THE CRUEL FATE OF THE DESTROYER USS POPE (DD-225)
One of the blackest days in the history of Destroyer Squadron 29 was 1 March 1942, when four of its ships were lost to enemy action. The Pope (DD-225) was one of them. Commanded by Lieutenant Commander Welford C. Blinn, she had acquitted herself admirably in the night battles off Balikpapan and the southeastern coast of Bali. Due to engineering problems, however, she was forced to remain in the Surabaja Navy Yard for repairs, and unable to participate in the Battle of the Java Sea.
The Pope was ready to put to sea in the late afternoon of 27 February 1942, and was ordered to assist the destroyer Encounter in escorting the crippled heavy cruiser Exeter back to Surabaja from the Java Sea battle. These ships were joined in port several hours later by the four American destroyers John D. Ford, John D. Edwards, Alden, and Paul Jones, which returned from the battle out of torpedoes and critically low on fuel.
The next morning, 28 February 1942, news of the calamitous defeat of the Allied fleet in the Battle of the Java Sea made it painfully apparent that the Netherlands East Indies were doomed and that to avoid complete disaster the ships at Surabaja must dash for safer ports south of the Malay barrier.
Numerous Japanese warships and troop-laden transports were reported in all quadrants of the Java Sea. The handful of Allied ships was all but trapped. There were only two possible escape routes into the Indian Ocean. The one through Bali Strait, between Java and Bali, was the closest; but the best way to it, through the passage east of Surabaja, was considered too shallow for the Exeter. In addition, with enemy forces already occupying the island of Bali, the strait was believed to be heavily guarded. The other route, through Sunda Strait, lay between Java and Sumatra, more than 400 miles to the west. It too would be heavily guarded, and the sea lanes along the way crawling with enemy men-of-war. Neither passage left room for optimism.
That afternoon the Exeter reported emergency repairs had been made to permit a speed of 16 knots on three boilers. Rear Admiral Arthur F. E. Palliser, then chief of staff to Vice Admiral Helfrich, ordered the Exeter, accompanied by the Encounter and the Pope, to proceed west through the Java Sea to transit Sunda Strait and head for Ceylon. The destroyers John D. Edwards, Paul Jones, Alden, and John D. Ford were directed to take the shortcut through Bali Strait.
Under cover of darkness, the Allied ships moved out of Surabaja harbor. The Exeter, Encounter, and Pope took the north channel and cleared the minefields to head on a westerly course. The four American destroyers, lacking their main armament—torpedoes—departed through the eastern passage and hit Bali Strait at full speed. As luck would have it, there were only two or three Japanese destroyers stationed in the strait. Before the Nipponese were alerted, the American “cans” went racing past them. For about ten minutes there was a furious exchange of gunfire, but when it was over, the intrepid destroyermen, led by Commander Henry E. Eccles in the John D. Edwards, had escaped unscathed into the Indian Ocean. The three ships heading for Sunda Strait were not that fortunate.
The Exeter, commanded by Captain O. L. Gordon, was proceeding west, with the Pope and Encounter keeping station on either bow, when, at 0700 on 1 March 1942, the Exeter’s foretop lookout reported an enemy destroyer and two cruisers. Course was quickly changed to avoid them, but as these ships passed from view a new threat appeared in the form of a single-engine seaplane. It flew from over the horizon to hover, out of gun range, over the Allied ships. No one doubted that it was radioing their position at least to the cruiser from which it had been launched.
At 0900 the Encounter, on the Exeter’s port bow, sighted a destroyer steaming across their course from the south, and immediately increased speed to close her. The Exeter and Encounter opened fire at extreme range, whereupon the enemy ship discretely turned tail and ran over the horizon. Minutes later, however, she returned accompanied by three more destroyers and two heavy cruisers, all racing bone-in-teeth to do battle.
As the range closed, the Pope and Encounter opened fire on the destroyers while the Exeter engaged the cruisers. The Pope’s guns scored a hit on the stern of one of the destroyers, which retired on fire and trailing dark brown smoke. By this time, the Exeter was having serious problems. Salvos of heavy shells were falling dangerously close, and it appeared that at any moment she might suffer a fatal hit. Lieutenant Commander Blinn immediately ordered the Pope to make smoke, and raced his ship to screen the outgunned British cruiser from enemy view. Simultaneously, the Exeter and Encounter commenced making smoke. This gambit so hindered the Japanese spotters that their onrushing ships were forced to cease firing temporarily while closing to within range of Allied torpedoes.
