THE EXPENDABLE SHIP USS ISABEL (PY-10)
In all probability only a few old China hands will remember the Isabel. Yet, on that hideous “day of infamy,” she was a unit of the U.S. Asiatic Fleet operating out of Manila Bay. Although Isabel’s fighting role in the futile attempt to halt the Japanese conquest of Southeast Asia never made headlines, those rugged souls who manned her did an outstandingjob with what little they had and, like so many other heroes of the Asiatic Fleet, went unsung for their efforts.
As a fighting ship, the Isabel was somewhat of a navy bastard. Two hundred forty-five feet long with a 28-foot beam, she was designed more or less along destroyer lines, and was under construction as a private yacht when America became involved in World War I. The navy, hard pressed for ships to meet the challenge of German U-boats, purchased her in 1918, and christened her the USS Isabel. Outfitted with four 3-inch deck guns, torpedoes, and depth charges, the daughty little ship steamed forth to fight the war in the Atlantic.
Four years after the “war to end all wars,” the Isabel, stripped of her torpedo tubes and depth-charge racks, was painted white and sent to the Asiatic Fleet to serve as flagship for commander, Yangtze Patrol. In 1928 the new river gunboats Luzon and Mindanao arrived to serve as flagships for commander, Yangtze Patrol, and commander, South China Patrol, respectively. From that time on, the Isabel, with most of her fighting teeth pulled, was relegated to the inglorious role of “relief” flagship for the commander in chief, Asiatic Fleet, whose flag would fly on a rotational basis from the cruisers Pittsburgh, Rochester, Houston, Augusta, and lastly the Houston again. Occasionally, she took visiting dignitaries on cruises throughout the Philippine archipelago or was ordered, for no particular reason other than to keep her engines from rusting, to patrol seaward of Corregidor. Thus, the Isabel became a ship without a mission and, for the most part, swung around the hook in Manila Bay.
On the morning of 3 December 1941, the Isabel’s commanding officer, Lieutenant John Walker Payne, was unexpectedly summoned to the office of Admiral Thomas C. Hart, commander in chief of the Asiatic Fleet. Alone with the admiral, he was given some startling news. Wild rumors abounded on the Asiatic Station that war with Japan was imminent, and these were grimly confirmed when the admiral informed him that the situation was critical. He was then given strange and perplexing oral orders, which the admiral insisted he memorize and repeat until he had them letter perfect.
A large concentration of Japanese transports and warships had been sighted in Camranh Bay, Indochina. The Isabel was to proceed there and report on their movements. Admiral Hart gravely cautioned that the utmost secrecy was to be observed. No one, and he stressed no one, other than the two of them, was to know the Isabel’s actual mission. Once at sea, only his executive officer Lieutenant (jg) Marion H. Buass, was to be taken into confidence. To give the Isabel some cover, a fake operational dispatch had been transmitted ordering her to search from Manila west to the Indochina coast for a lost PBY seaplane from Patrol Wing 10. It was hoped that this would be intercepted by the Japanese and provide a reason for the ship’s activities.
The Isabel was to remain painted white. At night, running lights were to be dimmed to give the appearance of a fishing boat, and the Indochina coast was to be approached only under cover of darkness. Reports of all Japanese ship movements would be made two hours after sighting to help allay suspicion as to their real mission. To make these reports, Payne was given a small notebook containing a secret cipher. Its only counterpart, he was told, the admiral would retain.
Payne was further directed to proceed immediately to the Cavite Navy Yard to provision ship and top off with fuel and water. All topside weights, including the motorboat and gangways, were to be removed and all confidential material transferred to the district communications officer for safekeeping. That done, the Isabel was to get under way without delay. The ship was to be steamed at its most economical speed and, as the situation developed, either return to Manila for fuel or put into a friendly port in Borneo.
