During the dark early hours of 19 February 1942, the most powerful striking force to be sent by the Imperial Japanese Navy on a single mission since Pearl Harbor sneaked undetected into the Timor Sea. Objective: to destroy military installations in and around Darwin, the Allies’ only air and sea base in northern Australia. This armada, commanded by Vice Admiral Nobutake Kondo, comprised two battleships, four aircraft carriers, three heavy cruisers, and numerous destroyers. One hour after daybreak, 188 fighters and dive bombers roared from the carriers’ decks and headed south, hell-bent for Darwin. Close behind followed 54 land-based bombers, stealthily deployed to newly captured airfields within striking range of the strategically important objective.
At 0800 that same morning, a lone U.S. Navy PBY seaplane scooted across the placid waters of Darwin Harbor, lifted gracefully into the air, and climbed out on a northerly heading. For the pilot, Lieutenant Thomas H. Moorer, and the seven members of his plane’s crew, this was supposed to be a routine scouting mission in the vicinity of Ambon, on Amboina Island, about 600 miles to the north. Japanese fighters might be encountered near the former ABDA base at Ambon, but there was no reason to believe the first few hours of their flight over the Timor Sea would be anything but peaceful. Little did they suspect they were on a collision course with disaster.
Co-pilot was Ensign W. H. Mosley, and the third pilot was Chief Aviation Machinist’s Mate J. J. Ruzak. The following men made up the remainder of the crew: Aviation Machinist’s Mate Second Class A. P. Fairchild, Radioman First Class R. C. Thomas, Aviation Machinist’s Mate Second Class J. C. Shuler, Radioman Third Class F. E. Follmer, and Aviation Ordnanceman Second Class T. R. LeBaron. This crew had flown together on many occasions, and were highly skilled, battle-hardened men of proven courage.
At 0920, a previously unreported merchant vessel was sighted about 140 miles north of Darwin. Moorer, who had been flying at 2,000 feet altitude, immediately descended and leveled off at 600 feet to challenge and identify the stranger better. During the approach, all eyes on board the PBY peered down, anxious to determine whether or not the ship was armed. If she happened to be an enemy raider, hidden antiaircraft guns could open fire at any moment. The last thought in anyone’s mind, however, was the possibility of their being attacked from the air.
The ship was still several miles away when the low, steady drone of the plane’s engines was suddenly blotted out by a monstrous noise that sounded like giant hailstones slamming down on a tin roof. These were not hailstones, but deadly exploding bullets ripping through the aircraft’s metal skin. Over the intercom from the after station came the frantic report, “Nine Zeros attacking out of the sun.”
The port engine was instantly destroyed. Gaping holes appeared as though by magic in the wings and throughout the fuselage. Gasoline, streaming from ruptured tanks, burst into flames, engulfing the plane’s port side from the trailing edge of the wing, aft to the tail. The ungainly seaplane swerved dangerously into the dead engine. Instinctively, Moorer killed power on both engines, and battled the suddenly heavy controls with all his strength to pull the mortally wounded PBY back on an even glide path. Time was running out. Fuel tanks could explode momentarily. To save their lives, the plane had to be landed quickly, and every second was crucial.
Moorer glanced at his co-pilot, and noticed Mosley trying to stanch the flow of blood from a wound on the left side of his head. He wanted to help, but that was impossible. He could hear bursts from the .50-caliber machine guns back in the port and starboard waist hatches, as LeBaron and Fairchild strove to shoot down fighters bearing in for the kill.
It was impossible to turn into the wind. Most of the fabric on the control surfaces had been shot or burned away. The best Moorer could hope to do was to keep the plane in a shallow dive and level off for a downwind landing which, under the best conditions, was extremely dangerous.
At 50 feet above the sea, Moorer yelled for Mosley to lower the wing tip pontoons. Still bleeding, Mosley reached over and flipped the switch. Nothing happened. The activating mechanism had been destroyed. Now the landing was going to be even more hazardous, for without pontoons a wing tip could easily dig into a wave and cartwheel the plane to oblivion.
Bullets continued to slam into the plane. The noise was deafening. Moorer ventured a quick look over his shoulder. Exploding bullets, appearing as small balls of fire, were bounding around inside the radio and navigation compartment. At that instant, Moorer felt a sharp stinging sensation in his left hip. He was hit, and could feel the warm blood oozing down the seat of his pants. But that was the least of his worries. They were only seconds away from landing, and the discomforting problem of downwind contact with the sea was yet to be solved.
