The arrival of Motor Torpedo Boat Squadron 3 in Manila, on 28 September 1941, was not, as far as the Asiatic Fleet was concerned, a breathtaking event. With the threat of war growing each day, the crying need was for more cruisers, submarines, and destroyers, not for a handful of PT boats whose merits had never been tested in combat and for which no standard employment doctrine had been established. Nevertheless, when World War II began, these novel weapons of naval warfare existed and, although there were only six of them, their usefulness and combat effectiveness, coupled with the daring and skill of their crews, made sudden believers of even the most skeptical.
Commanded by Lieutenant (jg) John D. Bulkeley, MTB Squadron 3 boasted eleven officers, sixty-eight enlisted men, and PT boats PT-31, PT-32, PT-33, PT-34, PT-35, and PT-41. Six additional PT boats and their crews, awaiting transportation from Pearl Harbor to Manila when World War II broke out, never arrived. It should be noted that at the time there were only three MTB squadrons, and no more than thirty-six PT boats in the entire U.S. Navy.
These unarmored plywood boats were 70 feet long and powered by three 1,250-horsepower, Packard gasoline marine engines. They were designed to carry a crew of two officers and seven men. For armament, PTs mounted four torpedo tubes and four .50-caliber machine guns firing in pairs from power-driven turrets. To give themselves more firepower, the crews mounted two .30-caliber Lewis guns on the forward deck.
The PT boats of Squadron 3 first went into action on 10 December 1941, when Japanese bombers attacked and destroyed their operating base, the Cavite Navy Yard. Forewarned, all six boats moved smartly out into Manila Bay with guns manned and ready for action. In concert with the attack on the yard, Japanese dive-bombers, ignoring many larger ships lying helplessly at anchor in the bay, concentrated their fury on the PT boats. This was a costly mistake, because the speedy, highly maneuverable PT boats dodged and raced away unscathed while enemy bombs were wasted on open water. To add insult to injury, the PT-31 shot down two of the attackers and the PT-35 splashed another. When the raid was over, the boats returned to the bomb-devastated yard to transport the wounded to the naval hospital at Cañacao.
Destruction of the navy yard forced Squadron 3 to move to Sisiman Bay, a cove on the southern tip of the Bataan Peninsula, where a small fishing dock and a few nipa shacks were their only accommodations. From this base they were immediately pressed into service making nightly patrols along the coast of Bataan, north of Manila Bay, and south along the Batangas Peninsula to Verde Island. They were also effectively used to make high-speed dispatch runs between Fort Mills, on Corregidor, and Manila.
On the night of 17 December 1941, an inter-island steamer, the SS Corregidor, attempting to take 700 evacuees from Manila to Australia, hit a mine off Sisiman Bay and sank like a rock. Lieutenant Bulkeley immediately ordered the only boats available, the PT-32, PT-33, and PT-35, to get under way. When they did so, they could see flashing lights at the edge of the army minefield protecting the entrance to Manila Bay and hear screams for help. As they neared the lights, they saw hundreds of people struggling in the oil-coated water. Operating in the dark in the midst of a minefield was not exactly preferred duty, but the men of Squadron 3 saved 282 men, women, and children. Had it not been for the courageous efforts of their rescuers, most of these people assuredly would have perished, because no other boats, probably for fear of the mines, came to help them.
On 26 December, following the departure of Admiral Hart to his new command post in Java, Rear Admiral Francis W. Rockwell took command of all naval forces in the Manila area. This unimposing collection of ships consisted of three river gunboats, three minesweepers, five tugs, a submarine rescue vessel, a submarine tender, and the PT boats of Squadron 3. The MTB Squadron, however, now cast in the role of the navy’s first line of defense in the Philippines, was down to only four boats. The PT-33, investigating lights believed to be those of a submarine near Point Santiago on the night of 24 December, went hard aground. When three attempts to pull her off failed, she was stripped and destroyed to prevent her being captured. Earlier, the PT-32, which had already suffered an accidental gasoline explosion in her engine room, was shot up in a strafing attack as a result of which she was out of action for several weeks.
The loss, at the very beginning of the war, of almost all MTB spare parts in the Cavite Navy Yard hamstrung the squadron’s operations. Fortunately, a few engines had been dispersed outside of Cavite, but the effort to keep boats in operating condition soon became a tedious around-the-clock chore. In addition, on 16 December 1941, all naval personnel were restricted to two meals a day and, as time passed, both the quantity and quality of the rations deteriorated. The overworked, undernourished crews became so run-down physically that, by the end of December, Rockwell had been forced to discontinue most of the nightly patrols.
Compounding the squadron’s problems was the dwindling supply of gasoline. Large quantities of it stored in and around Manila had to be burned to prevent its being captured. For the same reason, gasoline spared in the bombing of Cavite and of the Sangley Point Naval Air Station was also set to the torch. Before this happened, however, the squadron had the foresight to load two large barges with drums of gasoline and oil and tow them to Sisiman Bay. This action was all the more fortunate because on 29 December one of the two gasoline dumps on Corregidor was destroyed by Japanese bombers.
To add to the woes of Squadron 3, much of the gasoline and oil then available to it had been sabotaged. The gasoline was found to contain large quantities of soluble wax, which clogged gas strainers and carburetor jets so badly that they had to be cleaned hourly. It took the men a while to discover that they could get rid of most of the wax by straining the gasoline through an army felt hat. The lubricating oil also had to be carefully strained before it could be used because it had sand in it.
On 18 January 1942, MTB Squadron 3 got its first crack at enemy surface forces. The army reported that there were four Japanese ships, one of which was thought to be a destroyer and one a big transport, lying in Binanga Bay, a narrow little indentation on the Bataan Peninsula, off the southwestern entrance to Subic Bay. They were said to be reinforcing the Japanese Army already ashore and lobbing 5-inch shells into positions held by the Philippine and American forces. Bulkeley was ordered to take two boats and attack the ships between dusk and dawn.