As the admiral spoke, Payne’s mind churned with disturbing thoughts. Could it be that the Isabel was being set up to start a war everyone seemed to agree was inevitable? His worsening suspicions took a turn for the worst when the admiral cautioned that he was to fight his ship as necessary, and destroy her rather than let her fall into enemy hands. He winced inwardly at the admiral’s use of the word enemy, for he suddenly envisioned the little Isabel, with four ancient 4-inch guns and four .30-caliber machine guns, taking on the entire Japanese Navy.
Before departing, Payne repeated his orders to the admiral’s satisfaction, and the meeting concluded with the admiral vigorously shaking his hand and wishing him the very best of luck. As Payne headed for the door, Admiral Hart said with conviction that he wished he were going along as it entailed much more fun than what he would be doing in Manila. The lieutenant departed absolutely convinced that the gutsy “Old Man” was dead serious about going along, but with strong reservations about how much fun it was going to be.
What Payne did not know was that Admiral Hart was not acting on his own initiative. He had received a priority dispatch from the chief of naval operations, Admiral Harold R. Stark, which he later wrote was “. . . a definite and flat order, so worded as to bear highest priority. We received it with consternation.” The top secret message, dated 1 December 1941, read
President directs that the following be done as soon as possible and within two days if possible after receipt this dispatch. Charter three small vessels to form a quote defensive information patrol unquote. Minimum requirements to establish identity as a United States man of war are command by a naval officer and to mount a small gun and one machine gun would suffice. Filipino crews may be employed with minimum number naval ratings to accomplish purpose which is to observe and report by radio Japanese movements in West China Sea and Gulf of Siam. One vessel to be stationed between Hainan and Hue one vessel off the Indo-China coast between Camranh Bay and Cape St. Jaques and one vessel off Pointe de Camau. Use of Isabel authorized by president as one of these three but not other naval vessels. Report measures taken to carry out president’s views. At same time inform me as to what reconnaissance measures are being regularly performed at sea by both army and navy whether by air surface vessels or submarines and your opinion as to the effectiveness of these latter measures.
Admiral Hart already had these areas under surveillance by air. This he deemed a more effective and less provocative method than stationing picket ships, which ran counter to his other directives that our forces make no menacing moves. What astounded him the most, however, was the fact that the president himself had directed what on the surface appeared to be a very minor tactical operation. “We on the spot,” he recorded, “could not understand it.”
The only ship immediately available for what had all the earmarks of a one-way mission was the Isabel. The recently purchased yacht Lanikai was outfitting and scheduled to depart on 8 December 1941. The other vessel involved was the schooner Molly Moore. She was a recent navy purchase, but time would run out before she could be put into commission. Eventually the good ship Molly Moore was burned in the Pasig River to avoid her being captured by the Japanese. In the end, only the Isabel would venture forth on this perplexing and dangerous mission.
The Isabel cleared the minefields guarding the entrance to Manila Bay that evening and, in the throes of a northeast monsoon, set course for the Indochina coast. The following morning, with tarpaulins masking her deck guns in an attempt to make her look as much as possible like a merchant ship, the Isabel wallowed on through an angry sea, shrouded by low scudding clouds and drenched intermittently by torrential rains. Skies had lifted somewhat when at 1315 a large, clipper-bowed ship, painted gray, was sighted well ahead, crossing the Isabel’s bow from starboard to port. The ship flew no colors and appeared to increase speed. From her course, she was presumed to be steaming for Palawan Passage in the Philippine archipelago. As shipping lanes were nonexistent in this section of the China Sea, the vessel’s unexpected presence caused Payne to have an uneasy hunch that she was a Japanese tender, perhaps heading for Davao. For fear of giving away his real mission, he made no attempt to close the range and, according to instructions, two hours later radioed the contact report to Admiral Hart.
