It is ironic to think that, although the United States Navy’s first aircraft carrier, the Langley, was sunk at sea with fighter planes on her flight deck, the historic old ship was no longer an operational aircraft carrier, and the planes on board belonged to the U.S. Army Air Corps.
The ship, originally the fleet collier Jupiter, was commissioned and put to sea in 1912. Eight years later, she was converted to an aircraft carrier, and renamed in honor of Professor Samuel Pierpoint Langley. By 1937, larger and faster ships, especially configured to accommodate a new generation of combat aircraft, had joined the fleet to make the Langley obsolete. But the old gal was not finished yet. With the forward third of her flight deck cut away, making it impossible to launch or retrieve aircraft, the Langley, once the pride of the navy, was retained on duty in the unromantic role of seaplane tender. It was in this capacity that she was serving with Patrol Wing 10 of the Asiatic Fleet when World War II began.
The beginning of the end came for the Langley when she and the cargo vessel Sea Witch steamed out of Fremantle Harbor, Australia, on 22 February 1942, bound for Tjilatjap, Java. Initially, they were with three merchant ships loaded with U.S. Army personnel, including pilots and ground support crews, ten P-40 aircraft, numerous motor vehicles, and escorted by the cruiser Phoenix. This convoy, on a northwesterly course en route to Burma, would pass well south of Java, and far removed from the waters between the Netherlands East Indies and northern Australia, where Japanese bombers and men-of-war were relentlessly hunting down Allied ships. Rather than send the Langley and Sea Witch on a direct line through the dangerous area, it was planned for them to remain under the protective guns of the Phoenix until southwest of Tjilatjap before proceeding independently. This, it was believed, would bring them safely through the back door.
Both ships carried precious cargo in the form of fighter planes, which were in short supply and desperately needed on all war fronts. On board the Langley were thirty-three U.S. Army Air Forces pilots and twelve ground crewmen. Their thirty-two P-40 fighter planes were closely dogged down on the one-time flight deck, and on all weather deck space capable of accommodating them. The Sea Witch carried no pilots or ground crewmen, and her twenty-seven P-40 aircraft were disassembled in crates.
In the evening of the first day at sea, Commander Robert P. McConnell, in command of the Langley, received orders from Vice Admiral Conrad E. L. Helfrich, the Dutch commander of Allied naval forces in the Netherlands East Indies, immediately to detach his ship from the convoy and proceed independently to Tjilatjap. The Langley was to arrive there at 0930 on 27 February. The Sea Witch received somewhat similar orders, but she was not to leave the convoy until several hours later.
The strange thing about Admiral Helfrich issuing orders for the ships to detach themselves earlier than planned was that he had no firm jurisdiction over them.* The concurrence of U.S. Commander, Southwest Pacific, Vice Admiral William A. Glassford, Jr., was not solicited initially. When Helfrich apprised Glassford of his action, the latter raised no objection. Glassford later stated in his report, “I did in fact share completely his [Helfrich’s] views as to the necessity for taking the risk and suscribed fully to his decision.”
Helfrich’s orders to the Langley and the Sea Witch were born of desperation. Overwhelming numbers of Japanese invasion forces were closing in on Java, and their bombers were devastating the country. There were no more than fifteen fighter planes in all of Java and, if the island was to be saved, the ABDA command had to have fighters. Helfrich was so frantic, he failed to comprehend the futility of his actions. Dismissing the fact that Tjilatjap had no airdrome, he directed the use of an open field on the outskirts of town. It is doubtful that the “hot” P-40s could have taken off from such a rough field, but even if they had, they would have been forced to operate out of airdromes at Batavia and Surabaja, which already were being subjected to punishing air attacks. Unloading the assembled aircraft from the Langley to the dock was one thing, but hauling them through the streets of Tjilatjap would necessitate knocking down buildings, trees, and other obstacles. To complicate the problem further, most native laborers had taken to the hills for fear of bombing attacks.
Directing the Sea Witch to Tjilatjap was an exercise in absolute folly, for once the crated aircraft were unloaded, there were neither mechanics nor equipment available to assemble them.* But time was running out, and Helfrich was not about to be bothered with details. He needed fighter planes, and the crates contained fighters. Amen.