PT-31, one of six torpedo boats operated by Motor Torpedo Boat Squadron 3 in Philippine waters. James C. Fahey Collection, U.S. Naval Institute
With Bulkeley riding in her, the PT-34, commanded by Ensign Barron W. Chandler, and the PT-31, commanded by Lieutenant (jg) Edward G. DeLong, proceeded to the entrance to Subic Bay, where they separated. The PT-34 was to reconnoiter the western entrance to the bay, then cross over to the mouth of Binanga Bay. The PT-31 was to scout along the eastern side and rendezvous with the PT-34 for the attack.
It was 0030, and darker than a witch’s cave, when the PT-34 eased into the western reaches of Subic Bay to be promptly challenged by a light from land a mile off her port beam. Ignoring it, but immediately slowing the boat from 18 knots to 10, Bulkeley stealthily kept going.
Suddenly, from the other side of the bay, the booming of field pieces broke the stillness of the night. Bulkeley wondered if the PT-31 was in trouble. Soon afterwards a small boat, probably a picket boat, which was hardly discernible in the darkness, flashed a light challenge. In order to lose the pesky boat in the night and also to keep his rendezvous, Bulkeley turned to a southeasterly course. As he made his way to the entrance to Binanga Bay, two more lights—one on Grande Island, a mile to the north, and the other from a point just south of Binanga Bay—flashed their probing fingers seaward and were joined by rattling volleys of machine-gun fire. This, coupled with the fact that the PT-31 was not at the rendezvous point at the determined time, added to Bulkeley’s concern. He idled the PT-34 in lazy circles and waited. When a half hour passed and there was still no sign of the PT-31, he decided to “go it” alone.
The PT-34 had penetrated about 500 yards into Binanga Bay when the silhouette of a two-masted freighter loomed up dead ahead. The ship’s signal light challenged the intruder. The PT-34 replied by firing two torpedoes. One, a “hot run,” hung up in the tube. Bulkeley promptly ordered the PT-34 out of the area. A minute later there was a loud explosion and crewmen reported a flash of fire followed by two larger flashes. There was no time to assess actual damage because, not only were shells from shore batteries bursting perilously close, but the PT-34 was faced with something more terrifying. The “hot run” torpedo, sticking halfway out of its tube, roared and hissed as its propellers raced unchecked. The casings around the torpedo’s runaway turbines glowed white hot, and threatened to disintegrate with deadly force at any moment.
Without hesitation, Chief Torpedoman’s Mate John Martino, fully aware of the danger, hurried to the awesome metal monster and shut the air-line valve to its combustion chamber, thus ending the “hot run.” But this brave man did not stop there. With each dip of the bow, the choppy sea washed over the torpedo’s warhead and turned its impeller blades. It would take only a few more turns for the warhead to be fully armed and no more than an 8-pound force to detonate it. Sitting astride the protruding torpedo, Martino worked his way out to its warhead and, to prevent its blades from turning, jammed toilet paper between them. It took four hours for the rogue torpedo to shake loose and fall into the water without damaging the boat.
On the return run to base, Bulkeley and his crew searched for signs of the PT-31, but to no avail. She had vanished. This sad fact Bulkeley reported to Rear Admiral Rockwell. He also reported that the PT-34 had probably scored a hit on a merchant ship in Binanga Bay. The admiral informed him that army observers on Mariveles Mountain had seen the ship explode and sink. Through 20-power binoculars, they judged it to have been a 5,000-ton armed merchant ship that had been shelling army positions in western Bataan with 5.5-inch guns.
All hands in Motor Torpedo Boat Squadron 3, still mourning the loss of their squadron mates, were ecstatic when, at 1730 on 20 January 1942, nine bedraggled crewmen from the PT-31 arrived back at the base. It was distressing, however, to learn that Ensign William H. Plant and two other men were missing.
It seems that, as the PT-31 began her slow patrol along the eastern shore of Subic Bay, wax deposits in the gasoline clogged strainers on both wing engines, which stopped cold. Soon afterwards the center engine’s fresh-water cooling system became airbound and it too ceased to function. Unable to maneuver, the boat drifted with wind and tide onto a reef. When the engines were once again operable, Lieutenant DeLong walked out anchor and tried desperately to back off. After three hours of effort, the boat’s reverse gears burned out and, to make matters worse, a Japanese 3-inch gun ashore, alerted by the sound of roaring engines, began firing in their direction. Dawn was not far off, and DeLong had no choice but to abandon ship.
After destroying all important equipment, Ensign Plant and eleven crewmen shoved off in a raft, leaving DeLong to drain the gas tanks into the boat and set it on fire. While his boat burned and finally exploded, DeLong swam like a scalded dog for the beach. At dawn, he saw tracks in the sand and followed them to a clump of bushes, where he found nine of his men. Ensign Plant and two of the men, not being strong swimmers, chose to stay on the raft when the others decided to swim for the beach. Their fate was not known until after the war; it was then learned that they were taken prisoner, and died when the transport taking them to Japan was bombed by American planes.
The survivors who swam ashore found themselves in a precarious situation behind enemy lines. Blocking their escape route to the south were Japanese troops and planes attacking positions near the village of Moron, on Bataan. The only way they could get back to American lines was by sea, and, as soon as the enemy planes left the area, two men slipped down to the beach to look for a means of transportation. They returned an hour and a half later to report that they had found two seaworthy bancas, or canoes, one large and one small.
With Japanese soldiers all over the place and some only 200 yards away, the men waited until dark before sneaking down to the bancas. They picked up two rusty shovels and a board to augment the two paddles already in the bancas. It was close to 2100 when they shoved off from the beach. A hundred yards from shore, both boats capsized in the heavy surf, and the two shovels were lost. After considerable effort the men righted their boats and tied them together. Then with the larger one towing the smaller and the men who had no paddles scooping with their hands, they set course for Napo Point, Bataan, about 12 miles to the south.
