. . . I stood on the quarterdeck contemplating the restful green of the Java Coast as it fell slowly behind us. Many times before I had found solace in its beauty, but this night it seemed only a mass of coconut and banana palms that had lost all meaning. I was so tired and too preoccupied with pondering the question that raced through the mind of every mind of every man aboard. "Would we get through Sunda Strait?"
There were many aboard who felt that, like a cat, the Houston had pended eight of its nine lives and that this one last request of fate would be too much. Jap cruiser planes had shadowed us all day and it was certain that our movements were no mystery to the enemy forces closing in on Java. Furthermore, it was most logical to conclude that Jap submarines were stationed throughout the length of Sunda Strait to intercept and destroy ships attempting escape into the Indian Ocean.
Actually there wasn't any breathing space for optimism, we were trapped, but there had been other days when the odds were stacked heavily in the Jap's favor and we had somehow managed to battle through. Maybe it was because I had the Naval Aviator's philosophical outlook and maybe it was because I was just a plain damn fool, but I couldn't quite bring myself to believe that the Houston had run her course. It was with this feeling of shaky confidence that I turned and headed for my stateroom. I had just been relieved as burned, dusty streets of Chilatjap. I saw again the brown poker-faced natives dressed in sarongs, quietly watched us as we buried our dead in the little Dutch cemetery that looked out over the sea. I wondered what those slim brown men thought of all this.
The scene shifted. It was only four days ago that we steamed through the mine fields protecting the beautiful port of Soerabaja. Air-raid sirens whined throughout the city and our lookouts reported bombers in the distant sky. Large warehouses along the docks were on fire and a burning merchantman lay on its side vomiting dense black smoke and orange flame. The enemy had come and left his calling card. We anchored in the stream not far from the smoldering docks where we watched Netherlands East Indian Soldiers extinguish the fires.
Six times during the next two days we experienced air raids. Anchored there in the stream we were as helpless as ducks in a rain barrel. Why our gun crews didn't collapse is a tribute to their sheer guts and brawn. They stood by their guns unflinchingly in the hot sun, pouring shell after shell into the sky while the rest of us sought what shelter is available in the bulls-eye of a target.
Time and again bombs falling with the deep throated swoosh of a giant bullwhip exploded around us, spewing water and shrapnel over our decks. Docks less than 100 yards away were demolished and a Dutch hospital ship was hit, yet the Houston, nicknamed "the Galloping Ghost of the Java Coast" because the Japs had reported her sunk on so many similar occasions, still rode defiantly at anchor.
When the siren's bailful wailing sounded the "all clear," members of the Houston's band came from their battle stations to the quarter deck where we squatted to hear them play swing tunes. God bless the American sailor, you can't beat him.
Like Scrooge, the ghosts of the past continued to move into my little room. I saw us in the late afternoon of 26 February, standing out of Soerabaja for the last time. Admiral Doorman of the Netherlands Navy was in command of our small striking force. His flagship, the light cruiser De Ruyter, was in the lead, followed by another Netherlands light cruiser, the Java. Next in line came the British heavy cruiser Exeter of Graf Spee fame, followed by the crippled Houston. Last in the line of cruisers was the Australian light cruiser Perth. Ten allied destroyers made up the remainder of our force. Slowly we steamed past the ruined docks where small groups of old men, women, and children had assembled to wave tearful goodbyes to their men who would not return.
Our force was small and hurriedly assembled. We had never worked together before, but now we had one common purpose which every man knew it was his duty to carry through. We were to do our utmost to break up an enemy task force that was bearing down on Java, even though it meant the loss of every ship and man among us. In us lay the last hope of the Netherlands East Indies.
All night long we searched for the enemy convoy but they seemed to have vanished from previously reported positions. We were still at battle stations the next afternoon when at 14:15 reports from air reconnaissance indicated that the enemy was south of Bowen Island, and headed south. The two forces were less than fifty miles apart. A hurried but deadly serious conference of officers followed in the wardroom. Commander Maher, our gunnery officer, explained that our mission was to sink or disperse the protecting enemy fleet units and then destroy the convoy. My heart pounded with excitement for the battle later to be known as the Java Sea Battle was only a matter of minutes away. Were the sands of time running out for the Houston and all of us who manned her? At that moment I would have given my soul to have known.
In the darkness of my room the Japs came again just as though I were standing on the bridge . . . a forest of masts rapidly developing into ships that climbed in increasing numbers over the horizon . . . those dead ahead, ten destroyers divided into two columns and each led by a four stack light cruiser. Behind them and off our starboard bow came four light cruisers followed by two heavies. The odds weigh heavily against us for we are outnumbered and outgunned.
The Japs open fire first! Sheets of copper colored flame lick out along their battle line and black smoke momentarily masks them from view. My heart pounds violently and cold sweat drenches my body as I realize that the first salvo is on its way. Somehow those big shells all seem aimed at me. I wonder why our guns don't open up, but as the Jap shells fall harmlessly a thousand yards short I realize that the range is yet too great. The battle from which there will be no retreat has begun.
At twenty-eight thousand yards the Exeter opens fire, followed by the Houston. The sound of our guns bellowing defiance is terrific, the gun blast tears my steel helmet from my head and sends it rolling on the deck.
The range closes rapidly and soon all cruisers are in on the fight. Salvos of shells splash in the water ever closer to us. Now one falls close to starboard followed by another close to port. This is an ominous indicator that the Japs have at last found the range. We stand tensely awaiting the next salvo, and it comes with a wild screaming of shells that fall all around us. It's a straddle, but not a hit and the lack of a hit gives us confidence. The Perth, 900 yards astern of us, is straddled eight times in a row, yet she too steams on unscathed. Our luck is holding out.
