The Vincennes, pounded by shells as few other ships in history, lasted about eighteen minutes. The first salvo whistled in about 01:51 and each shell, it seemed, had been intelligently aimed at a vital spot. One clipped the bridge and killed Commander Miller, others hit the carpenter shop (always a fine spot for fires), the hangar (best fire spot of all), Batt II, directing guns, and the antenna trunks, severing all communications. Short of an open magazine hit no attacker could ask more. Out went radio and searchlights, battle phones, and power on the turrets; the fire mains ruptured and the planes went up in a bright blaze amidships. In one salvo the Japanese had set fire to aim by and the ship was slashed to less than 50% efficiency.
She still had steam and Captain Riefkohl ordered 20 knots and a course change to the left, turning down to help his friends in the Southern Force, should they ask him. They never did, and furthermore they never told him anything. How could he know he was now heading down between two enemy columns just waiting to smash him? But they were, and they did.
While she lasted, the Vincennes got off a second main salvo and Lieutenant Commander Robert R. Craighill thought he saw the target turn and disappear out of control. It was the Kinugasa and she was hit all right, but not that badly. The Japanese searchlights snapped off, but not for the reason the Americans thought. They thought hey had shot them out, but the truth was the Japanese were now on range and needed no more light.
Salvo after salvo slammed into the Vincennes, 8-inch, 5.5-inch, 4.7-inch, and even machine-gun fire from somewhere. Fire broke out in the movie locker, the cane fender storage, and the searchlight platform.
In forward battle station Commander James D. Blackwood had a Negro mess attendant on the table, sewing up his jaw, when a 5.5-inch shell exploded in the room. Dr. Blackwood, twenty-two years in the Navy and a fine old gentleman in his sixties, was killed instantly along with every member of the medical team around him. The mess attendant bounded from the table holding his jaw together with his hand and ran from the room with only a leg scratch.
Captain Riefkohl, frantic now with fire raining in from both sides, turned hard right again. Trying to escape, he rang for 25 knots, but the speed never exceeded 19.5 and in the turn 2, perhaps 3, torpedoes slashed through the port side. A hit in main battery control aft killed Lieutenant (j.g.) Victor J. Fama, the control officer there, hits were scored on Turrets I and II, and it was not yet two o'clock, the battle less than nine minutes old.
Steering power failed in the pilothouse and control was shifted to steering aft. A forward steam line burst with a terrible hiss and Boatswain C. F. Baker flooded down the forward magazines. Captain Riefkohl tried a frantic left turn by stopping the port engine, but there was no response. He sent a messenger, who never returned.
Shortly after 02:00, by some miracle the mail battery got off two more 6-gun salvos, their last, firing at a searchlight which did not, however, go out. Two more searchlights picked out the burning Vincennes and the shells fell without mercy. The forward director jammed in train, and shells hit the machine shop, forward mess hall, starboard catapult tower, well deck, and radar room. The Vincennes' colors were carried away by shot, and Captain Riefkohl, unaware that the age of gallantry had ended, ordered another set hoisted. Chief Signalman George J. Moore and a chief quartermaster, risking life in that hail of steel, raised a new set on the starboard yardarm, using the last remaining halyard.
The Japanese gunners were delighted. They thought it signified an Admiral's flagship, and they redoubled their fire. In one last great blast shells smashed Turret II, top and side, and silenced every last gun in service. Lieutenant Commander Robert Lee Adams, the gunnery officer, was forced to report, "Captain, we have absolutely no guns to fire with. Everything is out."
"All right," the captain replied, "you tell the men to get down below from exposed positions and see if they can seek cover." Captain Riefkohl never forgot his men, and he ordered messengers sent along decks and below to order men out–those who were left.
The slaughter finally ceased and the Vincennes was left alone to die. The list increased steadily between 02:15 and 02:30, and the captain ordered all life rafts put over the side. The wounded were helped into life jackets. Lieutenant Commander Samuel A. Isquith and Lieutenant W. A. Newman, medical officers, stayed on duty at aft and amidships dressing stations until the end. It was not long in coming. Captain Riefkohl gave the order to abandon ship about 02:30, and was washed off an upper deck about 02:40. Ten minutes later the Vincennes sank, only a mile or two from her sister, the Quincy. When they drew up the Vincennes' List of Known Hits later, it showed at least 56 large-caliber hits and many more probables, not to mention at least a half-dozen torpedoes.