As the day progressed, the Isabel’s crew became increasingly suspicious of their announced orders to search for a downed PBY. For the most part, they were seasoned China hands and much too worldly to be easily duped. Intuitively, they sensed their mission was something other than what they had been told. Many attempted to pry from their officers, who knew no more than they did, the real nature of the mission. Failure to get satisfaction spawned numerous rumors. Some asserted that the Isabel was going to Shanghai to evacuate high officials, but they could not explain the course. The most ominous scuttlebutt suggested that they were out to tease the Japanese into creating another Panay incident to set off a full-blown war. These men, perhaps, were closer to the truth than they knew, but no one on board showed any fear of such an eventuality.
At 0830 on 5 December 1941, a strange plane was sighted approaching from the west. Excitement ran high when general quarters was sounded and all hands were ordered to remain below decks or out of sight, but ready to man guns on the double if necessary. The Isabel was now not more than 170 miles from the Indochina coast in an area where, Payne knew only too well, anything could happen. Apprehensively, he watched the approaching plane, which turned out to be a single-engine, low-wing monoplane with twin floats and twin tails. Painted beneath the wings and on each side of the fuselage were solid red circles. These “meatballs” unmistakably identified the aircraft as Japanese.
The seaplane circled the Isabel while the Nipponese crewman in the rear seat could be seen taking pictures and eyeballing the Isabel through binoculars. Not to be outdone, Payne did the same. The bothersome bird circled for about half an hour before winging away, but it returned twice more during the afternoon to hover over the ship like a mechanical vulture.
During the day, when the plane was not around, Payne ordered the crew exercised in general quarters and demolition drills. All of this, coupled with news that an emergency radio was being readied for the motor launch, made the men more certain than ever that the Isabel’s stated mission was phony.
In the late afternoon, a large ship was sighted on the far horizon hightailing toward the northwest. It vanished from sight before identification could be made.
The sun was a giant, blood-red sphere hanging low in the western sky when the Indochina coast, dark and foreboding, was sighted a mere 22 miles distant. The Japanese were well aware of the Isabel’s presence in the area and, as Payne ordered the course changed to a more southerly one to bring them closer to Camranh Bay, he grimly pondered what they would do about it.
Coincident with the course change, a cryptic priority message was received from commander in chief, Asiatic Fleet (CinCAF), ordering the Isabel’s immediate return to Manila. To Payne and his executive officer, Buass, this sudden but welcome change in orders had an ominous ring, like the death knell of a ponderous bell. War was in the wind, and the sooner they reached Manila Bay, the better.
Throughout the night, as the Isabel plied her way home, she was bedeviled by foul weather. Bucking heavy seas and furious rain squalls, she had to reduce speed to 11 knots. Nothing was sighted until 1157 on 6 December, when a low-flying twin-engine Japanese bomber dropped out of the clouds on the port quarter. It circled the Isabel several times and then flew away. It briefly appeared again that afternoon. No doubt about it, the Japanese were keeping a close watch on the Isabel, and by now all hands were convinced that their ship was but a sacrificial pawn in the deadly game of war.
The island fortress of Corregidor, guarding the entrance to Manila Bay, was in sight when at 0326 on 8 December 1941 (in another time zone, it was 7 December in Honolulu) they received a CinCAF message of shocking proportions. It read: “Japan has started hostilities, govern yourself accordingly, execute War Plan 46 against Japan.”
Payne immediately assembled the crew and read the message. The news did not seem to disturb the men unduly, for they had anticipated it, but all hands wished to hell they had something more awesome with which to fight a war than the Isabel. They were also thankful that they were no longer within spitting distance of the Indochina coast.
Payne and Buass were puzzling over the directive to execute War Plan 46, which neither of them had ever heard of before, when another dispatch arrived telling them to be prepared for an air raid at dawn. The question immediately arose, prepare with what? Against aircraft their four ancient 3-inch deck guns and four .30-caliber machine guns were as useless as tits on a boar.