Shells from our guns are observed bursting close to the last Jap heavy cruiser. We have her range and suddenly one of our eight-inch bricks strikes home. There is an explosion aboard her. Black smoke and debris fly into the air and a fire breaks out forward of her bridge. We draw blood first as she turns out of the battle line, making dense smoke. Commander Maher, directing the fire of our guns from his station high in the foretop, reports our success to the Captain over the phone. A lusty cheer goes up form the crew as the word spreads over the ship.
Three enemy cruisers are concentrating their fore on Exeter. We shift targets to give her relief, but it is not long after this that Exeter shells find their mark and a light cruiser turns out of the Jap line, smoking and on fire. Despite the loss of two cruisers, the intensity of Jap fire does not seem to diminish. The Houston is hit twice. One shell rips through the bow just aft of the port anchor windlass, passes down through several decks and out the side just above the water line without exploding. The other shell, hitting aft, barely grazes the side and ruptures a small oil tank. It too fails to explode.
Up to this point the luck of our forces has held up well, but now there is a rapid turn of events as the Exeter is hit by a Jap shell which does not explode, but rips into her forward fireroom and severs a main steam line. This reduces her speed to seven knots. In an attempt to save the Exeter, whose loss of speed makes her an easy target, we all make smoke to cover her withdrawal. The Japs, aware that something has gone wrong, are quick to press home an advantage, and their destroyers , under heavy support fire from the cruisers, race in to deliver a torpedo attack.
The water seems alive with torpedoes. Lookouts report them approaching and Captain Rooks maneuvers the ship to present as small a target as possible. At this moment a Netherlands East Indies destroyer, the Koertner, trying to change stations, is hit amidships by a torpedo intended for the Houston. There is a violent explosion and a great fountain of water rises a hundred feet above her, obscuring all but small portions of her bow and stern. When the watery fountain settles back into the sea it becomes apparent that the little green and grey destroyer had broken in half and turned over. Only the bow and stern sections of her jackknifed keel stick above the water. A few men scramble desperately to her barnacled bottom, and her twin screws in their last propulsive effort turn slowly over in the air. In less than two minutes she has disappeared beneath the sea. No one can stand by to give the few survivors a helping hand for her fate can be ours at any instant.
It is nearing sundown. The surface of the sea is covered with clouds of black smoke, which makes it difficult to spot the enemy. It is discovered that Jap cruisers are closing in upon us, and our destroyers are ordered to attack with torpedoes in order to divert them and give us time to reform. Although no hits are reported, the effect of the attack is gratifying for the Japs turn away. At this point the engagement is broken off. The daylight battle has ended with no decisive results; however, there is still the convoy, which we will attempt to surprise under the cover of night.
We check our losses. The Koertner and H.M.S. Electra have been sunk. The crippled Exeter has retired to Soerabaja, escorted by the American destroyers, who have expended their torpedoes and are running low on fuel. The Houston, Perth, De Ruyter, and Java are still in the fight, but showing the jarring effects of continuous gunfire. Only two destroyers remain with us, H.M.S. Jupiter and H.M.S. Encounter.
The Houston had fired 303 rounds of ammunition per turret, and only fifty rounds per gun remain. The loss of number three turret has been a great handicap, but there are no complaints for the Houston has done well. The Chief Engineer reports that his force is on the verge of complete exhaustion and that there have been more than seventy cases of heat exhaustion in the fire rooms during the afternoon's battle. We are in poor fighting condition, but there is plenty more to be done.
During the semi-darkness of twilight we steam on a course away from the enemy in order to lead any of their units which might have us under observation into believing that we are in retreat. When darkness descends we turn and head back.
Shortly after this the H.M.S. Jupiter, covering our port flank, explodes mysteriously and vanishes in a brief but brilliant burst of flame. We are dumbfounded, for the enemy is not to be seen yet we race on puzzling over her fate and blindly seeking the transports.
An hour passes with nothing intervening to interrupt our search, and then high in the sky above us a flare bursts, shattering the darkness. Night has suddenly become day and we are illuminated like targets in a shooting gallery. We are helpless to defend ourselves, for we have no such thing as radar, and the plane merely circles outside our range of vision to drop another flare after the first one burns itself out, following it with another and still another.
We cannot know for sure, but certainly it is logical to assume that the enemy is closing in for the kill. Blinded by the flares we wait through tense minutes for the blow to come.
On the ship men speak in hushed tones as though their very words will give our position away to the enemy. Only the rush of water as our bow knifes through the sea at thirty knots, and the continuous roaring of blowers from the vicinity of the quarterdeck, are audible. Death stands by, ready to strike. No one talks of it although all thought dwell upon it.
The fourth flare burst, burns, and then slowly falls into the sea. We are enveloped in darkness again. No attack had come and as time passes it becomes evident that the plane has gone away. How wonderful is the darkness, yet how terrifying to realize that the enemy is aware of our every move and merely biding his time like a cat playing with a mouse.
The moon has come up to assist in our search for the convoy. It has been almost an hour since the last flare, and nothing has happened to indicate that the enemy has us under observation. During this period Ensign Stivers has relieved me as officer of the deck. I climb up on the forward anti-aircraft director platform and sprawl out to catch a bit of rest before the inevitable shooting begins. I hardly close my eyes before there comes the sound of whistles and shouting men. I am back on my feet in a hurry and look over the side. The water is dotted with groups of men yelling in some strange tongue which I can not understand. H.M.S. Encounter is ordered to remain behind to rescue them.
Now we are four, three light cruisers and one heavy. We plow on through the eerie darkness. Suddenly out of nowhere six flares appear in the water along our line of ships. They resemble those round smoke pots that burn alongside road constructions with a yellow flame. What exactly are they, and how did they get there? Are they some form of mine, or is their purpose to mark our path for the enemy? No one dares to guess. Either eventuality is bad enough.
As fast as we leave one group astern, another group bobs up alongside. We cannot account for them, and this oriental deviltry is as bewildering as it is confusing. None of us has ever seen such a phenomenon before. We continue to move away form them, but other groups of floating flares appear.