When McConnell turned the Langley out of the convoy and headed for Tjilatjap, he was aware of the dangers ahead. Japanese cruisers and aircraft carriers were reported operating in areas of the Indian Ocean through which his ship would have to pass and, as he approached Java, land-based bombers would have to be reckoned with. He was justifiably concerned that with his ship’s top speed not much more than 13 knots, and armed with a few ineffectual 3-inch antiaircraft guns and four ancient 5-inch deck guns, the Langley could only get into trouble, not out of it.
At 1500 on 26 February 1942, lookouts reported two unidentified aircraft approaching. These turned out to be Dutch PBY seaplanes, which signalled the Langley had an escort 20 miles to the west. At this welcome news, McConnell altered course to rendezvous with the vessel. Unfortunately, the so-called escort was no more than a small Dutch minelayer, the William Van der Zaan. What dubious protection such a ship might provide was lost in the fact that she was experiencing boiler trouble and could make no more than 10 knots. At such a slow speed it would be impossible for the Langley to make Tjilatjap by 0930, as ordered. McConnell, therefore, took leave of the minelayer and continued on.
That evening, the Langley received a message from Glassford directing her to proceed to Tjilatjap escorted by the William Van der Zaan and two PBY aircraft. Complying with these strange orders, McConnell reversed course to rejoin the Van der Zaan. Several hours later, with the minelayer in sight, new orders from Glassford directed the Langley to rendezvous the following morning with the destroyers Edsall and Whipple, about 200 miles south of Tjilatjap. Once again McConnell altered course and headed the Langley north for the rendezvous. Thanks to these confusing orders, her time of arrival at Tjilatjap would be delayed until 1700 the next day.
About midnight, those on board the Langley observed with concern two series of brilliant white flashes some distance off the port bow. Believing they were being fired upon, McConnell immediately ordered general quarters, emergency full speed, and a change in course 90 degrees to starboard. Tensions diminished somewhat when the ship became blanketed in a series of heavy line squalls. McConnell held this course until he was reasonably certain they had lost contact with the ship, then again headed toward the rendezvous point.
At 0720 on 27 February 1942, the destroyers Whipple and Edsall were sighted on the horizon, with two Dutch PBYs circling over them. The Whipple signalled that the Edsall was standing by a submarine contact and that the Langley should remain out of the area. McConnell ordered a course change to clear a 12-mile circle around the point of contact, and the Whipple moved to put herself between the aircraft tender and the submarine. When the Edsall lost contact with the submarine, she joined with the Whipple to form an antisubmarine screen on either bow of the Langley. Then, with their air escort, the ships headed for Tjilatjap.
The first indication of trouble occurred at 0900, when an unidentified plane was sighted flying at high altitude. Since the two Dutch PBYs could not provide adequate protection against air attack, McConnell sent an emergency message to Glassford reporting the contact and requesting fighter escort. He stated that it was obvious his ship’s location, course, and destination were known to the enemy, and that attacks could be expected in about two hours from land-based bombers, or sooner if an enemy carrier was in the area.
McConnell’s plea was but a cry in the dark. Fighters could not be provided, because there were less than a dozen flyable planes left in all of Java, and these were scattered throughout the island to operate independently as best they could. There was no possible way that fighters could be assembled and sent to cover a ship 130 miles at sea.
Japanese bombers came as predicted. At 1140, the Edsall signalled “Aircraft sighted.” The Langley immediately went to general quarters as nine twin-engine bombers approached at an altitude of 15,000 feet. She was zigzagging on a base course of 357 degrees in an effort to confuse the enemy bombardiers, but at just over 13 knots she was hardly an elusive target. When the planes steadied on their approach course, the Langley’s antiaircraft guns commenced firing. The gun crews, with their old 3-inch weapons, did their best, but they could not reach the attackers, who came steadily on, cocky in the knowledge that they were out of range.