The starboard engine was restarted and, while Mosley gingerly manipulated the throttle to help stabilize the cumbersome plane, Moorer strained to work what was left of the controls. Traveling at 125 knots, the PBY struck the sea with great force, and bounded high in the air. The two pilots teamed up to keep the wings level as it slammed twice more into the sea and bounded high into the air before settling dead in the water. Miraculously, the PBY was still intact, but there was no time for congratulations. She was burning furiously and sinking. All hands quickly prepared to abandon ship, but were alarmed to find pools of flaming gasoline spreading over the surface of the sea. As though they didn’t have enough trouble, Japanese fighters continued to strafe them. Then, abruptly, the Japanese flew off to rejoin comrades winging on to Darwin. Moorer noted the direction of their flight and was heartsick that he had been unable to alert the Allied forces at Darwin. In the initial attack his radio had been shot out.
With fire engulfing the after portion of the plane, an explosion was imminent. The men moved rapidly to launch an inflatable rubber life raft. Ruzak, Thomas, Shuler, Fairchild, and Follmer lugged one forward from the plane’s center section and heaved it over the side. To their dismay, it was full of bullet holes. With complete disregard for their own safety, the men returned to the PBY’s oven-like interior and brought forward the second raft. Fortunately, it was intact and inflated easily.
Pools of blazing gasoline surrounded all but the forward section of the plane where the men were going over the side. Once in the water, they piled into the little raft and paddled furiously to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the roaring inferno. They were barely 100 yards away when a tremendous explosion vomited skyward a mass of yellow flames and oily black smoke. In an instant the PBY vanished, leaving in its place a sea of burning gasoline.
Fortunately, there had been no serious casualties. Moorer had a slight flesh wound in his left hip, Mosley a scalp wound, Thomas a scalp wound and either a broken or severely sprained right ankle, and Follmer a painful wound in his left knee. Flight suits and undershirts were ripped up to provide makeshift bandages. When the wounds were cared for, the men assessed their situation.
The merchant ship was still in sight, although a considerable distance from them, and steaming away. Moorer decided their best chance lay in paddling on a southerly course in the hope that they could land on sparsely populated Melville Island and work their way overland to Fort Dundas. The situation was critical, for they had no food and, worst of all, no water.
After the men had paddled for about thirty minutes, they noticed that the merchant ship had changed course and was heading toward them. Uncertain of her nationality and unable to outrun her, the men stopped paddling and waited anxiously. When the small vessel came close, the men were elated to find she flew the American flag. They were helped on board and welcomed by the captain who, like his entire crew, was a Filipino. The wounded were given medical aid, and everyone was treated to dry clothing, food, and cold beer.
In his conversation with her captain, Tom Moorer learned that the Florence D was under charter by the U.S. Navy to transport munitions and other supplies from Australia to the beleaguered fortress of Corregidor, a virtual suicide mission through Japanese-controlled waters. Although his ship had been unsuccessfully attacked by several Japanese bombers the preceding day, the courageous captain had decided to proceed as directed. He would put Moorer and his men ashore at his next port of call, Surabaja, Java. Such a voyage was not particularly appealing, but it beat the tar out of bobbing around in the lonely sea jam-packed into a little rubber raft and without food or water.
The survivors had been on board the Florence D for about an hour when they were brought to their feet by wild shouts and ringing of the ship’s bell. Rushing out on deck, they encountered Filipino crewmen excitedly pointing skyward. High overhead, sixty Japanese carrier-based aircraft were counted flying in a northerly direction. Fortunately, they continued on to disappear over the horizon. Minutes afterwards, an SOS was intercepted from the steamer Don Isidore stating she was under continuous air attack, on fire, and there were many casualties on board. The captain of the Florence D immediately changed course, and proceeded to the aid of the Don Isidore, which gave her position as 30 miles north of them.
The ship had no sooner steadied on her new course than the nerve-racking alarm sounded again. A small aircraft was sighted approaching from the stern. It was identified as a twin-float, single-engine seaplane of the type carried by Japanese ships of the line for scouting. This was a bad omen. It meant only one thing. Somewhere over the horizon enemy surface units were operating, and once this plane reported their position, they, in all probability, would be subject to attack. In spite of this danger, the captain of the unarmed Florence D did not turn tail and run, but continued on to offer whatever assistance he could to the stricken Don Isidore.
The unarmed Florence D was helpless against any kind of assault and, with a top speed of only 10 knots, she was incapable of taking effective evasive maneuvers against bombers. Thus, it had become doctrine, whenever the ship was under air attack, to anchor immediately and have all hands take shelter beneath the steel main deck. When it became apparent that the seaplane intended to attack, the anchor was quickly dropped, and everyone took shelter as prescribed. The intrepid pilot from Nippon flew toward the ship and, at a very low altitude, dropped two 100-pound bombs, which exploded harmlessly several hundred feet short. Then, as though to vent his anger for failing to score a hit, he strafed the Florence D several times from extreme range with a small-caliber machine gun, causing no damage. He then flew away to the west, and was seen no more.