The uncertainty of what is to follow is nerve wracking. We look back and there, marking our track on the oily surface of the sea, are zig-zag lines of flares which rock and burn like goulish jack-o-lanterns. We leave them on the far horizon and no more appear. We are again in welcome darkness.
At approximately 22:30, lookouts report two large, unidentified ships to port, range 12,000 yards. There are no friendly ships within hundreds of miles of us, therefore these are the enemy. The Houston opens up with two main battery salvos, the results of which are not determined, and the Japs reply with two of their own which throw water over the forecastle. With this exchange of fire the Japs disappear in the darkness and we make no effort to chase them, for we need all our ammunition to sink transports.
There is no relaxing now. We are in the area where anything can happen. Hundreds of eyes peer into the night seeking the convoy, as we realize that the end of our mission is approaching.
During the night the order of ships in column has been shifted. The De Ruyter still maintained the lead, but behind her comes the Houston, followed by the Java and Perth in that order.
A half hour passes without incident, and then with the swiftness of a lightning bolt a tremendous explosion rocks the Java 900 yards astern of the Houston. Mounting flames envelop her amidships and spread rapidly aft. She loses speed and drops out of the column to lie dead in the water, where sheets of uncontrolled flame consume her.
Torpedo wakes are observed in the water, although we can find no enemy to fight back. The De Ruyter changes course sharply to the right, and the Houston is just about to follow when an explosion similar to the one that doomed the Java is heard aboard the De Ruyter. Crackling flames shoot high above her bridge, quickly enveloping the entire ship.
Captain Rooks, in a masterpiece of seamanship and quick thinking maneuvers the Houston to avoid torpedoes that slip past us ten feet on either side. Then joined by the Perth we race away from the stricken ships and the insidious enemy that no one can see. How horrible it is to leave our allies, but we are powerless to assist them. Now that Admiral Doorman has gone down with his blazing flagship, the Captain of the Perth takes command, for he is senior to Captain Rooks, and we follow the Perth as he sets a course to Batavia.
What an infernal night, and how lucky we are to escape. It seems almost miraculous when the sun comes up on the next morning, 28 February, for there have been many times during the past fifteen hours when I would have sworn that we would never see it.
The Houston was a wreck. Concussions from the eight-inch guns had played merry hell with the ship's interior. Every desk on the ship had its drawers torn out and the contents spewn over the deck. In lockers, clothes were torn from their hangers and pitched in muddled heaps. Pictures, radios, books, and everything of a like nature were jolted from their normal places and dashed on the deck.
The Admiral's cabin was a deplorable sight. At one time it had been President Roosevelt's cabin, but no one could have recognized it now as such. Clocks lay broken on the deck, furniture was overturned, mirrors were cracked, charts were ripped from their bulkhead, and large pieces of soundproofing that had come loose form the bulkheads and overhead were thick in the rubble on the deck.
The ship itself had suffered considerably. Plates already weakened by near hits in previous bombing attacks were now badly sprung and leaking. The glass windows on the bridge were shattered. Fire hose strung along the passageways were leaking and minor floods made it sloppy underfoot.
The Houston was wounded and practically out of ammunition, but there was still fight left in her, plenty of it.
These events accompanied by many others played upon my mid in the minutest detail, until all my senses became numb and I relaxed in sleep.
It was nearly 24:00 when, Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang!, the nerve shattering "General Alarm" burst through my wonderful cocoon of sleep and brought me upright on both feet. Through two and a half months of war that gong, calling all hands to battle stations, had rung in deadly earnest. It meant only one thing, "Danger"--man your battle station and get ready to fight. So thoroughly had the lessons of war been taught as to the sharp, heartless clanging of that gong that I found myself in my shoes before I was even awake.
Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! The sound echoed along the steel bulkheads of the ship's deserted interior. I wondered what kind of deviltry we were mixed up in now, and somehow I felt depressed. I grabbed my tin hat as I left the room and was putting it on my head when a salvo from the main battery roared out overhead, knocking me against the bulkhead. We were desperately short of those eight-inch bricks and I knew the boys weren't wasting them on mirages. I flashed my light to assist me in passing through the deserted wardroom and into the passageway at the other end, where a group of stretcher-bearers and corpsmen were assembled. I asked them, but they didn't seem to know shat we had run into. I left them and climbed the ladder leading to the bridge.
As I climbed there was more firing from the main battery, and now the five-inch guns were taking up the argument. I realized that it was getting to be one hell of a battle and I started running. On the communications deck where the one-point-one's were getting into action, I passed their gun crews working swiftly, mechanically in the darkness without a hitch, as their guns pumped out shell after shell. Momentarily I caught a glimpse of tracers hustling out into the night. They were beautiful.
Before I reached the bridge every gun on the ship was in action. The noise they made was magnificent. The Houston was throwing knockout punches. How reassuring it was to hear, at measured intervals, the blinding crash of the main battery the sharp rapid crack of the five-inch guns, the steady methodic pom, pom, pom, pom, of the one-point-one's; and above all that, from their platforms high in the foremast and in the mainmast, came the continuous sweeping volleys of fifty-caliber machine guns which had been put there as anti-aircraft weapons, but which now suddenly found themselves engaging enemy surface targets.
As I stepped on the bridge the Houston became enveloped in the blinding glare of searchlights. Behind the lights I could barely discern the outlines of Jap destroyers. They had come in close to illuminate for their heavy units which fired at us from the darkness. Battling desperately for existence the Houston's guns trained on the lights, and as fast as they were turned on, just as fast were they blasted out.
Although the bridge was the Houston's nerve center, I was unable to find out what we were up against. This was mainly because the tempo of the battle was so great and every man stationed there so vitally concerned with his immediate duty that i was reluctant to butt in at such a time and ask a question that had little relative meaning. What we had actually run into was later estimated to be sixty fully loaded transports, twenty destroyers, and six cruisers. We were in the middle of this mass of ships before either side was aware of the other's presence.