The Isabel dropped the hook in Manila Bay at 0822 and Lieutenant Payne went ashore to report to the admiral for orders. Upon entering the “Old Man’s” office, he was somewhat shaken when the admiral looked him straight in the eye and remarked seriously, “Well, I never thought I’d see you again.” This stark comment bugged Payne, who could not figure out whether Admiral Hart feared the Isabel would be sunk off the Indochina coast or while returning following the commencement of hostilities. He was, however, inclined to favor the former eventuality. Payne’s orders from the admiral were brief. He was to refuel the Isabel and stand by until dark to lead submarines through the Corregidor minefields.
It was 1230. Refueling had just been completed when the doleful wail of sirens heralded the presence of Japanese aircraft. No aircraft were seen, but the rolling thunder of exploding bombs, accompanied by huge volumes of oily black smoke to the north of Manila indicated that Clark Field, the main U.S. Army Air Forces base in the Philippines, was taking a fearful beating. Suddenly, men on board the Isabel soberly realized that the war was for real, and not far away men were being killed. The attack lasted less than an hour, but when it was over, more than half of General MacArthur’s irreplaceable Far East Air Force lay in ruins.
After dark, the Isabel got under way for the entrance to Manila Bay, closely followed by two submarines. This activity alerted the commander, Inshore Patrol, who immediately demanded to know what was going on. Not having been notified of any ship movements, he ordered the Isabel to heave to until he was properly informed. When Payne refused to comply, he threatened to open fire. Payne told him to go to hell, and continued on course. The incident ended there, but that was to be the least of Payne’s worries that night.
Under normal conditions, traversing the minefields at night was a hairy operation, for a ship’s small deviation from the channel could bring much anguish to the next of kin. Now, it was even more hazardous. Because of the possible presence of enemy bombers, all minefield navigation lights were turned off. To make matters worse, the Isabel’s magnetic compass was acting erratically. With practically everybody but the ship’s cat acting as lookouts, Payne cautiously nosed his ship into the minefield channel. By now, all hands were convinced that in the eyes of CinCAF, the Isabel was expendable. Better for her to be blown up by a mine than to lose a submarine.
Using only the black, practically indistinguishable silhouettes of reference points on the Bataan Peninsula to starboard and Corregidor Island to port, Payne successfully navigated the Isabel and her submarine charges through the danger area. Once the submarines were safely at sea, the Isabel returned through the minefields to Manila.
On 9 December there were more air raids, and enemy planes were observed bombing and strafing distant targets, but ships in the harbor were not attacked. At nightfall, the Isabel was once again assigned the task of escorting submarines through the darkened minefields.
The Isabel was seaward of Corregidor at 2200 when a large ship loomed out of the night heading at high speed for the entrance to Manila Bay, and into the center of the minefield. Payne directed the blinker light to commence flashing orders to stop. When the ship failed to respond, Payne took the Isabel at full speed to intercept the vessel before she became unglued on a mine. Five hundred yards short of the first row of lethal spheres the ship, a British freighter, was brought to a halt. The Isabel then closed out her “Good Samaritan” work for the night by leading her safely into Manila Bay.
Ten December 1941 was a graveyard-black day for men of the Asiatic Fleet, a day which would remain etched in the minds of those who saw and survived it, and would haunt them for the rest of their lives. Early that morning, Payne anchored the Isabel off the Cavite Navy Yard and went ashore, hoping to obtain .50-caliber machine guns to bolster his ship’s pitiful antiaircraft defenses, and to have depth-charge racks installed to give the Isabel an attack capability against submarines. Unfortunately, heavy machine guns were not available, but the racks and depth charges were.
A few minutes past noon, a large floating crane carrying the depth-charge racks moored alongside the Isabel. The small yard tug Santa Rita, which towed it there, had backed off and lay waiting at anchor some 30 yards astern. Work was about to commence when at 1230 a priority CinCAF message was received, “Many enemy planes approaching from the north. ETA Manila 1255.” Because of the crane moored alongside, Payne sent his crew to battle stations, but did not get under way. His ship, defenseless against submarines, urgently needed those depth-charge racks, which were still on board the crane. If only the Japanese would leave them alone, they could be installed in a few hours. He would wait to see where the bombs were destined to fall.