The Astoria died a stubborn death, in two distinct phases. Early in the battle the ship had been cut in half by fires amidships and by the severance of communications. As far as Captain Greenman knew there was no one alive aft, and he feared the worst. But many other things demanded his attention.
While the fiasco of "Commence firing," "Cease firing," "Commence firing," was being enacted on the bridge, there was no lack of action elsewhere. In Turret II, Ensign Raymond C. McGrath, just out of the Academy, got the word on his phones, "Flares on the port quarter. The Australia is firing." (The Australia did not fire a shot that night). Turret II got off three salvos and then heard a terrific jolt (Turret I was finished, temporarily). Turret II fired again, despite failures in the powder and shell hoists, but then came to the limit of train to port and had to swing around to starboard. On the fifth salvo only the left and center guns fired, but then she got off 3 barrels, 2 again, 3, and another 2. She was done as main battery control and Director I were out, due to smoke and shell. McGrath ordered the trainer to bear on what he thought was an enemy to port—it was the Quincy—and fortunately all power failed in the turret. Men were fainting now from smoke and fumes, and McGrath led them out. Ordered back to flood the magazines, he led the turret captain and gunner's mate to the control panel and pressed the buttons. Nothing happened, and finally they went below and opened the valves by hand.
On Spot II, Fire Controlman First Class W. W. Johns somehow missed the word to evacuate. He picked up a target at 4,000 yards–a searchlight–and turned to find himself alone. A sight setter and trainer appeared from somewhere, the ready light went of for Turret II and III, and Johns fired—a 6-gun salvo. A second salvo was fired but the third time only Turret III light came on and that was fired. A Japanese cruiser appeared, but at that moment the Director jammed, Turret III reported no power, and Plot said it was abandoning due to smoke. Johns quit then and took his men out.
The record of the Astoria's 5-inch guns told her story. No 1 got off twelve rounds, No. 2 one round before the barrel was hit, No. 3 six rounds, No. 4 ten rounds before the ready service ammunition blew up, No. 5 six rounds, No. 6 seven rounds before its ready service exploded; No. 7 after seven rounds was hit by a shell, and No. 8's ready service went up on the tenth round. Altogether, 8 guns and only 59 rounds, a tribute to the power and accuracy of Japanese gunnery.
Lieutenant Donald E. Willman, putting on his phones in Sky Forward, heard the bridge say, "Don't fire, they may be our own ships." It was too bad, because there was very little time this night and such confusion cut it even shorter. When he received the order, "Commence firing," he was able to get off only 2 to 4 rounds before his Director was smashed and he had to abandon it. He started down among his 5-inchers to tell them to go to local control, but an explosion broke his arm and cut his leg and he fainted. Lieutenant R. G. McCloy was there, bloody and dazed, and finally a 5-inch battery officer, Lieutenant (j.g.) Vincent P. Healey saved the gunners, Willman rousing long enough to give permission to abandon the gun deck. .
In Sky Control, Seaman First Class Lynn F. Hager had the bridge phones on his head and the first words he heard after the erroneous "cease fire," were "Fire every damn thing you've got." The last prder he heard was, "Get those damn searchlights." Between those two orders, seemingly only minutes apart, lay the whole battle.
Lieutenant George M. K. Baker, Jr., the radio officer, reached Mai Radio just as the lights went out. He snapped on the battle lanterns and i their light read a contact report that had just been decoded. It placed the Japanese force of 3 cruisers and 3 destroyers, previously reported earlier in the evening, slightly farther south of Bougainville. He had no time to reflect on this, or even to remember the contents exactly, for the force had now arrived, and to verify this sent two 8-inch shells into the Astoria's radio room. One pierced the bulkhead near the door to the communications office, the other passed through an armored door in the coding room, exploding in a blinding orange flash. The rooms were instantly a shambles of blood and bodies, smashed decks and chairs. Of those not yet dead, Radioman Third Class Joseph T. Muskus lost his leg, Chief Radioman Samuel R. Gladden was terribly wounded, and Electrician C. F. O'Neill was hit. Chief Pay Clerk B. Q. Swinson put a tourniquet on Muskus' leg and gave him a hypo. There was nothing to be done for Gladden, but he wanted a cigarette, so Swinson lit one and put it in his mouth.
Two more shells hit Radio 1, followed by another pair, and then a final one. The room was shot to pieces now, and all the able-bodied could do was move the (hopeful) wounded out to the deck, where they might have a chance.