McConnell, conning his ship from the signal bridge through a voice tube to the navigation bridge directly below, kept his eyes riveted on the attackers. He knew that the bomb release point had to be at an angle of about 80 degrees above his ship. When he judged that the planes had reached that point, he immediately ordered full right rudder. The Langley, always sluggish in response to the helm, commenced a slow right turn just as the bombs were released. The deadly salvo missed off the port bow. Underwater explosions caused the old ship to tremble, and bomb fragments knifed through her steel plates forward on the port side, shattering windows on the bridge, but causing no casualties.
The battle was an uneven contest from the beginning, but the Langley’s crew fought the ship superbly. The antiaircraft gun crews fired furiously at the attackers, although they knew only too well there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of downing one. They could only hope to force the planes to higher altitudes and thereby reduce bombing accuracy.
Trying desperately to elude the second Japanese attack, McConnell steered the slow, difficult-to-maneuver Langley on zigzag courses and turns, hoping that if he could hold out a little longer, fighter planes would appear to save his ship from certain destruction. Again his evasive actions were successful, and the enemy planes were forced to turn away without dropping their bombs.
The bombers made a wide circle and came back a third time. Cannily the enemy pilots followed the Langley’s last possible course change and dropped their bombs accordingly. In a matter of seconds violent explosions from five direct hits and three near misses racked the ship. Instantly, fires broke out throughout the ship. Motorboats and aircraft were ablaze on the main and flight decks. Men raced to extinguish the fires, but were hampered by ruptured water mains.
Near-misses tore gaping holes in the Langley’s sides below the waterline forward, and she was taking on water rapidly. There was serious flooding in the engine room, but the bilge pumps had been knocked out of commission and nothing could be done about it.
The gyro compass was destroyed, disrupting steering from the bridge until the secondary steering mechanism could be activated; and McConnell had difficulty communicating with various parts of the ship, for the telephone system and many of the voice tubes were wrecked.
In the midst of all this, six Japanese fighter planes appeared and attempted a low-level strafing attack. The Langley’s antiaircraft guns, whose crews stood in the rubble of blasted aircraft and savagely fought back, forced all but one of attackers to turn away. Projectiles from that fighter’s cannon caused considerably more damage to the P-40s on the flight deck. Fortunately, only one attack was pressed home. Then, to everyone’s relief, all enemy aircraft withdrew to the east.
To help his men fight the fires, McConnell maneuvered for a zero wind condition. The ship was listing 10 degrees to port, and the listing persisted even after the crew jettisoned five shattered P-40s from the flight deck and resorted to counterflooding starboard compartments. The engineering officer reported conditions below decks were not improving. Fire room bilges were awash, and water was 4 feet deep in the motor pits.
McConnell realized he could never bring the Langley into port, for she was drawing too much water to negotiate the channel at Tjilatjap, and the nearest harbors of refuge were hundreds of miles away in Australia. Although he doubted the Langley could make it, McConnell decided to try to take her close to the Java coast, 130 miles to the north, where his crew might have a better chance of surviving. He had no other choice.
As the Langley labored on, McConnell ordered boats and life rafts made ready for lowering in case it became necessary to abandon ship. Some men misunderstood this order and jumped over the side. The destroyer Edsall, which was trailing the Langley, plucked them from the sea as she had rescued others who had jumped to escape fires, or were blown over the side by the force of exploding bombs.
While all hell was breaking loose topside, Chief Radioman Leland E. Leonard relieved Radioman First Class Claud J. Hinds, Jr., who had worked the transmitter for the first twenty-five minutes of the attack.* Leonard continued to send out messages until ordered to abandon ship. The following are excerpts from the radio log, recorded in Greenwich mean time:
0358 |
Got off warning of attack to Nerk |
0400 |
Air raid raid raid |
0405 |
Air raid raid raid / We ok |
0412 |
Langley being attacked by sixteen aircraft |
0414 |
Got hit on forecastle that put us out for a few minutes. . . . Lost local control. . . . Transmitter is now out but I plugged in rak ral batteries an am back now |
0422 |
Mr Snay went to bridge as they do not answer us. Gave command to Leonard CRM |
0425 |
Tried nr one generator and it was ok. . . . Back to ships power to save batteries |
Japs working close to our freq |
|
0432 |
We all ok so far |
0435 |
Mama said there would be days like this. She must have known. Warnes came in said hit on flight deck on planes and one on well deck one on foscle. . . . |
0437 |
Someone tuning now |
0440 |
Sez planes at about 30,000 feet, too high for our guns |
0442 |
Still tuning from somewhere. A decided list |
0515 |
Power off on ships ac. . . . Back to batteries |
0520 |
Jap jamming us as much as possible |
0529 |
We are securing as ship is listing. . . . Shot to hell |
0530 |
Signing off per LEL CRM. . . . |
McConnell, on the bridge of his stricken ship, was notified that all engines had stopped due to water in the electric motor pits,* and that the fire room would soon be completely flooded because the drainage system was inoperative. The Langley coasted to a dead stop, her list now increased to a frightening 17 degrees. With 104 tons of aircraft riding high on her flight deck, the ship could capsize at any moment. Grimly accepting the fact that the Langley was finished, McConnell ordered abandon ship.