About an hour and a half later, lookouts reported dead ahead on the horizon a ship which turned out to be the Don Isidore. Recognition signals were exchanged, but without slowing down, the damaged ship with her dead and wounded sped on past to the south. At this juncture, the captain of the Florence D decided too many Japanese ships and aircraft were in the area to suit him, and he changed course for Darwin. This of course made Moorer and his men happy, but not for long.
The alarm sounded again thirty minutes later as twenty-seven carrier-type dive bombers were observed heading for the distant Don Isidore. Moorer was standing on the bridge, peering through binoculars, when directly overhead he heard the all-too-familiar whine of an attacking dive bomber. Without stopping to look for the plane, he raced in vain for the protected portion of the ship. He didn’t make it. A thunderous explosion on the bow slammed him flat on deck. On the heels of the initial blast came violent secondary explosions in the forward cargo hold where 4-inch, .50-caliber shells, intended for Corregidor, were detonating.
Bruised but otherwise uninjured, Tom Moorer reached the protected deck area just as a second 500-pounder burst amidships, plunging the ship’s interior into absolute darkness. Groping his way aft amidst burned and wounded sailors Moorer searched for his plane crew. Those he could find he ordered over the side, for the ship was finished.
When Moorer jumped into the sea, the Florence D was down by the bow with her propeller out of the water. Accompanied by most of his men, Moorer swam as fast as he could away from the ship, which was still under attack. They were several hundred yards away when two 500-pound bombs missed the ship and landed in their vicinity. Great columns of water shot into the air to cascade down upon them. The underwater shock waves caused excruciating pains in the testicles, stomach, back, and chest. Tom Moorer and several others coughed up blood. As they floundered in the water, Japanese bombers continued to blast the Florence D. In all, nine 500-pound bombs were dropped, four of which were direct hits, and five were near misses.
Having expended their bombs, the dive bombers flew off to the north. Then Moorer, clinging to a piece of driftwood, paddled around among the survivors looking for his men. He rounded up all but Shuler, who, it was sadly determined, had been killed when a bomb exploded in the water close to where he last had been seen.
The nearest land was Bathurst Island, 60 miles to the east. Without life jackets, the little band of Americans struck out for it, determined to help each other survive what would be a long swim in shark-infested waters. They had been swimming only a short time when, to their great joy, they discovered that crewmen of the Florence D had managed to lower away two lifeboats and were heading for them.
Once he and his men were in the lifeboats, Moorer found the captain of the Florence D to be badly wounded and quite helpless. He immediately assumed command of the boat he was in and put Ensign Mosley in charge of the other. The area was thoroughly searched for survivors and, when that was completed, Moorer’s boat contained twenty-three survivors, and Mosley’s seventeen. Although many were burned or wounded, only Shuler and three of the ship’s company were unaccounted for.
It proved exceedingly difficult to get the Filipino seamen to row properly. Most of them did not understand English, and after two days of harrowing air attacks their nerves were on the ragged edge. Just as the lifeboats were leaving the area, the Japanese planes that had been attacking the Don Isidore swooped low overhead to strafe the burning hulk of the Florence D. In a panic, most of the native crewmen jumped over the side. Although the enemy pilots ignored the lifeboats, it was only with great difficulty that the Filipinos were persuaded to get back into them.
Moorer decided that, all things considered, they should get ashore as quickly as possible. He set a course for the nearest land, the uninhabited coast of Bathurst Island. There they would be free to rest and plan their next moves.
A check of the injured showed ten Filipinos suffering from major burns or wounds and five more slightly injured. Thomas had injured his sprained ankle further when he jumped from the sinking ship. He was in considerable pain and running a fever.
The lifeboats were poorly stocked. There was a small supply of water, but that was quickly consumed by the Filipinos, over whom Moorer had no control. He was unable to use force since he had lost his pistol in the plane crash. There were no medical supplies and no blankets, but they were blessed with large quantities of condensed milk and crackers.
The survivors had rowed about 10 miles when they spotted a plane approaching the Florence D from the south. It circled her several times, then headed for the lifeboats. Again the Filipinos panicked, but this time the more levelheaded among them succeeded in preventing anyone from jumping over the side. To their great relief, the plane was a Lockheed Hudson of the Royal Australian Air Force. For several minutes the aircraft circled the boats at a low altitude, attempting unsuccessfully to communicate with a blinker light. When the plane departed the survivors at least were relieved that their location was known and that attempts probably would be made to rescue them.