Suddenly surrounded by ships, the Perth and Houston immediately opened fire and turned sharply to starboard in an effort to break free. However, the fury of the Japs was not to be denied and the Perth was mortally wounded by torpedoes. Lying dead in the water she continued to fire with everything she had until Jap shells blasted her to bits and she sank.
When Captain Rooks realized that the Perth was finished he turned the Houston back into the heart of the Jap convoy, determined in the face of no escape to sell the Houston dearly.
At close range the Houston pounded the Jap transports with everything she had, and at the same time fought off the destroyers that were attacking with torpedoes and shellfire. Jap cruisers remained in the background, throwing salvo after salvo aboard and around us. The Houston was taking terrible punishment. A torpedo penetrated our after engine room, where it exploded, killing every man there and reducing our speed to fifteen knots.
Thick smoke and hot steam venting on the gun deck from the after engine room temporarily drove men from their guns but they came back and stayed there in spite of it. Power went out of the shell hoists which stopped the flow of five-inch shells to the guns, from the almost empty magazines. Men attempted to go below and bring shells up by hand, but debris and fires from numerous hits blocked their way. In spite of this they continued to fire, using star shells which were stowed in the ready ammunition boxes by the guns.
Number Two turret, smashed by a direct hit, blew up, sending wild flames flashing up over the bridge. The heat, so intense that it drove everyone out of the conning tower, temporarily disrupted communications to other parts of the ship. The fire was soon extinguished, but when sprinklers flooded the magazine our last remaining supply of eight-inch ammunition was ruined, which meant that the Houston was now without a main battery.
Numerous fires were breaking out all over the ship and it became increasingly difficult for the men to cope with them. Another torpedo plowed into the Houston somewhere forward of the quarterdeck. The force of the explosion made the ship tremble beneath us, and I realized then that we were done for.
Slowly we listed to starboard as the grand old ship gradually lost steerageway and stopped. The few guns still in commission continued to fire, although it was obvious that the end was near. It must have torn at the Captain's heart, but his voice was strong as he summoned the bugler and ordered him to sound "Abandon Ship."
When I heard the words, "Abandon Ship" I did not wait to go down the ladder which already had a capacity crowd, with men waiting; instead I jumped over the railing to the deck below. That was probably a fortunate move, for just as I jumped a shell burst on the bridge, killing several men. I trotted out on the port catapult tower where the battered and unflyable hulk of our last airplane spread it's useless wings in the darkness. It contained a rubber boat and a bottle of brandy, both of which I figured would come in handy, but I was not alone in this, for five people were there ahead of me.
Despite the fact that we were still the target for continuous shells and the ship was slowly sinking beneath us, there was no confusion. Men went quietly and quickly about the job of abandoning ship. Fear was nowhere apparent, due possibly to the fact that the one thing we feared most throughout the short space of the war had happened.
Captain Rooks had come down off the bridge and was saying goodbye to several of his officers and men outside his cabin, when a Jap shell exploded in a one-point-one gun mount, sending a piece of the breach crashing into his chest. Captain Rooks, beloved by officers and men, died in their arms.
When Buda, the Captain's Chinese cook, learned that the captain had been killed, he refused to leave the ship. He simply sat cross legged outside the Captain's cabin, rocking back and forth and moaning, "Captain dead, Houston dead, Buda die too." He went down with the ship.
During this time I made my way to the quarterdeck. Dead men lay sprawled on the deck, but there was no time to find out who they were. Men from my division were busily engaged in the starboard hangar in an effort to bring out a seaplane pontoon and two wing-tip floats that we had filled with food and water in preparation for just such a time. If we could get them into the water and assemble them as we had so designed, they would make a fine floating structure around which we could gather and work from.
I hurried to the base of the catapult tower where I worked rapidly to release the lifelines in order that we could get the floats over the side and into the water. I uncoupled one line and was working on the second when a torpedo struck directly below us. I heard no explosion, but the deck buckled and jumped under me and I found myself suddenly engulfed in a deluge of fuel oil and salt water.
Up until that moment I must've been too fascinated with the unreality of the situation to truly think about it and become frightened, but when this sudden torrent of fuel oil and water poured over me all I could think of was fore. It was the most helpless sensation I ever had experienced in my life. Somehow I hadn't figured on getting hit or killed, but now I was gripped with the sudden fear of blazing fuel oil on my person and covering the surface of the sea. I was panicked, for I could figure no escape from it. The same thought must have been in the minds of the others, for wa all raced from the starboard side to the shelter of the port hangar. No sooner had we cleared the quarterdeck than a salvo of shells plowed through it, exploding deep below decks.
Events were moving fast, and the Houston in her death throes was about to go down. There was only one idea left in my mind, and that was to join the others who were going over the side in increasing numbers. Quickly I made my way to the port side and climbed down the cargo nets that were hanging there. When I reached the water's edge I dropped off into the warm Java Sea. When my head came above the surface I was aware that in the darkness I was surrounded by many men, all swimming for their lives. Frantic screams for help from the wounded and drowning mixed with the shouts of others attempting to make contact with shipmates. The sea was an oily battleground of men pitted against the terrors of death. Desperately I swam to get beyond the reach of the sinking ship's suction. As much as I loved the Houston I have no desire to join her in a watery grave.
A few hundred yards away I turned, gasping for breath, to watch the death of my ship. She lay well over the starboard. Jap destroyers had come in close and illuminated her with searchlights as they raked her decks with machine-gun fire. Many men struggled in the water near the ship, others clung desperately to heavily loaded life rafts, and then to my horror, I realized that the Japs were coldly and deliberately firing on the men in the water. The concussions of shells bursting in the middle of swimming men sent shock waves through the water that slammed against my body with an evil force, making me wince with pain. Men closer to the exploding shells were killed by this concussion alone.