Life rafts were lowered over the side, and boats from the destroyers Whipple and Edsall stood by to pick up swimming survivors. Unfortunately, as one motor whaleboat loaded with wounded was being lowered, a jagged metal splinter severed the after falls, dropping the stern and dumping all hands into the sea. Shipmates quickly swam to the rescue, and all of the wounded men were saved.
The order to abandon ship had been given at approximately 1345 Pacific time. About fifteen minutes later the executive officer, Commander Lawrence E. Divoll, came to the bridge to inform the captain that all survivors were clear of the ship. Then the two men made one last check to make sure that classified publications and the top secret coding machine had been properly destroyed.
Heartsick over the impending loss of his ship, McConnell was determined to go down with her and ordered Divoll to leave before it was too late. As his intentions became clear to his men, they began to shout, imploring him to leave the ship. McConnell was deeply touched by his crew’s concern for his life. Realizing that his action was holding up rescue operations and unnecessarily detaining the two destroyers in an area where they were exposed to possible air or surface attack, he relented.
The seaplane tender USS Langley (AV-3), shown here in 1937, was sunk in the Indian Ocean south of Java on 27 February 1942 by Japanese aircraft. Naval History, NH 63547
With all survivors accounted for, it was imperative that the destroyers clear the area quickly before the enemy reappeared. But the Langley was still afloat and, although obviously sinking, she was taking the devil’s own time in doing so. To speed the process, McConnell requested the Whipple to finish her off with torpedoes. The first torpedo hit aft of the starboard jib crane in the magazine area, but the magazine failed to explode. Instead, to everyone’s amazement, the Langley slowly rolled back to an almost even keel. A second torpedo, fired into the port side amidships, set off a wild fire at the break of the poop deck. Then nine 5-inch shells were fired into her at the waterline. Still she remained afloat.
As torpedoes were in very short supply, it was deemed unwarranted to expend more to accelerate the sinking. The plan now was to clear out of the area and return after dark. If the Langley was still afloat, additional torpedoes would be used to finish her. As the destroyers moved off on a westerly course, the Langley was burning furiously, very low in the water, and settling on an even keel. It was obvious that the historic ship would soon be lost forever beneath the Indian Ocean.
About 484 officers and men had been on board the Langley when she was attacked, including 33 pilots and 12 crew chiefs of the U.S. Army Air Corps, yet casualties were miraculously low. In all, 2 naval officers and 6 seamen were killed, 5 seamen were listed as missing, and 11 were wounded. Two of the Army Air Forces pilots, Second Lieutenants Gerald Dix and William Ackerman, were wounded. The major factor in saving so many lives was superb shiphandling by the captains of the Edsall and Whipple.
McConnell sent a dispatch from the Whipple to Commander, Southwest Pacific Glassford, stating that the Langley was sinking and that survivors were on board the two destroyers, which were steaming westward. He requested that air reconnaissance verify the sinking to eliminate the need for returning to the area.
Glassford immediately ordered the gunboat Tulsa and the minelayer Whippoorwill to search the area for possible Langley survivors. Later that evening, after a Dutch PBY reported seeing the Langley sink, he ordered the Whipple and Edsall to rendezvous with the tanker Pecos in the lee of Christmas Island at 1030 the next day. The Langley personnel and the two wounded pilots were to board the Pecos for transportation to Australia. The Army Air Corps men were to be taken by the Edsall to Tjilatjap where, according to Glassford, they were needed to man the aircraft yet to be unloaded from the Sea Witch and assembled.