Under cover of smoke, the Exeter changed course to the south and then to the east in a desperate but futile effort to escape. Although the three Allied ships had been heavily fired upon, they were holding their own when, at 1100, their doom was sealed. Two more heavy cruisers of the Ashigara type, accompanied by three destroyers, joined the battle. Two of the enemy destroyers, their guns blazing, closed on the Pope, whose own guns fired back at the leader. The Encounter engaged the second. At the same time, the Exeter was under fire from almost every direction, and the sea around her churned with the splashes of 8-inch shells. But the valiant British cruiser, handicapped by lack of speed, kept zigzagging and fighting back. Added to her woes, the Exeter’s fire control gear was malfunctioning, seriously reducing the effectiveness of her main battery.
At 1105, the Exeter launched torpedoes at the cruisers on her port quarter. Minutes later, the Pope fired four torpedoes at the same targets, which had closed to within 6,000 yards. In an effort to take pressure off the Exeter, Blinn maneuvered the Pope ahead and, while making dense black smoke, fired his remaining five torpedoes at cruisers to starboard. During this time, an explosion racked one of the Japanese destroyers to port. On fire, it retreated from the battle. Immediately thereafter, another violent explosion occurred on the bow of a cruiser also to port. The “tin fish” had drawn enemy blood. Whether the Exeter or the Pope had scored the hit was not known, but nobody gave a damn.
Determined to finish off the Allied ships, the Japanese relentlessly pressed home their attacks. Hopelessly outgunned, the Exeter, Encounter, and Pope were running out of time. At about 1130, the Exeter was seriously hit. Swept by flames, the famous fighting ship lay dead in the water spewing clouds of heavy smoke and steam. Her guns, forlornly pointing in all directions, were silenced forever as more and more shells ripped her from stem to stern.*
The heavy cruiser HMS Exeter, sunk in the Java Sea on 1 March 1942 by Japanese naval and air forces. Imperial War Museum
Lieutenant Commander E. V. St. J. Morgan, commanding the Encounter, knew he was trapped, for his ship did not have speed enough to outrun the enemy. He could see the Pope was trying to clear out of the area and, to help her escape, he took the Encounter between the American destroyer and the Japanese to draw their fire and delay pursuit. The Encounter had endured more than two hours of hellish shelling. Shells, screaming overhead and exploding damnably close, had been the order of the day, but up to this point she had not been hit. The Encounter was maneuvering fast to outwit the Japanese gunners, when suddenly both suction lines to the fuel pumps broke and her overworked engines groaned to a stop. Now she was in desperate trouble. With enemy shells pounding his striken ship, Morgan had no alternative but to order the Encounter scuttled and abandoned.
Powerless to aid survivors of the British ships, Blinn was determined to save his own ship and crew. He pushed the Pope as fast as her ancient engines would allow toward a small rain squall several miles away. Its timely appearance offered a glimmer of hope that, blanketed in the downpour, they might yet escape. Shells from the cruisers were kicking up nasty geysers just off her fantail when the Pope vanished from view into the heart of the squall. And none too soon, for at that precise moment, the brick walls of number 3 boiler crumbled and fell inside. The boiler was secured immediately, but as a result the Pope lost considerable speed.
Temporarily safe in the driving rain, Blinn took advantage of the reprieve to assess the situation. They had fired 345 main battery shells and the forward magazines were almost empty. Additional shells were brought up from the after magazine. The only battle damage was to the main radio antenna, which had been partially shot away. Blinn knew that the Pope’s chances of escaping to Australia were beyond betting range, but he had a plan. He would attempt to elude the Japanese by skirting the southern coast of Borneo and, under cover of night, make a dash for it through Lombok Strait into the Indian Ocean. Even there he would not be safe from enemy sea and air forces, but he would have more maneuvering room.
The rain cover lasted for about ten minutes, then the Pope was bathed in dazzling sunshine. Fortunately, the squall line masked her from the enemy until the Pope was able to slice into another small shower. In a matter of minutes, however, this too ended, leaving the Pope exposed in an unfriendly sea with not a cloud in sight. Five minutes later, at 1215, an enemy single-engine seaplane located and began shadowing the Pope. It was soon joined by another. Apprehensively, all eyes focused on these unwelcome metal birds, for everyone knew the Pope’s movements were being relayed to big brothers that were bound to follow. Darkness, their only hope, was seven long hours away.
Fifteen minutes later, six more cruiser planes appeared and all eight then began making individual bombing runs on the Pope. To fight them off, the Pope had only two .50-caliber and two .30-caliber machine guns. Nevertheless, the gunners met each attack with all the fury their guns could muster.
In rapid succession the planes dove, and on each pass released two bombs. On the third attack, a bomb exploded close aboard off the port bow. Fragments tore a 4-inch hole through the range finder and wounded two men on number 1 gun. On the eleventh attack, a bomb barely missed the ship and exploded abreast number 4 torpedo tube, ripping a gaping hole aft below the waterline and springing hull plates for a considerable length. The force of the blast knocked the port propeller shaft out of line, causing such violent vibration that the forward engine had to be shut down.