It was tough, slow going against wind and waves, and by 0300 the men were too exhausted to make it around Napo Point. DeLong decided to attempt a landing to the north, and in the lee of the point, while it was still dark. Fortune smiled on them and, at about 0330 they beached the bancas without mishap; they were behind friendly lines. Confronting them, however, were barbed-wire entanglements, through which they painfully worked their way, only to find their passage blocked by sheer cliffs. At dawn, some Filipino soldiers spotted them and guided them up a dangerous trail to safety.
The PT-34 was again prowling the coastline of Bataan looking for enemy ships on the night of 22 January. This time she was commanded by Lieutenant (jg) Robert B. Kelly who, because he had been hospitalized on Corregidor with a seriously infected finger caused by shrapnel, was making his first patrol. His second officer, Ensign Chandler, and Lieutenant Bulkeley were also on board. It should be noted that Lieutenant Bulkeley, as squadron commander, regarded it as his responsibility to go along on patrols whenever possible.
About 25 miles up the coast, friendly shore batteries, thinking they were seeing an enemy boat, opened fire, forcing the PT-34 seaward out of range. Soon after that, the PT boat sighted a dim, moving light close to the water, and closed in on it. The light came from a Japanese landing barge loaded with elite troops on their way to make a landing behind Allied lines. A savage fire fight ensued, in the course of which the landing craft was sunk, but Ensign Chandler was wounded in both ankles. Since, the boat could not transit the minefields guarding the approaches to Manila Bay until daylight, he was given first aid, and the PT-34 continued her search for enemy craft.
It was almost dawn and the PT-34 was heading home when it discovered another landing barge, this one heading away from the beach. With all guns blazing, the PT-34 bore in for the kill. Enemy fire was light and was soon silenced. When the boats closed to within a few yards of each other, Bulkeley, to make certain no tricks were played, lobbed two hand grenades into the barge, which was on fire and sinking when the PT-34 pulled alongside. With his .45 automatic in hand, Bulkeley jumped on board the enemy craft and saw among the dead two soldiers who were alive but wounded. One of them was an officer. The wounded prisoners were quickly hoisted on board the PT-34, and Bulkeley, whose search of the craft turned up a dispatch case containing a muster list of the infiltration force and the operation plan, scrambled off just as the barge sank.
Two nights later, Lieutenants Bulkeley and DeLong went hunting in Subic Bay in the PT-41. Sneaking along on one throttled-back engine, they came upon a large Japanese ship anchored close to shore in a cove west of the bay’s entrance, near Sampaloc Point. Cautiously and as silently as possible, the PT-41 eased ever closer. At 2,500 yards, the order was given, “all engines ahead full speed,” and the boat, her 3,750 horses roaring in deadly earnest, shot forward. The range closed fast. At 1,000 yards, the first torpedo leaped eagerly into the water. Simultaneously, a pom-pom on the enemy ship opened fire. As the PT-41 raced to within 400 yards and launched a second torpedo, her four .50-caliber machine guns and two Lewis guns raked the enemy’s decks. The tail of this second “fish,” however, hit the deck as it left the tube, throwing it off course.
Having released his last torpedo, Bulkeley ordered a fast reversal of course to get the boat out of the cove. Seconds later, there was a violent explosion, and debris from the enemy ship was flying in all directions. Fires generated by the blast gave the crew of the PT-41 their first good look at their victim, which was judged to be a modern, streamlined ship of about 6,000 tons—perhaps an aircraft tender. By this time, 3-inch shore guns were banging away furiously at the elusive PT-41 as she darted about, missed by a scant 20 feet a wire-mesh net that could have stopped her cold, and “high-tailed it” to safety in the China Sea. Motor Torpedo Boat Squadron 3 chalked up another kill.
Since the latter part of December 1941, the boats of Squadron 3 had deteriorated considerably. The machine shops in the submarine tender Canopus fully extended themselves in manufacturing or repairing parts that had failed. Japanese bombing attacks, however, made it impossible for them to work during the hours of daylight and, because of backlogged work orders, only two PT boats of the four remaining were in operating condition on 1 February 1942. That is why the PT-32, which had suffered an engine-room explosion in December and was now held together by braces and wires and running on only two engines, was called upon that night to patrol along the west coast of Bataan.
On board the PT-32 with her skipper, Lieutenant (jg) Vincent E. Schumacher, was Lieutenant DeLong. It was almost 2100 when gun blasts were seen several miles ahead. The PT-32 increased speed, as she went to investigate. At 2130, a large ship was sighted about 3 miles distant, which suddenly speeded up and headed north toward Subic Bay. The PT-32 was unable to overtake the vessel because, on two engines, her best speed was about 22 knots. Nevertheless, and even though the strange ship steadily pulled way, the little boat continued to give chase, for about a half hour. Then persistence paid off. All at once, for no apparent reason, the stranger turned eastward toward the shore of Bataan, and the range rapidly closed.
At 5,000 yards the enemy ship’s powerful searchlight snapped on, fixing the PT-32 in its blinding beam. A few seconds later, what were believed to be two 6-inch shells, screaming like lost souls, exploded in the water 500 yards ahead. Blinded by the searchlight, the boat had no choice but to head directly into it to fire her starboard torpedo. Another salvo of shells landed 200 yards ahead, almost immediately followed by one 200 yards astern. Undeterred, the PT-32 kept boring in and, at 3,000 yards, launched her port torpedo directly at the searchlight. With this, Schumacher executed a fast 180-degree turn to escape from what was now determined to be a light cruiser.