At 0930 on 28 February 1942, the day after the Allied defeat in the Battle of the Java Sea, the three ships met off Christmas Island. Preparations to transfer the survivors were suddenly disrupted by an air raid alarm. Three twin-engine bombers appeared overhead and the ships raced for the protection of a nearby rain squall. The planes flew directly overhead, but ignored the ships to drop bombs on shore installations. Although the planes made what appeared to be several determined bombing runs on the Whipple, which took high-speed evasive action, they dropped no bombs and soon winged away to the north.
During the bombing attack, a new menace appeared in the rendezvous area—the white plume of a periscope wake. When Vice Admiral Glassford received this information, he was preparing to escape from doomed Java to Australia. Although well aware that Japanese landings on Java were occurring unopposed, Glassford said nothing to prevent the Army Air Corps men from attempting to land at Tjilatjap. Instead, he ordered the ships to proceed westward to an area more likely to be safe from air or submarine attack before transferring the personnel.
The ships steamed west until dawn the following day, 1 March 1942, when the transfer of survivors was safely conducted. The three vessels then separated to carry out their respective orders.
The tanker Pecos, with survivors of the Langley on board, headed for southern Australia on a course calculated to skirt 600 miles from the Den Pesar airfield on Bali, the nearest Japanese bomber base. But in the Indian Ocean there were Japanese aircraft carriers whose whereabouts were unknown, and at 1000 a scouting plane from one of them spotted the Pecos. The single-engine plane circled the Pecos twice, then flew off to the northeast. This was bad news for a lone ship armed only with two 3-inch antiaircraft guns and two .50-caliber and four .30-caliber machine guns, for there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that visitors of the most unwelcome kind would soon be calling. Although no help could be expected, the Pecos immediately sent out a contact report.
At 1145 the bone-chilling whine of dive bombers suddenly broke the stillness. Before lookouts could spot them, three planes dove out of the sun, and each unloaded a high-explosive bomb. All three missed, but winging close behind them came three more. This time one bomb exploded near the forecastle, killing and wounding several sailors manning number 1 antiaircraft gun.
For the next four hours dive bombers attacked the practically defenseless ship. In all, fifty bombs were dropped, five of them direct hits and six damaging near misses. Although this poor percentage reflected little credit upon the Japanese pilots, the officers and men crowded on board the Pecos found little solace in the statistics.
By 1530, when her captain, Lieutenant Commander E. P. Abernethy, ordered abandon ship, the Pecos was a bomb-shattered hulk with dead and wounded sprawled grotesquely over her bloody decks. Soon afterwards, survivors in the water watched spellbound as the Pecos’s bow gradually disappeared from view, leaving her stern poised momentarily in the air before it too was gobbled up by the sea.
Heavy oil, covering the surface of the sea, coated the swimming men with thick black scum. It burned their eyes and, when swallowed accidentally, caused severe spasms of vomiting. Floundering alone in a vast expanse of unfriendly ocean, the survivors appeared doomed to certain death. Without food or water, even those fortunate enough to be in or clinging to overloaded life rafts could not live for long. To add to their plight, Japanese planes made several strafing runs on them before departing.
The survivors had been in the water for almost four hours. Some had given up in despair and drowned, and most of the others had all but given up hope of rescue, for the sun was hull down in the west. All at once, the most beautiful ship any of them had ever seen came racing, bone-in-teeth, over the horizon. The little four-stack destroyer Whipple had intercepted the Pecos’s frantic radio calls for help and come to the rescue.
By the time the Whipple arrived on the scene, it was 1930 and almost dark. In the gathering dusk, it became increasingly difficult to locate men in the water and load them into the ship’s small motor launch. When informed that many survivors were stranded in the midst of a large oil slick off the starboard bow, the Whipple’s commanding officer, Lieutenant Commander Eugene S. Karpe, carefully maneuvered among them. Several seamen on the Whipple tied lines around themselves and jumped into the oily water to rescue those unable to make it on their own.