During the afternoon a breeze sprang up, and good headway was made by rigging the small sails with which both boats were equipped. Just before nightfall land was sighted dead ahead, and calculated to be Bathurst Island’s west coast. Although the wind suddenly fell off to a whisper, all hands, with spirits high, took to the oars with renewed vigor, and by midnight they approached the shoreline. Thanks to a flood tide and gentle breakers, the boats were easily beached.
A quick search of the island showed no signs of habitation or water. The wounded were made as comfortable as possible on the beach, using the sails for windbreakers. Sleep was impossible, for everyone’s clothing was wet from beaching the boats. It was cold and there were no blankets. The few hours until dawn seemed interminably long.
During the sleepless night, Moorer and Mosley discussed their situation. Their only food, canned milk, was practically exhausted. Bathurst Island was known to be an arid wasteland, and it probably would be difficult to find potable water. The seriously burned and wounded desperately needed medical attention, without which some would soon die. Days, possibly weeks might elapse before friendly forces located them, and by that time they could all be dead. Their one chance for survival lay in reaching a small mission located on the southern end of the island where they could obtain help, and possibly send a message to Darwin requesting rescue.
Moorer calculated the distance overland to the mission at about 40 miles. With luck they could make the trip in less than two days. Such a hike would be grueling, but Moorer and Mosley chose this route rather than risk the hazardous longer one by sailboat through shoal waters, without charts, and at the mercy of fickle winds. Besides, after their experiences of the preceding day, they had little desire once again to find themselves in the open sea, helpless and exposed to attacks by enemy aircraft or warships.
At dawn Moorer explained the plan to the captain of the Florence D, suggesting that he and all other seriously wounded men remain behind in the vicinity of the boats until rescued. To this the captain agreed. Thomas and five Filipino crewmen were unable to walk, so Ruzak and LeBaron volunteered to remain behind to take care of them.
When it was light enough to see, on 20 February 1942, Moorer, Mosley, Follmer, and Fairchild, each carrying two cans of condensed milk, started walking south along the shoreline. Those remaining behind were given the last of the biscuits and enough milk for seven days. The Filipino seamen, over whom no one had any control, helped themselves to canned milk and independently headed for the mission. Although some were too badly burned or wounded to attempt such a trip, Moorer found it impossible to dissuade them, especially when, for some unexplained reason, their captain suddenly changed his mind and began hobbling down the beach. The fit Filipinos took a faster pace and soon outdistanced the Americans, while the pathetic wounded straggled along far behind.
Moorer and his three companions were barefoot, having shed their shoes soon after abandoning their plane. Walking at first was easy on the damp, soft sand, but as they progressed they were forced to detour inland to circumvent mangrove swamps and sheer cliffs. Jagged rocks and rough underbrush cut and bruised their feet. They were without water, and the equatorial heat was torturous. The condensed milk did little to quench the thirst, for it was hot and made their tongues feel like they were coated with cotton. Earlier in the day they had passed a small brackish stream, but fearing it was contaminated had decided against drinking the water. As time passed they would have given their souls to discover another such stream.
About 1400, having clawed their way through almost impassible terrain, the four men slumped exhausted to the ground beneath the shade of a large tree. It was now apparent that they could not continue on to the mission, especially without water. Moorer made the undisputed decision to retrace their steps and attempt the trip again, but by boat. There were no signs of the Filipino crewmen who had preceded them, and no way of recalling them. The Americans seriously doubted that the Filipinos could reach the mission, but if they did—so much the better.
It was almost dark when Moorer and his men finally arrived at the brackish stream they had passed up earlier. Here they found the captain of the Florence D and most of the wounded who had attempted the trip. These men were in pathetic condition, and none were able to travel. There was little or no greeting between the two groups, for the dehydrated Americans instantly flopped down alongside the stream and sucked up quantities of water, figuring it was better to risk sickness than die of thirst. They were physically incapable of walking the remaining miles back to the boats that night, so Moorer and his men simply sprawled on the ground and fell asleep.
The next morning, after ascertaining that none of the wounded Filipinos could accompany them, Moorer and his men departed. With muscles stiff and aching from their 25-mile trek the previous day, they walked the remaining miles on feet that were blistered, cut, and swollen.
At the makeshift camp, the wounded were suffering intensely from lack of water and medical attention, and there was no way to help them. Their only recourse was for all of them to go as soon as possible in one of the boats, and attempt to reach the mission. That meant sailing 140 miles in an open boat without water or food, and with no charts to guide them along a coastline strewn with treacherous rocks and shoals. Then too, there were the Japanese to worry about. The odds against any of them surviving such a voyage were appalling, but to wait much longer in that waterless wasteland could mean certain death.