No longer burdened by the weight of her torpedoes, the PT-32 was making 25 knots, but that was hardly enough to outdistance the onrushing cruiser, whose four 6-inch guns were belching salvos in pairs. The situation was growing more desperate by the second when, suddenly, there was a loud explosion in the vicinity of the cruiser. Smoke and debris could be seen rising in the beam of her searchlight, and her guns fell strangely silent. One of the torpedoes must have scored a timely hit. The cruiser’s speed slowed noticeably, and the PT-32 began drawing away. The fiendish searchlight, however, still held the boat in its glare and, before long, the firing began again. Bursting shells churned the water around the boat but, as she raced on, the light fell farther and farther astern until she made an abrupt hard turn to starboard and threw it off completely.
The following morning, the army informed Squadron 3 that the PT-32 had foiled a 7,000-ton cruiser’s attempt to land a party near Moron. Although there is no evidence that this cruiser was sunk, nobody in the PT-32 had the slightest doubt that she was at least damaged.
Late in the afternoon of 18 February, Ensign George E. Cox, Jr., was directed to take an army major in the PT-41 to reconnoiter the south shore of Manila Bay, where the Japanese were reported to be placing heavy guns to bombard Corregidor. The object of this risky mission was to entice the Japanese to open fire, so that the major could plot the positions of the guns. Corregidor’s big guns would then be able to zero in on them.
No guns were found but, while running close to the beach a few miles east of Ternate, the PT-41 happened upon a company of Japanese soldiers stripped to their underwear, ready to go swimming. Instead of running away, they crowded to the water’s edge and laughed and jeered at the men in the boat. With a chance at last to retaliate for all the hell they’d been through, the boat crew laughed and jeered back with .50-caliber machine-gun bullets. Spies later reported that eight of the enemy soldiers were killed and fourteen wounded.
Motor Torpedo Boat Squadron 3 made its last foray into Subic Bay on the night of 17 February 1942. By this time the Japanese had ringed the entrance with guns, and it was considered suicidal to penetrate the bay. Bulkeley, however, had a plan that might bag one of several destroyers reported to be anchored there.
The PT-35, commanded by Ensign Anthony B. Akers, in which Bulkeley was embarked, followed by the PT-34, commanded by Lieutenant (jg) Kelly, arrived off the entrance to Subic Bay at 2240. According to plan, Kelly hid his boat in the shadows of a small cove near the eastern entrance while the PT-35 moved to the mouth of the bay. Here, Bulkeley intended to create a disturbance by firing machine guns into the bay, or by any other means, in the hope of enticing a destroyer to give chase. If a destroyer swallowed the bait, she would have to pass the hidden PT-34, which would slip a “fish” or two into her guts.
As luck would have it, a patrol vessel, judged to be between 200 and 300 tons, and was sighted entering the bay on the east side of the channel, by Grande Island. The PT-35 raced to short range and fired a torpedo which apparently passed beneath the vessel but did not explode. Soon, a larger ship was discovered east of Grande Island, near an Olongapo pier, and a torpedo was launched at her. With that, the PT-35, which had penetrated dangerously far into the bay, immediately retired. Since no enemy ships followed them, the two MTBs made a sweep past Sampaloc Point, at the western entrance to Subic Bay, and sprayed the 3-inch batteries there with .50-caliber machine-gun bullets before continuing on their patrol.
A large fire was observed at Olongapo, but its cause was not known and no torpedo explosions had been seen or heard. The next day, army observers reported that a large tanker at the pier had sunk after burning all night. Bulkeley, however, did not claim this ship as a “kill.”
Since late December, Bulkeley had been planning what to do when he ran out of gasoline and torpedoes. His first idea was to take what boats were left and make a break for the Netherlands East Indies. Patrol Wing 10 had cached gasoline on various islands along the route, and Admiral Rockwell told him where to find it. As time passed, however, the Japanese got control of most of the areas to the south, and the plan died.
Determined to get his officers and men out of the Philippines when the time came, Bulkeley decided that their best chance lay in making a dash for the coast of China, where they would burn their boats and move inland to join the forces of General Chiang Kai-shek. With the utmost secrecy and the help of Colonel Wong, a Chinese military observer assigned to MacArthur’s staff, plans for the operation were formulated. At a given time, Chinese soldiers would rendezvous with the squadron on the China coast south of Swatow, where the Japanese were spread thin, and help them to Chungking. The rest would be easy. However, with Japanese task forces roaming the China Sea, not to mention their aircraft, traversing more than 600 miles of open sea was an extremely hazardous venture. Nevertheless, all hands in Motor Torpedo Boat Squadron 3 were determined to take the risk. By the end of February, gasoline supplies were almost exhausted, and only eight torpedoes were left. The time had come. The boats were being readied for departure when there was an abrupt change of plans.
With the situation in the Philippines deteriorating and no reinforcements able to breach the enemy’s blockade, it was apparent by mid-February that the men on Bataan and Corregidor were doomed. On 22 February, President Roosevelt directed General MacArthur to leave the Philippines as soon as possible and go to Australia, where he was to assume command of all Allied land and air forces. Accordingly, the submarine Permit (SS-178) was scheduled to arrive off Corregidor on 15 March to evacuate the general and his party to Mindanao, where they would be met by army B-17s, which would then fly them on to Australia. For security reasons, this was a closely guarded secret.
On 1 March, Lieutenant Bulkeley was surprised to receive a directive to take General MacArthur for a ride in one of his MTBs. During the short cruise the general formally presented to Bulkeley the Army Distinguished Service Cross, which he had been awarded several weeks before. This was to mask the real reason for the ride, for, after swearing Bulkeley to secrecy, the general informed him that he, the general, would soon be leaving Corregidor. The clincher came when he said the MTBs of Squadron 3 were going to take him and his party to Mindanao.
During the first week in March, radio broadcasts and prominent newspapers in the United States began calling for MacArthur to be placed in command of Allied forces in Australia. No doubt these pleas were intended to prepare the defenders of Bataan and Corregidor for the departure of their leader in such a manner as to allay fears that he considered the situation hopeless and was deserting them. These pronouncements were not lost on the Japanese, who could be counted upon to do everything possible to prevent the escape of such a prize.