It was much the same everywhere topside, the shells boring in relentlessly with a roar like an express train. The highest intensity came between 2:01 and 2:06 A.M., and thereafter the shelling tapered off until 2:15, when it stopped as suddenly as it had begun.
Lieutenant Commander Truesdell, coming out of Director I, saw nothing but fire topside. Appalled, he worked his way through fire and bodies to the bridge and told Captain Greenman he should leave, the ammunition room directly overhead was afire. Very well, said Captain Greenman, he would take station forward of Turret II on the communications deck, and he wished all wounded men to be brought down to the forecastle. Truesdell offered to search all topside stations and assure that all men still alive were brought out. Lieutenant Commander Topper reported there seemed to be no fires below the Astoria's second deck, and Lieutenant Commander Hayes said the engineering spaces were watertight. There was just a chance the ship might be saved. As to what was happening aft, Lieutenant Commander Hayes said he had no idea, but he assumed the ship was afire to the stern.
It was not quite as bad as that. Commander Frank E. Shoup, Jr., the executive officer, leaped from his bed at general quarters and ran aft, putting on his pants and shirt over his pajamas. At his battle station, Batt II, he found only his talker, Quartermaster Second Class J. U. Walker, and no one else ever arrived. Shoup saw nothing to starboard, but stepped out on the port-gun platform in time to greet an arriving shell, which blinded him temporarily and burned his hands and face. Almost immediately the boat deck, well deck, and gun deck were hit and broke out in flames. The ship's boats began to burn, and Walker reported he had no contact with the bridge. The announcer system went dead and suddenly Batt II was on fire, with flames blocking both ladders down to the fantail.
Fire was driving all men from the mainmast section and they scrambled down as best they could. Monkey lines had been rigged aft of the machine-gun platform and finally Shoup and Walker went down that way, satisfied that all living and wounded who could be moved had escaped the cauldron.
Machinst's Mate First Class O. S. Sells was saved only by the intrepidity of his shipmates. They saw him pinned under the whaleboat davit, surrounded by fire and apparently dead. Then his hand moved. Shipfitter Third Class Wyatt J. Loutrell and Water Tender Second Class Norman R. Touve. Standing in flames they forced the davit up and pulled Sells free. On the way out of the flames they picked up Fireman Second Class J. R. Bene and dragged him to the fantail too. Those who saw it were awed by the courage of these men.
Forward Captain Greenman was under increasing strain. He had noted that the Astoria now had a list of some 3 degrees. It might mean only that the after magazines had been flooded, but more likely that some part of the hull was open to the sea. Fires were raging unchecked, with every fire main ruptured. By 3:00 A.M. some 400 men were gathered on the forecastle, about 70 on them wounded and many dead.
A bucket brigade was organized, with the faint hope that the fire might be forced back amidships, but flames belched from every passageway and ventilation duct. The main fear was the 5-inch magazines. Captain Grenman was satisfied that the 8-inch magazines had been flooded, but if the 5-inch went up every man on the forecastle might be blown to bits.
The bucket brigade, dipping water from the sea, worked slowly aft on the starboard side of the gun deck, and a gasoline handy-billy pump was rigged, but it's puny stream seemed ludicrous against the wall of flame. Fire had now reached the lower ammunition hoists, and 1.1 and 5-inch shells could be heard exploding below. Any moment might bring a real disaster.
Captain Greenman dared not delay any longer, and ordered the Bagley to be brought alongside. The destroyer, reached by blinker earlier, had to be ordered to stand by. Eerie lights blinking from the forepeak of the burning cruiser signaled the Bagley to approach and Commander Sinclair brought his vessel into a very smart Chinese landing (bow to bow, like a mare and foal nuzzling). The ships were lashed together and the transfer began, the wounded being lifted across first. Able-bodied men followed, and finally Captain Greenman and his officers jumped into the destroyer, leaving the Astoria, they thought, for the last time. It was 4:45 A.M.
As the Bagley cast off, flashing lights winked out from the stern and for the first time Captain Greenman learned that men were alive back there. The Bagley signaled them that they had been seen and would be picked up later. The destroyer, jammed with wounded and shipwrecked sailors, backed off slowly, and began pulling from the sea dozens of men who had been forced off the three cruisers. A soft rain began to fall and it seemed to Captain Greenman, as he looked at his ship, that the fires amidships might be dying. Thus ended Phase I of the Astoria's ordeal.
--Richard F. Newcomb
From: The United States Navy in World War II
Compiled and Edited by: S. E. Smith
Part IV: Chapter 4: Death Boards Vincennes and Astoria
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