Just as the cruiser planes dropped the last of their bombs and were no longer a threat, six twin-engine Mitsubishi bombers appeared. Machine guns that had fired effectively enough to disconcert the previous attackers now did not have a chance. These were bigger and faster planes, armed with numerous machine guns, cannon, and heavier bombs. Fearful yet determined to do their best, men of the Pope watched the bombers circle in the distance preparing for their first attack.
Lieutenant Commander Blinn knew the Pope was grievously damaged. As he prepared to meet this new threat, serious flooding in the after engine room began to spread rapidly into the living compartments. Damage control parties worked feverishly to plug the hole in the hull but, with water cascading into her guts, the Pope was growing increasingly sluggish to the helm. With only one propeller shaft operable, maneuvering successfully to evade bombs was going to be difficult, if not impossible.
The crew of the Pope watched the approaching bombers, and prayed their luck would hold. Unflinching, Blinn studied their approach pattern. At the bomb release point, he turned the Pope as hard as he dared away from the base course. It was barely enough, but the bombs missed and exploded close aboard, causing no damage.
The Pope was now dangerously waterlogged, and damage control reported the flooding could not be checked. Blinn cast a quick, anguished look aft. His ship was settling by the stern. This was the end. The Pope was finished.
After a hurried conference with his damage control officer, Lieutenant R. H. Antrim, who assured him that nothing more could be done to keep the ship afloat, Blinn decided he must act fast to save as many of his crew as possible. He ordered the ship’s company to stand by to abandon ship. Hurried preparations were made to scuttle the Pope, while the crew continued to man gun stations and maneuver the ship as best they could to confuse the bombers.
They destroyed all classified material, jettisoned depth charges, opened watertight doors, and set a large demolition charge in the forward engine room. The wounded were loaded into the ship’s only motor whaleboat, and all rafts were readied to go over the side. There was no fear or panic; like the seasoned professionals they were, the crew worked quickly and efficiently. This was not strange. In battle men seldom fear death when finally they meet it face to face. It is the long hours striving to avoid such a confrontation that drives the terror into men’s hearts.
Everything was ready, but again the bombers moved in. The Pope could manage only a labored, slow turn, but it was enough. By the grace of God, these bombs also missed. Following the bomb bursts, Blinn ordered all engines stopped. The weather deck aft was awash when he gave the order, “Abandon ship.”
Last to leave were those charged with insuring that the Pope would never fall into enemy hands. Among them was Lieutenant Commander Blinn, who made a hurried inspection trip below decks to assure himself that sea cocks were open, magazines were flooding, and no wounded remained on board. The gunnery officer recommended that the captain leave the ship before the demolition charge was detonated, and Blinn went over the side to be picked up by the motor whaleboat.
Minutes later the demolition charge, 10 pounds of TNT, went off with a roar, ripping hell out of the forward engine room. With this, men of the demolition gang, who had waited topside well aft of the blast area, dove into the sea and swam as though possessed away from the dangerous suction.
Men were still scrambling on board life rafts or swimming to reach them when violent explosions suddenly shattered the sea around the Pope. Aghast, the survivors looked up to discover that two Japanese cruisers had moved in unnoticed to fire on the sinking ship. The Pope had been abandoned with no time to spare, for the sixth salvo literally tore her apart. Within seconds, the little grey four-stack destroyer vanished, leaving behind a heavy cloud of smoke and steam.
The two cruisers charged toward the survivors, who watched grimly, assuming they would soon be either killed or captured. But when the cruisers closed to within 4,000 yards, a strange thing happened. All at once, great geysers of water erupted around the cruisers. No planes were visible, but it was obvious that the Japanese ships were under attack from the air. With this wild turn of events, men of the Pope were spared whatever immediate fate might have befallen them, for the cruisers abruptly wheeled and high-tailed it out of sight.
The USS Pope (DD-225) sinking in the Java Sea on 1 March 1942 (captured Japanese photograph). National Archives, 80–G–178997
There is no evidence to suggest that any Allied planes were left in Java to mount such an attack. Most likely, Japanese Army bombers mistook their own cruisers for the enemy. Nevertheless, the Pope’s survivors were given a new lease on life. The bombing, by what they believed were Allied planes, coupled with the fact that they had sent out numerous distress calls before the ship sank, gave all hands cause to think that at any moment an American submarine might surface to rescue them.
Blinn circled the area in the crowded motor whaleboat, rounding up swimmers and placing them with the life rafts. There were only three rafts, two small and one large. One other large raft had been destroyed by the near miss on the port side. They found the ship’s wherry, badly damaged but still afloat, lashed it to the side of the motor whaleboat, and crammed it with survivors. While this was in progress, Japanese cruiser planes made several strafing runs on the hapless men before flying away. Fortunately, their aim was poor. Only one man was hit, and he suffered only a slight flesh wound.