Why the general chose to have his party travel through Japanese-controlled waters in four, run-down torpedo boats instead of in a submarine is anybody’s guess, especially since nine days after he made his choice, a Japanese destroyer division was sighted in the southern Philippines heading north at high speed, and there was a marked increase in the activity of enemy surface craft off Corregidor.
An elaborate plan was formulated. The boats, having embarked their passengers at different points so as not to arouse the curiosity of enemy spies, were to rendezvous off the entrance to Manila Bay at 2200 and proceed south in company. Traveling only at night, they were to go first to Tagauayan, in the Cuyo Island group, about 50 miles west of Panay Island, and 250 miles south of Corregidor. Hiding there overnight, they would depart on the last leg of their journey at 1700 on 12 March to reach Cagayan, on the north coast of Mindanao, by 0700, 13 March. The boats were to avoid enemy ships like the plague but, if they should sight any and come under attack, the PT-41, carrying General MacArthur, was to attempt to escape while the others engaged the enemy.
Should a boat break down, her passengers would be transferred to another and the cripple would either continue independently or, if necessary, be scuttled. Alternate rendezvous points and hideaways were designated in case any boat was unable to reach Cagayan, and, as an escape hatch, the Permit was ordered to stand by at Cuyo Island at daybreak on 13 March to take on passengers, if the situation warranted.
History records 11 March 1942 as the day General Douglas MacArthur escaped from the island fortress of Corregidor. It was also the day on which some thirty-two officers and men of Motor Torpedo Boat Squadron 3, for lack of space, were left on the “rock” to become part of the U.S. Army fighting the Japanese on Bataan and Corregidor. At 1930 that night, Bulkeley in the PT-41 went alongside Corregidor’s North Dock to pick up his passengers, who included General and Mrs. MacArthur, their young son, a Chinese maid, and Major General Richard K. Sutherland, MacArthur’s chief of staff. Lieutenant Kelly in the PT-34 and Ensign Akers in the PT-35 embarked their passengers in Sisiman Cove. Included in this group was Rear Admiral Rockwell on board the PT-34. The fourth boat, the PT-32 commanded by Lieutenant Schumacher, picked up her passengers at Quarantine Dock, Mariveles. In all, there were twenty-three passengers: twenty-one in MacArthur’s party, and two naval officers, Admiral Rockwell and his chief of staff, Captain Herbert J. Ray.
While Philippine MTBs staged a diversionary raid off Subic Bay, to give the impression that Squadron 3 was still on the prowl, all four boats met as scheduled and headed out on course. Just before they left, however, a disquieting air reconnaissance report told of a Japanese destroyer being sighted in Apo East Pass, about 80 miles west of Mindoro, and a cruiser to the southwest of Mindoro. Both ships directly threatened the boats’ escape route.
Traveling in column, the PT-41 leading, the boats sailed southwest for 50 miles. They hoped to slip unseen past some Japanese-held islands, but a fire that suddenly blazed up on one of them in the deepening twilight led to the fear that their movement had been detected and word of it was being signaled to the mainland. If so, they could expect enemy bombers and, possibly, destroyers to come after them at dawn.
Turning south Bulkeley hugged the west side of Mindoro Strait, hoping to steer clear of the destroyer and cruiser reported to be patrolling there. A strong easterly wind sprang up and the boats, heavily burdened with drums of gasoline lashed to their decks, pitched and rolled to the extreme discomfort of their landlubber passengers. Darkness and the turbulent seas made it difficult for the boats to stay together, a problem that was complicated when one of them had to stop to repair some trouble she was having with her ignition. Before long the boats were hopelessly separated.
At dawn, Schumacher, in the PT-32, which had not run satisfactorily since the explosion in her engine room and was still operating on two engines, saw what he believed to be a Japanese destroyer overhauling him. In a frantic effort to increase speed, he jettisoned his deckload of gasoline. Although that helped him to pick up a few knots, the stranger continued to close. Unable to run for it, Schumacher decided to stand and fight it out. Just in time, however, he realized that it was not a Japanese destroyer he was seeing, but the PT-41 strangely magnified in the pale early light.
The PT-34 arrived at Cuyo Island at 0930, two hours behind schedule, and Kelly was distressed to discover that none of the other boats was there. Passengers and crewmen alike passed long, anxious hours until late that afternoon when the PT-41 and PT-32 eased into the cove. Fearing enemy aircraft, just after dawn they had taken refuge at another island in the Cuyo group and waited there until it seemed safe to make the rendezvous. The PT-35, however, was still missing.
The PT-32, having dumped all 600 gallons of her reserve fuel, could go no farther. Besides, only one of her engines was working and, some of her struts having come loose, she was leaking. Accordingly, her passengers were transferred to the two other boats. Schumacher was instructed to wait in the cove until the Permit and the PT-35 arrived and inform their commanding officers that the general and party had departed for Cagayan. He was then to try to make the island of Panay, where he would be able to get fuel, and go on from there.
At about 1830, the PT-34 and PT-41 left the cove, the former in the lead so that General MacArthur could ride more comfortably in the smoothest part of the other’s wake. Fifteen minutes later, a Japanese cruiser was sighted. She was hull down on the horizon, but her masts and superstructure were plainly visible. If the PT boats continued on course, they would cross the bow of the enemy ship. Kelly ordered hard right rudder and full speed ahead, and the two boats raced away without being seen. At 1900, when the sun went down, they returned to course.
The moonless night was very dark. A strong wind sprang up and lightning flashes ahead portended trouble. Navigating entirely by dead reckoning, the boats crossed sealanes in the Sulu Sea without incident and, hugging the coast of Negros Island, groped their way toward Silino Island, which marks the entrance to the Mindanao Sea. From about 0100 until dawn, the boats were battered by heavy seas and blinding rain squalls. They made landfall on Silino Island around 0200 and turned east into the Mindanao Sea. Neither Bulkeley nor Kelly had ever before sailed in this part of the Philippines, which is laced with hundreds of reefs and small islands, but, although they did not have proper charts, they pushed on at a good speed. Unable to define their exact position throughout the entire trip, they miraculously brought the two boats to Cagayan in northern Mindanao at 0700, 13 March 1942, the precise time designated by the plan, before this remarkable 560-mile odyssey began.