With speed spawned of desperation, they readied one of the sailboats and were about to place the wounded on board when they heard the drone of aircraft engines. A twin-engine land plane was sighted approaching from the south. Fearing it was the enemy, all hands took cover and prayed it was friendly. Flying low along the shoreline, the plane passed directly overhead. To their great joy, it was a Hudson bomber of the Royal Australian Air Force. Those who could, immediately jumped to their feet and raced into the open, shouting and wildly waving their arms. The plane continued down the beach for a few hundred yards, then banked sharply and came zooming back overhead.
Moorer lost no time. He grabbed a piece of driftwood, and wrote a message in the wet sand telling who they were and that they urgently needed water, medicine, and food. The Aussie pilot circled the little band of survivors several times, then waggled his wings to let them know he got the message, and flew off to the south.
Throughout the hot afternoon they waited, hoping it would not be too long before they were rescued, for they were completely out of water. Near sundown the sound of motors heralded the approach of another Hudson bomber, which flew over the little group once. On the second pass three parachutes blossomed in the sky carrying to earth the urgently needed supplies. Attached to one of the parachutes was a note stating that a ship would rescue them the following morning.
With darkness setting in, it was impossible to attempt to locate the captain and the other wounded Filipinos who remained by the brackish stream about 7 miles away. Had they complied with Moorer’s suggestion and remained with the boats, they would have been in better physical condition, and able to share the food, medicine, and water they so urgently needed.
Soon after sunrise the next morning, a small ship was seen approaching from the north. The rescue vessel was expected to come from the south, so everyone remained out of sight until it was identified as an Australian subchaser. A cutter was launched and, hoisting a sail, easily made it to the beach. The sublieutenant in charge identified his ship as the HMAS Warrnambool, commanded by Lieutenant E. J. Barron, Royal Australian Navy Reserve. He stated his instructions were to bring them all back on board ship without delay.
Moorer told of the Florence D’s captain and the wounded men with him, as well as the other seamen whose whereabouts was not known. In view of his orders, the sublieutenant insisted they return to the ship and discuss the matter with his commanding officer. They left the remaining supplies near one of the lifeboats in the event any of the Filipino seamen returned, then Moorer, his six crewmen, and the five wounded men from the Florence D boarded the cutter.
Midway to the Warrnambool, as the rescued men were congratulating themselves on their good fortune, a Japanese four-engine seaplane was sighted flying in their direction. The cutter quickly put about and headed toward the beach, for fear that the low-flying plane might strafe and sink them.
The Warrnambool, armed only with small-caliber machine guns for air defense, was helpless to drive off the attacker, even though the big plane circled the ship several times at a very low altitude. With despair, those on board the cutter watched as the subchaser maneuvered wildly to foul up the bombing runs. After several unsuccessful attempts, the Japanese pilot, figuring he had the ship squarely in his bomb sight, dropped two bombs. Both were near misses. The Warrnambool commenced making smoke, whereupon the Japanese pilot, not to be denied, steadied on another bombing run. Those in the cutter saw two more bombs dropped, but with the dense smoke screen were at a loss to determine the results.
The Japanese plane, apparently out of bombs, suddenly flew away to the north. For what seemed an interminable period, the men in the cutter waited. All at once, they saw the Warrnambool’s bow slash through the smoke and head for them at high speed.
In short order the cutter was hoisted on board. While the wounded were being taken to sick bay for treatment, Tom Moorer went to the bridge to meet the ship’s captain and inform him that there were still crewmen from the Florence D somewhere ashore. Lieutenant Barron stated that time did not permit his sending a search party ashore and he was heading back to Darwin at once. He assured Moorer, however, that another vessel would return the next day to search for survivors.
At 1300 on 23 February 1942, the Warrnambool put into Darwin Harbor, which had been devastated by the Japanese air raid four days earlier. Nine ships had been sunk, including the destroyer Peary and the 12,568-ton U.S. Army transport Meigs, and eleven others seriously damaged. Only a handful of Allied aircraft survived the attack on the airfield, whose hangars and repair shops had been bombed to rubble. Three PBY seaplanes of Moorer’s squadron, the only ones in the area, had been sunk at their moorings. The docks and tons of military stores intended to support the war effort in the Netherlands East Indies were destroyed; little in the town of Darwin was left standing.
On being apprised of the carnage, Tom Moorer candidly commented, “Hell, it’s lucky we weren’t around here during the attack. We could have been killed.”
Lieutenant Moorer capped a distinguished naval career as Admiral Thomas H. Moorer, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.