It was 18:30 now and almost dark, as night descends quickly in the tropics. The sun has dropped into the sea and the rescue work was nearly over. Our whaleboat was filled with weary swimmers, some of whom were very ill after having swallowed seawater on top of ice cream, and was disembarking its cargo. All the men except Ensign George Markham and myself had climbed the boarding netting dropped from the cruiser's deck when there was another terrific explosion, one of the heaviest of all, aboard the Lex. The 16,000 to 20,000 pounds of torpedo war-head guncotton finally had detonated.
"Everybody take cover," came the shout from the deck officers.
George and I stole one look at the poor old Lexington and saw bits and particles, airplanes, plates, planks, pieces large and small all going up into the air in the midst of a blinding white flame and smoke. We pressed lovingly against the heaving steel sides of that cruiser, hugging her for seconds while the debris splashed into the sea for hundreds of feet around.
But even then the apparently indestructible old Lex didn't sink. Instead she began to burn harder than ever. The flight deck was now ripped wide open from stem to stern. Apparently this last blast had ruptured great holes in the oil and fuel tanks, for the flames now were shooting hundreds of feet high up into the air where they were crowned by thick black smoke.
In the deepening twilight it was a sight of awful majesty, one that wrung the hearts of all who watched.
After clambering aboard I finally went down to the cruiser's laundry to get myself thoroughly dried. There I met a friendly Marine who was in charge and who loaned me–at his own suggestion–shirt and pants while my own scorched and torn uniform was being washed and dried. My shoes, a favorite pair I had bought in London while covering the Battle of Britain, were put into a hot air drier. I got them back within an hour none the worse for the soaking.
While I was waiting for a dry change of clothing I fished from my pockets sheaves of loose leaf notes and my little black notebook. By drying them in the laundry's steam presser I saved every one and was grateful to find that my hen tracks were still legible though blurred. These were the only items I had salvaged. My watch, my money, clothing, typewriter, my valuable toothpaste tube (six weeks later in Washington D.C., when I tried to buy a tube I was refused because I couldn't produce the old one) and my favorite straight razor had gone down.
I then went back on deck. Night had fallen. It might have been a starry night–but none of us could tell. The leaping, towering flames from the Lexington hid all feebler light from the skies. Every bit of flotsam and every outline of the great ship showed up in a blinding glare. Around her the velvety tropic night was the deeper for the contrast. Two destroyers were easing slowly around her burning bulk, nosing in here and there to be sure no one was left in the water.
At 19:15 Admiral Fletcher aboard Carrier II gave a signal for the fleet to re-form and move away. We had been lying there immobile for at least three hours–the best way of asking for trouble in submarine-infested waters. It was time for us to go but the ships moved off slowly as though reluctant to leave their gallant comrade.
We didn't leave her entirely alone. One destroyer stayed behind, circling around her now cherry-red hull and the maelstrom of fire within her bosom. It was evident that she might burn for hours before sinking. What a signal beacon in the darkness she made! Japanese subs or snooper planes could see her for 100 miles or more and pinprick our position on their charts without any difficulty.
So the Admiral gave orders to sink her.
That lone, remaining destroyer did the job. Standing off 1,500 yards her crew sent four torpedoes coursing–this time into the starboard side. Their explosions were almost lost in the terrific updrafts created by her fires. But their effect was not.
She had been settling slowly through the hours, almost on an even keel. Now she shook herself as the torpedoes pierced her last internal ramparts.
Clouds of steam began to hiss upward with the flames. Her white-hot plates groaned and screamed as the water caused them to shrink and buckle. Inside her there were new blasts, rumblings, concussions–as pressures caved in bulkheads, as gasoline vapors exploded. And now the settling was more rapid.
Still she remained upright, dipping neither bow nor stern. Gradually the waves folded over her. One of her officers standing beside me, watching this final act, murmured: "There she goes. She didn't turn over. She is going down with her head up. Dear old Lex. A lady to the last!"
From: The United States Navy in World War II
Part III: Chapter 6: The Gallant Lady Succumbs
Compiled and edited by: S.E. Smith
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