With the three rafts tied behind the whaleboat, muster was held. Except for one man killed on board ship, all 151 personnel were present. It was hard to believe that during the entire battle, against vastly superior forces, only one man had been killed and a handful wounded.
Since they had only a meager supply of water and food, it was decided to remain near the spot where the Pope had gone down in the hope that a submarine would rescue them. As time wore on, men clinging to the overcrowded rafts grew tired. To give each one a spell out of the water, all able-bodied officers and men were divided into six watches, one of which would ride atop a raft every thirty minutes.
At 2200, Blinn ordered a red flare fired. It brilliantly shattered the darkness, illuminating the lonely sea around them. If a submarine was searching for survivors, it would probably be on the surface at that hour. All hands watched the flare slowly burn out and die, leaving them again in darkness. Silently, men prayed that friendly eyes, not those of the enemy, had seen their distress signal.
Long, uneventful hours passed until the next afternoon, 2 March, when a lone enemy seaplane briefly circled the survivors and flew away. With the passing of time, the men were becoming restless. To help keep up morale Blinn ordered the whaleboat engine started. At a slow, agonizing pace it began to tow the raft toward the Java coast, over 100 miles away. By this time the wherry had been repaired and was used to pick up men who either had fallen asleep and drifted away from the rafts or had become too weak to hang on any longer.
At about 0100, as moonbeams streaked across the somber Java Sea, the startled men saw the ominous silhouettes of two enemy destroyers moving across their path several miles ahead. Blinn quickly ordered the engine shut down and all hands remained silent until, without noticing them, the ships passed on into the night.
Gasoline ran out about 1200 on the third day, but the forlorn survivors, seared by the tropic sun and desperate for water, refused to quit. With a blanket they rigged a sail at the bow to keep the whaleboat pointed in a southerly direction and the strongest among them rowed in relays, using oars or pieces of driftwood.
That afternoon a low-flying seaplane circled the survivors. Many feared they might be strafed, but the Japanese pilot seemed more interested in looking them over than in killing them. The plane remained over them for several minutes, then flew off to the west. There was some solace in knowing that at the Japanese were aware of their plight, for, with a speed calculated at no better than 2 miles an hour and without food or water, they would never make it to the Java coast, still many miles away. Now, rather than dying at sea, they might be captured by the enemy. This hitherto unthinkable possibility suddenly became a yearned-for lesser of two evils.
Nightfall found most of the survivors completely exhausted. All had ceased paddling hours before. Those no longer able to hang onto the rafts were jammed on top of them or placed in the vastly overcrowded whaleboat. Fortunately the seas remained calm, for with her gunnals nearly awash, the boat was dangerously close to capsizing. Occasionally, men drained of all strength drifted away from the rafts, but their shipmates refused to let them die. Men who somehow summoned enough strength to swim after and tow them back made many an unsung rescue.
Near midnight the survivors became aware of a black, sinister shape bearing down on them. As it approached, looming ever larger against the star-flecked sky, the men saw it was a Japanese destroyer. With mixed fear and hope, the survivors silently waited. Fifty yards away the ship hove to and focused a powerful searchlight on the pathetic little sea train.
Numbly, all hands waited and wondered if death would be their reward, for they could see the outlines of big guns menacingly trained on them. In a matter of minutes a small boat, manned by heavily armed sailors, approached. A harsh, guttural voice shouted at them in Japanese. Lieutenant William R. “Bill” Wilson, who had been attached to the American Embassy in Tokyo prior to the war and spoke fluent Japanese, answered the hail and established that the Japanese would rescue them. But, he cautioned, if anyone attempted to resist, they all would be killed.
The 151 bedraggled officers and men of the Pope were hauled from the Java Sea and treated well on board ship, an act of compassion for which they would be ever grateful to the Japanese Navy. But, as prisoners of war, they were to suffer many hellish ordeals. With the fall of Japan three and one-half years later, the survivors were liberated, but twenty-seven of their shipmates had succumbed to malnutrition and disease. One hundred twenty-four officers and men, including their highly respected commanding officer, Lieutenant Commander Welford C. Blinn, finally were repatriated, clearing up the mystery about the fate of the little four-stack destroyer USS Pope.
Soon after the Exeter and Encounter were sunk, enemy warships moved in close to the survivors and, after observing them for a little while, steamed off leaving them to their fate in the sea. The next day, however, evincing an apparent change of heart, the Japanese returned to rescue them.
*Of no historical importance but adding whimsy to disaster is the fact that several ducks, kept on the Exeter’s main deck aft to provide fresh eggs for the captain’s mess, had been freed at the last moment. Survivors, swimming for their lives, were strangely amused to see the ducks flop over the side and, quacking merrily, swim briskly northward, apparently headed for the Borneo coast.