Dazed, unable to believe that all this was real, I floated there, watching as though bewitched. The end had come. By the glare of Japanese searchlights I saw the Houston roll slowly over to starboard, and then, with her yardarms almost dipping into the sea, she paused momentarily. Perhaps I only imagined it, but it seemed as though a sudden breeze picked up the Stars and Stripes still firmly two blocked on the mainmast, and waved them in one last defiant gesture. Then with a tired shudder she vanished beneath the Java Sea.
The magnificent Houston and most of my shipmates were gone, but in the oily sea around me lay evidence of the carnage wrought by their last battle. Hundreds of Jap soldiers and sailors struggled amidst the flotsam of their sunken ships; and as I watched them drown or swim for their lives, I smiled grimly and repeated over and over, "Well done, Houston!"
--Commander Walter G. Winslow
From: The United States Navy in World War II
Chapter 9: The Galloping Ghost
Compiled and edited by: S.E. Smith
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De Ruyter: HNLMS De Ruyter (Dutch: Hr.Ms. De Ruyter) was a unique light cruiser of theRoyal Netherlands Navy. She was originally designed as a 5,000 long tons (5,100 t) ship with a lighter armament due to financial problems and the pacifist movement. Later in the design stage, an extra gun turret was added and the armor was improved. She was the seventh ship of the Dutch Navy to be named after Admiral Michiel Adriaenszoon de Ruyter.
De Ruyter was laid down on 16 September 1933 at the Wilton-Fijenoorddockyard in Schiedam and commissioned on 3 October 1936, commanded by Captain A. C. van der Sande Lacoste. She was sunk in the Battle of the Java Sea in 1942.
Design
De Ruyter was designed during the Great Depression, which, in addition to being a period of economical depression, was also a period in which pacifismwas widespread in the Netherlands. For these reasons, the design was officially called a flottieljeleider (flotilla leader) instead of a cruiser, and every effort was made to cut costs.
Its function was to aid the two existing cruisers of the Java class in the defence of the Dutch East Indies; the idea was that with three cruisers, there would always be two cruisers available, even if one cruiser had to be repaired.
However, due to the cost-cutting policy that went into her design, De Ruyterwas not quite up to her task. Her main battery (7 × 150 mm guns) was underpowered in comparison to other light cruisers of the time (for example theBritish Leander class), and the class had inadequate armour as well. However, her fire control system was excellent, as well as her anti-aircraft battery.
Service History
During World War II, De Ruyter saw repeated action in the Dutch East Indies in fruitless attempts to ward off the Japanese invasion. She was damaged by air attack in the battle of Bali Sea on 4 February 1942, but not seriously. She fought in the battle of Badung Strait on 18 February.
In the Battle of the Java Sea on 27 February, De Ruyter was the flagship of the Dutch Rear-AdmiralKarel Doorman, with his flag captainEugène Lacomblé (who had previously served on board the ship as a lieutenant). Off the north coast off Java on the evening of the 27th the remains of theABDA fleet was surprised by the Japanese heavy cruisers Nachi and Haguro. De Ruyterwas hit by a single Type 93 torpedo fired by Haguro at about 23:30, and she sank at about 02:30 the next morning with the loss of 345 men, including Admiral Doorman and Captain Lacomblé. Her wreck was found after the war and declared a war grave, with only the ship's bell—now in the Kloosterkerk in the Hague—being recovered.
Java
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Career (Netherlands)
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|---|---|
Name:
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Java
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Builder:
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Koninklijke Maatschappij de Schelde in Flushing
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Laid down:
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31 May 1916
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Launched:
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6 August 1921
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Commissioned:
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1 May 1925
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Fate:
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Sunk on 27 February 1942
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General characteristics
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Type:
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Java-class cruiser
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Displacement:
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6670 tons standard
8087 tons full load
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Length:
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155.3 m (509 ft 6 in)
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Beam:
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16 m (52 ft 6 in)
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Draught:
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6.22 m (20 ft 5 in)
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Propulsion:
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73,000 shp (54,000 kW), three shafts
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Speed:
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31 knots
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Range:
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4,340 nmi (8,040 km; 4,990 mi) at 11 or 12 kn (22 km/h; 14 mph)
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Complement:
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526
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Armament:
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10 x Bofors 150 mm guns
8 x Browning .50 machine guns
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Armour:
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7.5 cm (3.0 in) belt
2,5 to 5 cm (2.0 in) deck
12.5 cm (4.9 in) conning tower
10 cm (3.9 in) shields
|
Aircraft carried:
| |
HNLMS Java (Dutch: Hr.Ms. Java) was a Java-class cruiser of the Royal Netherlands Navy. She was sunk during the Battle of the Java Sea on 27 February 1942.
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Career
|  |
|---|---|
Class and type:
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York-class heavy cruiser
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Name:
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HMS Exeter
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Ordered:
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15 March 1928
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Builder:
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Laid down:
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1 August 1928
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Launched:
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18 July 1929
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Commissioned:
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27 July 1931
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Fate:
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Sunk in battle, 1 March 1942, Second Battle of the Java Sea
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General characteristics
| |
Displacement:
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8,390 tons standard
10,410 tons full
|
Length:
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540 ft (160 m) p/p
575 ft (175 m) o/a
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Beam:
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58 ft (18 m)
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Draught:
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17 ft (5.2 m)
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Propulsion:
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Eight Admiralty 3-drum water-tube boilers
Parsons geared steam turbines
Four shafts
80,000 shp
|
Speed:
|
32 1⁄4 kts (30 1⁄2 kts full load)
|
Range:
|
1,900 tons oil fuel, 10,000 nmi (20,000 km) at 14 knots (26 km/h)
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Complement:
|
630
|
Armament:
|
as built:
war modifications:
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Armour:
|
|
Aircraft carried:
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Initially two catapults and aircraft
By 1939 one Supermarine Walrusfloatplane, two catapults
|
HMS Exeter (68) was a York-class heavy cruiser of the Royal Navy that served in World War II. She was laid down on 1 August 1928 at the DevonportDockyard, Plymouth, Devon. She was launched on 18 July 1929 and completed on 27 July 1931. She fought against the German pocket battleshipGraf Spee at the 1939 Battle of the River Plate, suffering extensive damage that caused a long refit. Having been rebuilt, she was sent to the East Indies where she was sunk by the Japanese in 1942.