For over two hours, desperate attempts to locate and save the bedraggled survivors continued without letup. Then, at 2141, those manning the underwater detection gear reported the ominous beat of submarine propellers. Rescue work had to be suspended and the Whipple headed full speed toward the contact. She dropped depth charges, with undetermined results, and lost the contact.
Fifteen minutes later, with the submarine temporarily silenced, the Whipple’s crew renewed the search for survivors. But it was now completely dark and time to make a difficult and painful decision. Should the Whipple continue to search and risk being torpedoed, with the consequent loss of ship, crew, and survivors, or clear out and run for safety? Commander E. M. Crouch, commander of Destroyer Division 57, on board the Whipple, concluded it would be foolhardy to take the risk. This decision was concurred in by the commanding officers of the Langley, Pecos, and Whipple. Accordingly, at 2207, the ship steamed out of the area.
Of the 666 officers and men who had been on board the Pecos, the Whipple had been able to rescue only 220, including the two wounded Army Air Corps pilots. Many had been killed during the bombing and strafing attacks; others had perished in the water. Only 146 of the Langley’s original ship’s company of about 439 officers and men, including Commander McConnell, had survived the two sinkings.
Many wondered why the destroyer Edsall did not come to the rescue, but that little ship was having troubles of her own. Following the transfer of personnel, the Edsall steamed off for Tjilatjap to vanish without a trace. Not until the war ended did anyone know what had happened to her. Captured Japanese films showed the hapless four piper being blasted out of existence by enemy cruisers. Not one of the Edsall’s crew, nor any of her army passengers were seen again.
The destroyer Whipple, her decks jammed with forlorn survivors, reached safety in Fremantle, Australia, on 4 March 1942. Commander McConnell immediately wrote his report concerning the sinking of the Langley and submitted it to commander, U.S. Naval Forces Southwest Pacific—Vice Admiral Glassford, who had escaped the Japanese by flying out of Tjilatjap on 1 March 1942.
Glassford forwarded McConnell’s report to Commander in Chief, United States Fleet, Admiral Ernest J. King, stating:
1. “Forwarded. An examination of this report makes it doubtful that every effort was made to save the USS Langley and that her abandonment and subsequent endeavors to assure her sinking failed to uphold the best traditions of the naval service.
2. “This opinion was communicated to the Commander-in-Chief, United States Fleet, by dispatch, with a recommendation that these matters be the subject of further investigation.”
McConnell was aghast. Such an accusation, if upheld, could ruin his name and his future in the naval service. In his own mind, he was innocent of wrongdoing. He had fought the Langley to the best of his ability, abandoning her only when it became apparent that such action was the only solution to a desperate and hopeless situation.
For almost three months McConnell worried and waited. Finally, Admiral King’s answer came, in the form of a copy of his letter to the secretary of the navy. It read in part, “The Commander-in-Chief does not agree with the then Commander U.S. Naval Forces, Southwest Pacific—that there is a question as to whether or not the best traditions of the naval service were upheld. He recommends that this matter be considered closed, without prejudice in any form whatsoever to the record of Commander McConnell.”
The case of America’s first aircraft carrier, the Langley, was closed, but Commander Robert P. McConnell continued his naval career to attain the rank of rear admiral before retiring from the naval service.
*Vice Admiral Helfrich, RNN, had replaced Admiral Thomas C. Hart, USN, as commander of ABDA naval forces on 14 February 1942. At that time, Vice Admiral William A. Glassford, Jr., USN (newly promoted), remained on the ABDA staff and, as commander, Southwest Pacific, was responsible for the movement of all U.S. naval vessels in the area.
*The Sea Witch reached Tjilatjap, Java, and unloaded her cargo of trucks and crated P-40 aircraft, which were soon captured by the Japanese. She escaped from the harbor on the night of 1 March 1942, and, escorted by the Isabel, arrived safely at Fremantle, Australia.
*Chief Radioman Leland E. Leonard survived the Langley’s sinking, but lost his life when the Pecos was sunk.
*The Langley was the first U.S. Navy ship to have an electric drive propulsion system.
