and roasting them alive.

Lieutenant Julian D. Venter and his damage control parties strove valiantly to bring the flames under control. They flooded magazines and pumped CO2 into compartments, but by 0145 the heat was so intense that 150 8-inch shells stored in Number 3 turret started “cooking off.” Almost miraculously, the huge projectiles let go one by one with relatively low-order explosions, and, although adding greatly to the dangers of firefighting, they did not do a great deal of additional damage. However, despite all damage control efforts the fires ravaged the vessel for a solid 7 hours after the long lance hit.

One man managed to escape from the holocaust in the after engine-room. A second tried to follow him but was trapped by the trailing wire of his telephone headset which he had neglected to remove, and perished. Power, communications, and steering control were lost temporarily, all gyros were knocked out, and for a time Pensacola sat dead in the water, seemingly nothing but a blazing wreck. But Captain Lowe and his officers fought disaster as stubbornly as they had fought the enemy. Correcting a 13-degree list by pumping fuel oil overside, they finally had one fireroom feeding steam to the turbines in one engine room, and using a spare magnetic compass Pensacola finally crawled off toward Tulagi to join her smashed and broken sisters.

Honolulu, next in the cruiser line, was the “lucky blue goose” of the Pacific Fleet. At Tassafaronga her luck was fortified by the calm good judgment of her skipper, Captain Robert W. Hayler, and her officer of the deck, Lieutenant Commander George F. Davis.

In the early phases of the action there had been a spot of trouble aboard Honolulu. An ensign, new to combat and serving as turret officer, found the strain more than he could bear and had to be removed from the turret. Some of the men, too, “froze” when the guns opened up and had to be kidded out of their momentary funk by more seasoned mates. By 2339, however, all that was past and Honolulu was giving a good account of herself in terms of volume of fire when Lieutenant Commander Davis saw Pensacola burst into flame immediately ahead of him. Correctly, he swung hard right, thus placing Honolulu on the disengaged side of crippled Pensacola and New Orleans. The cripples were still shooting occasionally, and were as dangerous as wounded tigers, often firing on each other in the confusion of battle.

Captain Hayler now took the deck with the firm determination to get out of torpedo water pronto. He gave the engine room “four-bells-and-a-jingle”—slang for “let me have all the revolutions you’ve got!” —and Honolulu went hightailing for Savo Island at 30 knots. When she was abeam of Northampton, last of the cruiser line, that vessel fired on her. Hayler immediately flashed his recognition lights for 2 seconds, and the firing ceased. As they approached Savo Island the navigator, Commander Ringle, spoke up: “Captain, you’d better come left 25 degrees to miss the island.” “Won’t 10 degrees do?” asked Hayler. “Captain,” replied Ringle, “either you’ll come left 25 degrees, or you’ll take her over the island!” Hayler changed course accordingly and the “lucky blue goose” missed the mountain on Savo Island!

Although Honolulu, a light cruiser and thus more maneuverable than the others, had escaped, the long lances were not yet through with Task Force 67. Their final and most complete destruction was reserved for heavy cruiser Northampton, who now came barreling along firing methodically (she fired a total of only 132 rounds in the battle).

Captain Willard A. Kitts, III, saw Pensacola on fire ahead of him and called for a left turn to avoid running her down. He avoided a collision and was starting to swing back when two long lances pierced Northampton’s heart with a mortal thrust. They hit in the area of the after engine room, one about 10 feet underwater and the other very near the surface.

The side of the ship was blown out, parts of the second and main decks were ripped away, and the sea roared in, giving the vessel a 10-degree list almost before survivors could organize to assess the damage. As in the case of Pensacola, great sheets of black fuel oil were sent flying up the mainmast to coat it and the rigging aloft, cascade back over the after portions of the ship, and burst into banners of streaming flame. Men and officers looked aloft in awe to see a long finger of fire reaching skyward from the top of the mainmast, and oil-soaked halyards and stays festively outlined by dancing flame. On deck, where it did not immediately ignite, the descending oil covered surfaces to a depth of 4 inches, greatly inhibiting the work of damage control parties, which was further hindered by the cooking off of the 5-inch ready ammunition stored aft. Soon after receiving the long lances Northampton was a blazing pyre, dead in the water, all power and communications gone, and settling by the stern.

By 0115 the ship’s list had increased to 23 degrees, and Captain Kitts, receiving fragmentary reports and surveying the scene from his post on the bridge, had grave doubts of the ship’s survival. He personally picked a damage control and salvage party to remain aboard and continue the fight to save Northampton. Then he ordered all hands topside and placed Commander Crenshaw in charge of the abandon ship evolution which he ordered 15 minutes later. As nearly 800 officers and men followed life rafts and other flotation gear over the side they left fire pumps running untended below in the forlorn hope that some good might come of it.

No good came of anything for Northampton that night or any night thereafter. By 0230 her port list had increased to 35 degrees and Captain Kitts knew his vessel was doomed. He ordered all hands to abandon, and he followed them into the water at 0240. Within 10 minutes the lifeless cruiser achieved a crazy 45-degree list, and at 0304 on the morning of 1st December she rolled her red bottom to the empty heavens and sank. Although she was the only U.S. ship to go down, prompt rescue operations by destroyers Fletcher and Drayton minimized loss of life. Only four of Northampton’s officers and fifty of her men met death at Tassafaronga.

Admiral Tisdale in Honolulu