There were many ships in or anchored just off the navy yard, so work on board could be rushed to completion. The four piper destroyers Peary and Pillsbury were moored alongside Central Wharf. Nearby Machina Wharf was overloaded, with the fleet-type submarines Seadragon and Sealion and the minesweeper Bittern tied up side by side, and the submarine tender Otus moored at the head of the wharf. Not far away, several other vessels were anchored, including the minesweeper Whippoorwill and the submarine rescue vessel Pigeon. In the yard itself, several thousand navy and civilian employees were hard at work. To defend the yard against air attack, the marines had only nine old 3-inch antiaircraft guns and a handful of .50-caliber machine guns. The stage was set for disaster.
Cavite Navy Yard following bombing by Japanese aircraft on 10 December 1941. National Archives, 80–G–46882
At 1255 the ugly drone of enemy aircraft engines filled the air, and fifty-four twin-engine bombers were sighted flying toward the yard. The few Army Air Corps fighters that somehow had survived the initial attacks valiantly took wing to intercept them but, hopelessly outnumbered by escorting Japanese fighters, they never had a chance. In the confusion that followed, at least one friendly P-40 was shot down by excited navy gunners.
In nine-plane “V” formations, the bombers methodically headed in for the kill. In vain, guns in the yard and on board every ship in the area opened fire. Flying at altitudes over 18,000 feet, the planes were well out of range. The first nine-plane salvo fell short of the yard in the water just off Machina Wharf. Exploding bombs completely bracketed the Isabel, throwing volumes of water over her decks, but causing no damage. The tug Santa Rita, however, anchored astern of the Isabel, took a direct hit amidships. Bodies and indefinable debris hurtled grotesquely through the air and, in an instant, the little vessel vanished.
With this sobering, narrow escape from destruction, Lieutenant Payne ordered the crane cut loose, then rang up full speed ahead to get his ship into Manila Bay where, if attacked, he at least would have some maneuvering room. As much as Payne yearned for the depth-charge racks still on board the floating crane, they would not be worth a damn if the Isabel was deep-sixed in the process.
From that time on, Japanese planes ignored the Isabel, but her crew could not escape witnessing the horrible destruction they inflicted upon the defenseless navy yard. Unchallenged, formation after formation flew overhead, leaving in their wakes violent explosions and rampaging fires that puked skyward volumes of oily black smoke. To imagine the fate of those pitiful souls caught in the midst of that grisly holocaust was heartrending.
Most ships in the yard were able to get under way to seek refuge in Manila Bay, but the submarine Sealion was sunk near Machina Wharf, and the destroyer Peary, lying cold iron alongside Central Wharf, took many casualties when she was hit and set on fire. The Peary was saved from complete destruction only by the heroic efforts of Lieutenant Charles A. Ferriter, commanding the minesweeper Whippoorwill, and his crew, who braved bombs and fierce fires to tow her to safety. In a similar, supremely courageous effort, the submarine rescue vessel Pigeon, commanded by Lieutenant Richard E. Hawes, saved the submarine Seadragon, which was wedged between the sunken Sealion and blazing Machina Wharf.
For almost two hellish hours the bombers terrorized the area, and during this time the Isabel’s gunners fired 128 rounds of 3-inch antiaircraft shells without scoring a hit. When the all clear sounded, Payne returned to anchor as close to the yard as he dared, for the ammunition dumps, which had not been hit, lay in the midst of raging fires, and were feared ready to blow. Communications between Asiatic Fleet headquarters in Manila and Cavite were nonexistent because the signal searchlights and the communications building on top of which they had been located lay in cindered ruins. The Isabel, having visual communications with Manila and semaphore with the yard, became a relay station to give CinCAF an account of what was happening, and help direct rescue operations.