Later that same day, the PT-35, which had been plagued with engine trouble, straggled into Cagayan and disembarked her passengers. For everyone involved it had been an exhausting and, at times, nerve-racking experience. But all the passengers, especially General MacArthur, were high in their praise of Lieutenant Bulkeley and Motor Torpedo Boat Squadron 3. Four days later B-17 bombers flew the general and his party to Australia.
Directed to keep his boats hidden near Cagayan until the general had left, Bulkeley worried about the fate of the PT-34 and spent many fruitless hours in a dilapidated army plane searching for her. Weeks passed before he learned that she had been scuttled at Tagauayan because, with two engines out of commission and the third threatened by sea water leaking into the engine room, she was no longer seaworthy. The Permit took her crew back to Corregidor, but Schumacher was more fortunate; he stayed in the Permit and arrived safely in Australia.
On 18 March, the day after General MacArthur and his party left for Australia, Bulkeley was called to army headquarters and informed that, for reasons of safety, President Quezon, his family, and several members of his cabinet had moved to Negros Island from Panay, where the submarine Swordfish had taken them less than a month before. Now, with Japanese forces drawing a deadly steel ring ever tighter around the Philippines, it was imperative that he be moved again. If the president could be brought to Mindanao, the army air forces would fly him to Australia. The route that would have to be traversed to carry out this mission was only a matter of 200 miles; however, seven Japanese destroyers were reported patrolling the southern approaches to Negros in an effort, no doubt, to prevent President Quezon’s escape. Without hesitation, Bulkeley volunteered to go.
That night at 1900, the PT-41 with Bulkeley and Cox, followed by Akers in the PT-35, departed Cagayan bound for Dumaguete on Negros Island. To even the odds against seven destroyers, Bulkeley could have taken the PT-34 along, but she had run hard aground on a coral reef and damaged her propellers, shafts, and struts.
Near their destination, they sighted a Japanese destroyer off Apo Island. Fortunately, she did not see them, as they dodged around the island to lose her in the night. While the PT-35 patrolled off the entrance to Dumaguete to engage any hostile ship that might threaten to cut off President Quezon’s escape route, Bulkeley cautiously took the PT-41 into the harbor. The night was pitch-dark. Town and harbor were blacked out, and he had no chart of the area, but he managed to find the pier and moor his boat.
The president’s aide, Major Andres Soriano, met the boat. He said that Quezon was at his temporary residence in the mountains, about 30 miles up the coast, and he would take Bulkeley to him. The president, who was awake and dressed when they arrived, told Bulkeley that he had just received a message from General Jonathan M. Wainwright suggesting that the number of Japanese warships in the waters south of Negros made the venture much too dangerous, and it should be canceled. He questioned Bulkeley at length, and must have been favorably impressed by the forthright answers he got, because he decided to entrust not only his own life, but those of persons very dear to him, to Bulkeley.
Meanwhile, Akers in the PT-35 ran into a submerged object, which put a 20-foot gash in his bow. Water poured in but the crew formed a bucket brigade and kept the boat afloat. Akers realized his boat was in no condition to return to Mindanao, but he hoped he would be able to maintain his patrol until Bulkeley returned with the president. When he saw dim car lights approaching the dock, he figured it was time for him to go into the harbor.
The PT-41, with President and Mrs. Quezon, their two daughters, Vice President Osmeña, Major General Basilio Valdes, Major Soriano, nine members of the president’s cabinet, and a large amount of luggage, pulled away from the dock and almost immediately encountered the PT-35. By this time, the latter’s crew was exhausted from bailing, and the boat was rapidly sinking. All hands quickly climbed on board the already overburdened PT-41, which towed the P-35 near shore and cut her loose to beach herself.
At 0320, 19 March 1942, the PT-41 left Dumaguete for Oroquieta on Mindanao, a distance of not more than 60 miles, but the sea became ugly. At 0400 a huge wave slammed into the boat snapping the shear pins of her two after torpedoes. Jarred halfway out of their tubes, the torpedoes started “hot runs.” The hissing of compressed air and the grinding of runaway propellers made a fearful sound. Trouble with the firing mechanism prevented the torpedoes from being jettisoned, and, if the propellers could not be stopped from turning within a very short period of time, the torpedoes would explode with disastrous consequences.
Realizing the seriousness of the situation, Chief Torpedoman James D. Light and Torpedoman First Class John L. Houlihan ran to the torpedoes, which by this time were sticking so far out of the tubes they seemed about to fall off, stood on them and, while holding on to the forward part of the tubes, tried to kick the “tin fish” loose. Hanging out over the surging sea in such a fashion was extremely dangerous, but the efforts of these courageous men failed to budge the runaway torpedoes. Happily, the firing mechanism was made operable, and the torpedomen stood clear while both torpedoes were ejected safely into the sea. Aside from the pounding waves, the rest of the journey was uneventful. At dawn, the PT-41 entered the harbor at Oroquieta and disembarked her passengers. In saving President Quezon, his family, and leading members of the Philippine government from capture by the Japanese, Bulkeley and his Motor Torpedo Boat Squadron 3 performed another invaluable service.
Bulkeley desperately wanted to get the crippled PT-35 and PT-34 back in operating condition. No less determined were their crews. As soon as possible, he returned to Negros with the crew of the still-beached PT-35. A temporary patch was put on her hull and she was towed to Cebu City, where the Opan Shipbuilding & Slipway Corporation had a small marine railway. This outfit belonged to a 71-year-old American known to all as “Dad” Cleland. Dad was a true patriot with a can-do attitude, and went to work immediately on the PT-35.