Fate[edit]
On 27 February 1942, Exeter was damaged in the Battle of the Java Sea when she received an 8-inch shell hit to a boiler room and was subsequently ordered to Surabaya for repairs. The destroyer HMS Electra was sunk covering her withdrawal. Two days later, when she attempted to reach the Sunda Strait, she was intercepted by the Japanese heavy cruisersNachi, Haguro, Myoko and Ashigara and the destroyers Akebono, Inazuma, Yamakaze andKawakaze on the morning of 1 March 1942. The Second Battle of the Java Sea ensued, now more appropriately called The Battle of Bawean Island,[according to whom?][citation needed] andExeter was soon badly damaged by gunfire, one hit causing the loss of all power to the ship. Scuttling charges were set and she soon began sinking, initially listing to port only to be hit to starboard by two torpedoes from the destroyer Inazuma[1] which sat her back upright and rolled her to starboard before she finally sank about noon. Her escorting destroyers, HMSEncounter and USS Pope were also lost; Pope temporarily escaped the initial melee, only to be sunk by aerial attack a few hours later. About 800 Allied seamen, including Exeter's commanding officer, Captain Oliver Gordon, were picked up by the Japanese and became prisoners of war, with 153 of Exeter's crew dying while in captivity with three more dying after being liberated at war's end due to their treatment by the Japanese.
The wreck was located and positively identified in February 2007.[2] Exeter lies in Indonesian waters, at a depth of about 200 ft (60 m), 90 miles northwest of Bawean Island – some 60 miles from the sinking position given by her captain.[3]
 USS Houston off San Diego, California, in October 1935. | |
| Career |  |
|---|---|
| Laid down: | 1 May 1928 |
| Launched: | 7 September 1929 |
| Commissioned: | 17 June 1930 |
| Nickname: | "Galloping Ghost of the Java Coast" |
| Honors and awards: | 2 × battle stars, 1 × Presidential Unit Citation |
| Fate: | Sunk in the Battle of Sunda Strait, 1 March 1942 |
| General characteristics | |
| Class & type: | Northampton-class heavy cruiser |
| Displacement: | 9,200 tons |
| Length: | 570 ft (170 m) (waterline); 600 ft 3 in (182.96 m) (overall) |
| Beam: | 66 ft 1 in (20.14 m) |
| Draft: | 16 ft 6 in (5.03 m) (mean); 23 ft (7.0 m) (maximum) |
| Propulsion: | 4 × Parsons geared turbines, 8 × White-Forster boilers, 4 × shafts, 107,000 ihp (80,000 kW) |
| Speed: | 32.7 kn (37.6 mph; 60.6 km/h) |
| Range: | 13,000 nmi (15,000 mi; 24,000 km) @ 15 kn (17 mph; 28 km/h) |
| Capacity: | Fuel oil: 1,500 tons |
| Complement: | 1,100 Officers: 105 Enlisted: 995[1] |
| Armament: | 9 × 8 in (200 mm)/55 cal guns (3x3), 8 × 5 in (130 mm)/25 cal AA guns, 32 ×40 mm AA guns, 27 × 20 mm AA cannons |
| Armor: | |
| Aircraft carried: | 4 × SOC Seagull scout-observationseaplanes |
| Aviation facilities: | 2 × catapults |
USS Houston (CA-30) (originally designated CL-30), nicknamed the "Galloping Ghost of the Java Coast", was a Northampton-class heavy cruiser of theUnited States Navy. She was the second Navy ship to bear the name "Houston".
She was launched by Newport News Shipbuilding & Dry Dock Company,Newport News, Virginia on 7 September 1929, sponsored by Elizabeth Holcombe (daughter of Oscar Holcombe, then-mayor of Houston, Texas), and commissioned as CL-30 on 17 June 1930, Captain Jesse Bishop Gay commanding. Her designation was changed to CA-30 on 1 July 1931.
Battle of the Java Sea[edit]
Main article: Battle of the Java Sea
Receiving word that the major Japanese invasion force was approaching Java protected by a formidable surface unit, Admiral Doorman decided to meet and seek to destroy the main convoy. Sailing on 26 February 1942 with the cruisers Houston, HMAS Perth,HNLMS De Ruyter, HMS Exeter, HNLMS Java and 10 destroyers, he met the Japanese support force under Admiral Takeo Takagiconsisting of four cruisers and 13 destroyers.
In the battle on 27 February 1942, Doorman's forces met the Japanese fleet for the first time in the late afternoon. As Japanese destroyers laid smoke, the cruisers of both fleets opened fire. After one ineffective torpedo attack, the Japanese light cruisers and destroyers launched a second and sank the destroyer HNLMS Kortenaer. HMS Exeter and the destroyer HMS Electra were hit by gunfire, Electra sinking shortly after. At 17:30 Admiral Doorman turned south toward the Java coast, not wishing to be diverted from his main purpose: the destruction of the convoy itself.
The Allied fleet dodged another torpedo attack and followed the coastline, during which time the destroyer HMS Jupiter was sunk, either by mine or internal explosion. The destroyer HMS Encounter was detached to pick up survivors from Kortenaer, and the American destroyers, their torpedoes expended, were ordered back to Surabaya. With no destroyer protection, Doorman's four remaining ships turned north again in a last attempt to stop the invasion of Java.
At 23:00 the same night, the cruisers again encountered the Japanese surface group. On parallel courses the opposing units opened fire, and the Japanese launched a torpedo attack 30 minutes later. De Ruyter and Java, caught in a spread of 12 torpedoes, exploded and sank, carrying their captains and Admiral Doorman down with them.
This battle on 27 February 1942 was the largest surface engagement since the Battle of Jutland in World War I. By the end of the day, two cruisers and 3 destroyers of the ABDA naval force had been sunk, the remaining destroyers had been ordered back to Surabaya, the cruiser Exeter had been damaged and, before his own ship was sunk, Doorman had ordered the cruisers Perth and Houston to retire.
Battle of Sunda Strait[edit]
Main article: Battle of Sunda Strait
On 28 February 1942, the day after the Battle of the Java Sea, the ABDA cruisers Perth and Houstonsteamed into Banten Bay. It is believed that they had no knowledge of the Japanese battle fleet, their last intelligence report having stated that the only Japanese warships in the area were 50 miles (43 nmi) away and headed away. It is however possible that they were hoping to damage the Japanese invasion forces there. The two ships were attacked as they approached the bay, but evaded the nine torpedoes launched by destroyer Fubuki.[citation needed]
According to ABDA post-battle reports, the cruisers then reportedly sank one transport and forced three others to beach. It is also possible and viewed in some quarters as more likely, however, that the transports were damaged by "friendly fire" in the form of some of the over 90 Long Lance torpedoes fired at the two ABDA cruisers by Japanese destroyers. A Japanese destroyer squadron blocked Sunda Strait, their means of retreat, and the Japanese heavy cruisers Mogami and Mikuma stood dangerously near. The Houston and Perth could not withdraw. Perth came under fire at 23:36 and in an hour had been sunk from gunfire and torpedo hits. On board the Houston, shells were in short supply in the forward turrets, so the crew manhandled shells from the disabled number three turret to the forward turrets.Houston then fought alone until soon after midnight, when she was struck by a torpedo and began to lose headway.
Houston's gunners had scored hits on three different destroyers and sunk a minesweeper, but then suffered three more torpedo explosions in quick succession. Captain Albert Rooks was killed by a bursting shell at 00:30 and as the ship came to a stop Japanese destroyers moved in, machine gunning the decks. A few minutes later, Houston rolled over and sank, her ensign still flying. Of the original crew of 1,061 men, 368 survived, including 24 of the 74-man USMC detachment, only to be captured by the Japanese and interned in prison camps.
Aftermath[edit]
Houston's fate was not fully known by the world for almost nine months, and the full story of her last fight was not told until after the war was over and her survivors were liberated from the prison camps. Before then, on 30 May 1942, 1,000 new recruits for the Navy, known as the Houston Volunteers, were sworn in at a dedication ceremony in downtown Houston, to replace those believed lost on USS Houston. On 12 October 1942 the light cruiser Vicksburg (CL-81) then under construction was renamedHouston in honor of the old ship, President Roosevelt declaring:
Captain Rooks received posthumously the Medal of Honor for his actions. Chaplain George S. Rentz, who had surrendered his life jacket to a younger sailor after finding himself in the water, was posthumously awarded the Navy Cross. He was the only Navy Chaplain to be so honored during World War II.
The crew of USS Houston is honored alongside that of HMAS Perth at the Shrine of Remembrance in Melbourne, Australia.
.jpg) HMAS Perth in 1940 | |
| Career (United Kingdom) |  |
|---|---|
| Name: | HMS Amphion |
| Builder: | Portsmouth Naval Dockyard |
| Laid down: | 26 June 1933 |
| Launched: | 27 July 1934 |
| Commissioned: | 15 June 1936 |
| Decommissioned: | 1939 |
| Identification: | Pennant number: I29 |
| Fate: | Sold to Royal Australian Navy |
| Career (Australia) | |
| Name: | HMAS Perth |
| Namesake: | City of Perth, Western Australia |
| Acquired: | 1939 |
| Commissioned: | 29 June 1939 |
| Identification: | Pennant number: D29 |
| Motto: | Floreat (Latin: "Let it flourish") |
| Honours and awards: | Battle honours: Atlantic 1939 Malta Convoys 1941 Matapan 1941 Greece 1941 Crete 1941 Mediterranean 1941 Pacific 1941–42 Sunda Strait 1942 |
| Fate: | Sunk in action, Sunda Strait, 1 March 1942 |
| Status: | Partially salvaged for scrap in September 2013[1] |
| General characteristics | |
| Class & type: | Modified Leander-class light cruiser |
| Displacement: | 6,830 tons (standard) |
| Length: | 562 ft 3.875 in (171.39603 m) overall 530 ft (160 m) between perpendiculars |
| Beam: | 56 ft 8 in (17.27 m) |
| Draught: | 19 ft 7 in (5.97 m) |
| Installed power: | 72,000 shaft horsepower (54,000 kW) |
| Propulsion: | 4 x Parsons geared turbines 4 x Admiralty 3-drum boilers 4 shafts |
| Speed: | 31.7 knots (58.7 km/h; 36.5 mph) |
| Range: | 6,060 nautical miles (11,220 km; 6,970 mi) at 22.7 knots (42.0 km/h; 26.1 mph) 1,780 nautical miles (3,300 km; 2,050 mi) at 31.7 knots (58.7 km/h; 36.5 mph) |
| Complement: | 646 (35 officers, 611 ratings) standard 681 at time of loss (includes six RAAF and four civilians) |
| Armament: |
8 × BL 6-inch Mk XXIII naval guns(4 × 2)
8 × 21-inch torpedo tubes (2 × 4)8 × 4-inch Mk XVI guns (4 × 2) 12 x 0.5-inch machine guns (3 × 4) 10 x 0.303-inch machine guns (10 × 1) |
| Aircraft carried: | 1 × seaplane |
HMAS Perth was a modified Leander-class light cruiser operated by the Royal Australian Navy (RAN) during the early part of World War II. She was constructed for the Royal Navy, where she was commissioned as HMSAmphion in 1936. After several years on the North America and West Indies Station, the cruiser was transferred to the RAN in 1939 and recommissioned as HMAS Perth.