Returning to Mindanao, Bulkeley found that the PT-34, which was considered by all but her crew to be finished, had been refloated and towed by army tug to a primitive machine shop at Anaken. Her crew had dipped into their own cash reserves to pay native workers to dig her out of the coral. Working like dogs, they repaired her well enough to allow her to make 12 knots without shaking to pieces and to accompany the PT-41 to Cebu City for more permanent repairs. While at Cebu, the boat crews worked for three nights helping to load two submarines with supplies for Corregidor. In return for this work, the submariners gave Bulkeley two torpedoes to replace those lost by the PT-41.
On the afternoon of 8 April the PT-34 went back in the water ready for combat, but repairs on the PT-35 still had a long way to go. When Dad Cleland was asked by Bulkeley how much all this work was going to cost, he refused payment saying, “You fight ’em and I’ll fix ’em.” That same afternoon Bulkeley learned that two Japanese destroyers, sighted heading south through Tanon Strait, which runs between Cebu and Negros, should be off the southern tip of Cebu by midnight. To the east of the destroyers, a Japanese cruiser carrying four seaplanes had been sighted. This was chilling news for a small convoy of inter-island steamers, packed with supplies for Corregidor, which was scheduled to get under way. Apparently this enemy force was heading for Cebu to intercept the convoy. An army general told Bulkeley that American bombers that were to arrive the next morning could be counted on to polish off the cruiser, but it would be helpful if he attacked the destroyers. Bulkeley and company needed no second invitation.
That night, Bulkeley with Cox in the PT-41, followed by Kelly in the PT-34, moved down the eastern side of Cebu to its southernmost tip, where they waited in the shadows close to shore for the destroyers to enter the strait. It was almost midnight when an enemy ship was sighted, but this one, looming large and dark against the moonless sky, was no destroyer. She was a light cruiser easing along at about 10 knots. Idling into attack position, the PT-41 moved undetected to within 500 yards of the cruiser’s port beam and fired two torpedoes. Both missed. Increasing speed, the boat circled to the right and fired her last two torpedoes. They were seen to run true, one to the bow, the other beneath the bridge, but there was no explosion.
Kelly meanwhile brought the PT-34 into firing position on the starboard side and fired two torpedoes, which also missed. By this time the cruiser had increased speed, and her powerful searchlight, sweeping the sea, picked up the PT-34 as she crossed astern to come up on the cruiser’s port quarter. Immediately, .50-caliber and 40-millimeter guns opened up sending continuous streams of bullets whistling overhead as Kelly, whose boat had fallen 2,500 yards behind the cruiser, attempted to close the range. The PT-41, out of torpedoes, circled on the cruiser’s starboard side to strafe her decks in an effort to draw fire away from her companion boat, which was firmly fixed in the searchlight’s beam and was now being fired on by the ship’s main battery. The cruiser, however, continued to concentrate on the PT-34.
Kelly, determinedly pressing home his attack, ordered one of his .50-caliber turrets to fire at the searchlight, which was blinding him, and the other to sweep the cruiser’s decks. He closed within 300 yards. Shellfire was intense. Chief Commissary Steward Willard J. Reynolds, Kelly’s port gunner, was shot through the throat and shoulder. The boat’s mast was shot away, and bullets ripped into her. To stay there any longer might be fatal. Drawing the PT-34 out to the port quarter, Kelly fired his last two torpedoes, then ordered hard right rudder to retire. Streams of tracers were flying all around the boat when Kelly suddenly realized that two ships were firing at them. The second was a destroyer whose searchlight also fixed them in its glare.
The cruiser was turning to give chase and the destroyer closing to port to prevent the PT-34 from escaping when two detonations were heard and two columns of water, one amidships of the cruiser the other about 30 feet aft of that, spouted high in the air. The cruiser’s searchlight dimmed and went out, and all her guns ceased firing. At first, Kelly thought shells from the destroyer firing on him from starboard had hit the cruiser, but Chief Torpedoman’s Mate Martino saw the hits and reported that they were torpedoes.
No longer burdened by four torpedoes, the PT-34 was able to make 38 knots and, after some harrowing minutes of violent maneuvering to avoid shells from the destroyer, was once again out of danger. Kelly’s chief concern was to get Reynolds to a doctor at Cebu. Moving along at high speed in the dark, without a chart, and only a compass by which to navigate was hazardous enough, but there were more than rocks and shoals to be reckoned with that night. Belief that they were in the clear was shattered when a searchlight beam, less than a mile ahead, snapped on. It came from another Japanese destroyer, which was steaming at about 30 knots and heading directly at them. Kelly had hardly time to order hard left and hard right rudder when the two ships scooted past each other close aboard at a relative speed of more than 60 knots. Holding her searchlight on the PT-34, the enemy destroyer, all guns firing, smartly turned to give chase. Shells chewed up the water around the boat, but Kelly again zigzagged and miraculously escaped. Ten miles from Cebu City, he misjudged the course and ran his boat aground on a pinnacle of coral. Unable to back free, he sent Ensign Iliff D. Richardson ashore in a rowboat to get an army doctor and an ambulance for Reynolds and a tug for the PT-34.
For the next four hours, in futile efforts to back off the pinnacle, the crew rocked the boat while her propellers churned. Finally, the PT-34 broke free, but without proper charts, Kelly was forced to wait until daylight before attempting to navigate the narrow channel to Cebu. Dawn brought fog, and Kelly was forced to wait some more. At 0730 the fog vanished and he began working his way up the channel on two engines, one screw having been damaged on the coral. Suddenly, a 100-pound bomb exploded 10 feet off the boat’s port bow, blowing a large hole in the crew’s washroom, tearing the port machine gun off its stand, shattering windshields, and covering the entire boat with mud.