At the start of World War II, Perth was used to patrol Western Atlantic and then Australian waters, before she was sent to the Mediterranean Sea at the end of 1940. There, Perth was involved in the Battle of Greece and the Battle of Crete, and the Syria-Lebanon Campaign before returning to Australian waters in late 1941.
In February 1942, Perth survived the Allied defeat at the Battle of the Java Sea, only then to be torpedoed and sunk by the Imperial Japanese Navy at theBattle of Sunda Strait. Of the 681 sailors aboard, 353 were killed in battle. All but four of the 328 survivors were captured as prisoners of war. Of those captured, 106 died in captivity and the surviving 218 were returned home to Australia after the war.
Perth and Houston sailed at 19:00 (Evertsen was delayed), with Perth leading.[21] The Allies believed that Sunda Strait was free of enemy vessels, but a large Japanese force had assembled at Bantam Bay.[8][21] At 23:06, the two cruisers were off St. Nicholas Point when lookouts on Perth sighted an unidentified ship; when it was realised that she was a Japanese destroyer, Perth engaged.[8][21]However, as this happened, multiple Japanese warships appeared and surrounded the two Allied ships.[8][21]
At midnight, with ammunition running low, Captain Hector Waller ordered his ship to try to force a way through.[21] Just as Perth settled on a new heading, four Japanese torpedoes hit the cruiser in the space of a few minutes.[8][21] The first hit on the starboard side and damaged the forward engine room, the second caused a hull breach near the bridge, the third impacted in the starboard aft area, and the fourth struck on the port side.[8][21]
Waller gave the order to abandon ship after the second torpedo impact.[8] After some further close-range fire from the destroyers, Perth heeled to port and sank at 00:25 on 1 March 1942, with 353 killed: 342 RAN (including Waller), five Royal Navy, three Royal Australian Air Force, and three civilian canteen workers.[21] Houston was torpedoed and sank about 20 minutes later.[22] Of the 328 survivors, four died after reaching shore, while the rest were captured as prisoners of war.[22] 106 died during their internment: 105 naval and 1 RAAF, including 38 killed by Allied attacks on Japanese "hell ships".[23] The remaining 218 were repatriated after the war.[22]
In late 2013, divers found that the wreck of Perth was being stripped by Indonesian marine salvagers.[1] Reports in September indicated that crane-equipped barges had stripped off most of the wreck's superstructure, forward turrets, and forward decking, and that explosives have been used to break the ship up for easier recovery.[1] These actions have compromised the structural integrity of the wreck site, and have potentially exposed live munitions and oil tanks.[1] Perth's wreck is not protected as a war grave, either through the UNESCO Convention on the Protection of the Underwater Cultural Heritage (Australia and Indonesia are not signatories to the treaty) or through legislation in either nation.[1] The stripping of Perth's wreck was not publicly reported until December 2013; the Australian Broadcasting Corporation speculates that the government departments made aware of the issue were trying to keep it under wraps to avoid further deteriorating relations between Australia and Indonesia, particularly following the Australia–Indonesia spying scandal.[1]
Legacy[edit]
The cruiser's wartime service was later recognised with the battle honours "Atlantic 1939", "Malta Convoys 1941", "Matapan 1941", "Greece 1941", "Crete 1941", "Mediterranean 1941", "Pacific 1941–42", and "Sunda Strait 1942".[24][25]
The HMAS Perth Memorial Regatta is held annually by the Nedlands Yacht Club, Perth, in honour of Waller, the crew, and the ship.[26]The original ships' bells of the cruiser Perth and the Cold War-era destroyer HMAS Perth (D 38) are displayed at the Perth Town Hall.[27]
 | |
| Career |  |
|---|---|
| Name: | Kortenaer |
| Laid down: | 24 August 1925 |
| Launched: | 30 June 1927 |
| Commissioned: | 3 September 1928 |
| Fate: | Sunk in the Battle of the Java Sea, 27 February 1942 |
| General characteristics | |
| Class & type: | Admiralen-class destroyer |
| Displacement: | 1,316 long tons (1,337 t) standard 1,640 long tons (1,666 t) full load |
| Length: | 98 m (321 ft 6 in) |
| Beam: | 9.53 m (31 ft 3 in) |
| Draft: | 2.97 m (9 ft 9 in) |
| Propulsion: | Parsons geared turbines 3 × Yarrow type boilers 31,000 hp (23 MW) 2 shafts |
| Speed: | 36 knots (67 km/h; 41 mph) |
| Range: | 3,200 nmi (5,900 km; 3,700 mi) at 15 kn (28 km/h; 17 mph) |
| Complement: | 149 |
| Armament: | • 4 × 4.7 in (120 mm) guns (4×1) • 2 × 3 in (76 mm) AA guns (2×1) • 4 × .50 calibre machine guns • 6 × 21 in (533 mm) torpedo tubes(2×3) • 24 × mines |
| Aircraft carried: | 1 Fokker floatplane, but no catapult |
HNLMS Kortenaer (Dutch: Hr.Ms. Kortenaer) was an Admiralen-classdestroyer of the Royal Netherlands Navy, named after 17th century Dutch Admiral Egbert Bartholomeusz Kortenaer.
She was back in action in time for the Battle of the Java Sea on 27 February 1942, where she was torpedoed at 17:14 by the Japanese cruiser Haguro. The commanding officer Alexander Sharp of the nearby United States Navydestroyer, John D. Edwards (DD-216), recorded that "Kortenaer about 700 yards bearing 80° relative was struck on the starboard quarter by a torpedo, blew up, turned over, and sank at once leaving only a jackknifed bow and stern a few feet above the surface.". The Royal Navy destroyer Encounter (H10)rescued 113 men from the total of 153, including Lieutenant Commander A. Kroese and took them to Surabaya.
The wreck of Kortenaer was finally located in 2004.