This air attack, coming after Bulkeley had been informed by the army that American planes would be in the area that day to work over the Japanese, was a shock. For a half-hour or so, the PT-34 was bombed by four cruiser-based seaplanes. Twisting and turning in the restricted channel, Kelly was able to evade all the bombs, none of which fell more than 30 feet away. When their bombs were expended, the planes began diving low to strafe the boat. On the first run, Torpedoman’s Mate Second Class David W. Harris, manning the starboard .50-caliber machine guns, was killed, and his guns knocked out. Quartermaster First Class Albert P. Ross shot down one of the enemy planes, but on the next run he was hit in the leg and his guns were disabled. Now, the PT-34 had no guns with which to fight back. Riddled with holes, she was sinking, and Kelly had no alternative but to beach her and try to save his crew.
While enemy attacks continued, the boat ground to a halt about 1,200 yards off Cauit Island. Kelly and two others were the only ones on board who had not been wounded. Getting the wounded ashore while the enemy planes strafed was a difficult task, but it was done. Then Kelly and his radioman returned to carry the body of Harris ashore so he could receive a proper burial.
Filipino soldiers in the vicinity helped to carry the wounded to the other side of the island, and from there they were taken by motor launch to a hospital. Soon after the launch shoved off, a banca, which Ensign Richardson had dispatched, arrived with a doctor. Kelly rode the banca back to Cebu City, where he was grieved to learn that Reynolds had died of his wounds.
After the PT-41 had fired her last torpedoes, Bulkeley was helpless to assist the PT-34. The best he could do was race his boat in various directions and fire his machine guns in the hope of creating the illusion that there were many MTBs around and of drawing some of the cruiser’s fire. He did not succeed. The men in the PT-41 saw the PT-34 deliver her attack and turn away, only to be simultaneously engaged by a Japanese destroyer. They, like the crew of the PT-34, saw the thick, yellow smoke rising from the cruiser, saw her searchlight dim and go out, and were aware that her guns ceased firing.
As the PT-34 raced off into the night with the destroyer in hot pursuit, Bulkeley headed in for a closer look at the cruiser, only to find three destroyers bearing down on him with searchlights blazing and guns spewing hate. Under full power, the PT-41 turned sharply to evade this new threat, but not before the light of a destroyer briefly illuminated the cruiser. She appeared down by the stern and frantic sailors were dashing about her decks. Bulkeley positively identified her as a Kuma-class light cruiser. There was no doubt but that she had been torpedoed and was in serious trouble. Although some natives Bulkeley met later on Mindanao witnessed the fight and reported that the cruiser sank, Japanese documents uncovered after the war failed to confirm this.
Shells ripped up the water all around the PT-41 as Bulkeley zigzagged and raced her full-out to escape the enemy “cans.” The chase continued for almost 90 miles, with the boat slowly outdistancing her pursuers. Near Port Misamis, Mindanao, Bulkeley headed into an area where 6 miles of shallow water prevented further chase and, with the PT-41 hidden under a pier, a very tired crew spent the day sleeping.
Motor Torpedo Boat Squadron 3 had arrived at the end of the line. The PT-34 was finished, having been completely destroyed by enemy aircraft after she beached on Cauit Island. The PT-35, still undergoing repairs at Dad Cleland’s slipway, was burned by Lieutenant (jg) Henry J. Brantingham on 12 April 1942, when the Japanese advanced on Cebu City. Only the PT-41 was in operating condition, but there were no more torpedoes and what little gasoline was left was needed by the army. An attempt to move the PT-41 overland to Lake Lanao on Mindanao for use as a patrol boat was unsuccessful, and she too was destroyed to prevent her being captured.
Lieutenant (jg) Bulkeley’s last orders, given to him by MacArthur’s chief of staff, Major General Sutherland, before the latter departed for Australia, concluded: “Upon completion of the offensive mission, due to destruction of material or lack of essential supplies, Lieutenant Bulkeley will proceed to Mindanao, reporting upon arrival to the Commanding General, Mindanao Force.” Accordingly, Bulkeley reported to Brigadier General William F. Sharp for duty, and, on 13 April 1942, by order of General MacArthur, was flown to Australia.
When the end came, the twelve officers and sixty-eight enlisted men of Motor Torpedo Boat Squadron 3 were widely dispersed. Five had been lost with the PT-31 and PT-34. By order of MacArthur, Lieutenant (jg) Kelly, who made a miraculous escape to Mindanao after the Japanese landed on Cebu, Ensign Akers, and Ensign Cox were flown to Australia to join Lieutenant Bulkeley. Two or three, including Lieutenant (jg) Schumacher, escaped to Australia by submarine. Of those who remained in the Philippines, two officers and twenty-nine enlisted men manned beach defenses on Corregidor, while others joined guerrilla forces to fight on Mindanao, Leyte, and Cebu. When the war ended, it was learned that thirty-eight officers and men, most of whom were on Corregidor, were captured by the Japanese, and nine of them died in Japanese prisoner-of-war camps.
The record shows that the officers and men of Motor Torpedo Boat Squadron 3 literally fought their hearts out. Constantly handicapped by lack of spare parts, proper maintenance facilities, and sabotaged fuel, these ingenious men worked long, exhausting hours to keep their boats in the fight. Without air support or ships-of-the-line to back them up, time and again they unhesitatingly attacked superior enemy forces and, in so doing, exhibited great daring, courage, and skill.
Motor torpedo boats were new in the navy’s inventory and untried, but the performance of only six of them during those terrible, early days of World War II in Asia, more than proved their worth. By the end of the war, the navy had 212 PT boats, 11 tenders, and numerous PT bases throughout the southwest Pacific. But the courageous men of Motor Torpedo Boat Squadron 3 became legendary and achieved so much with so little that theirs was a tough, if not impossible, act to follow.
Note: Motor Torpedo Boat Squadron 3 was the only seagoing segment of the Asiatic Fleet that operated continuously as a unit. For that reason, the entire history of MTB-3 in World War II is included in part I of this book.