To assess the situation better and help with the wounded, Payne took a first aid party ashore in a pulling whaleboat, the Isabel’s motor launch having been cut adrift by the initial bomb blasts. They found the yard completely destroyed and passage from one area to another blocked by sheets of flames and smoldering debris. Dead and wounded men were everywhere. The few doctors and corpsmen who had survived were overwhelmed, and the men from the Isabel pitched in to help wherever they could.
Payne and his men were recalled to the ship on orders from CinCAF to proceed to Manila, where he would paint the Isabel war color and be prepared to sail at 1800. Accordingly, paintbrushes were issued, and all hands turned to slopping grey and dark blue on everything that did not move.
Near sundown the Isabel got under way as a unit of Destroyer Division 59, then comprised of the destroyers John D. Ford, Pope, and Paul Jones. These ships were to operate as the screen for the destroyer tender Holland and the submarine tender Otus, which were ordered to safer ports in the Netherlands East Indies. As usual, the Isabel was accorded the dubious honor of leading the ships through the darkened minefields.
As the little force headed out on a southerly course for the Sulu Sea, far to port the pitch-black sky mirrored the yellow glare of fires still gutting the Cavite Navy Yard, and brought home to all hands the desolate truth that the U.S. Navy’s only operating base in the Far East was no more.
Throughout the night the ship’s company continued to paint the Isabel grey and blue. When dawn broke, she appeared so different that other ships in the force challenged her. Although the Isabel looked awful up close, some ships were quick to signal their compliments on a fine camouflage job.
Payne had not been informed of their destination, but he knew that at normal cruising speed the Isabel had fuel for no more than 900 miles. Throughout the day, however, jittery lookouts on various ships kept reporting submarine periscopes, and the Isabel always seemed to be the one ordered to investigate. No submarines were discovered, but these high-speed runs consumed oil at an alarming rate. Because fuel oil also ran the evaporators, fresh water was rationed and turned on for only half an hour three times a day. Payne reported these problems to the officer in tactical command, who simply acknowledged receipt of the message.
On 12 December the Isabel, with no submarine detection gear or depth charges, was ordered to occupy position number 1 ahead in the screen. At 1900 a large warship loomed up on the horizon. The Isabel challenged the stranger with her signal light. The situation was tense. Flashes from the big ship’s bridge, however, were not from guns, but from a signal light replying correctly to the challenge. She was the heavy cruiser Houston, behind which steamed the formidable light cruiser Boise. It was reassuring to know that “big brothers” had come to help.
The next day at 0930, the Isabel’s rudder jammed, forcing her to stop all engines and hoist the breakdown flag. It took twenty minutes to discover that a paintbrush somehow had become lodged in the pilot valve screw. By the time the problem was corrected, the Isabel had dropped behind the task force and was ordered to take position 8 miles astern to detect trailing submarines.
That night the task force made unpredictable course and speed changes which, due to thick weather, the Isabel, as “tail-end Charlie,” was unable to detect. She lost contact, and dawn the next morning found the Isabel alone in the Celebes Sea not far off the Borneo coast. Two hours later she caught up with the others.
Plans to refuel at Tarakan were sidetracked when Japanese forces were reported nearby, and the ships proceeded to the oil port of Balikpapan, Borneo, 300 miles further south. The Isabel, practically bone dry of oil, managed to make port. Her condition, however, seemed of little concern to anyone, as ships were ordered to refuel according to seniority, which made her “low man on the totem pole.”
At 2100 Admiral Glassford held a conference of all commanding officers to announce that because Japanese forces were reported moving toward Balikpapan, all refueled ships would get under way for Makasar, on the southeastern tip of Celebes Island, in two hours. Those not refueled would remain behind until they were ready.
Payne was on the spot. The Isabel was anchored in Balikpapan Bay, but between her and the refueling docks were treacherous reefs, difficult to navigate in daylight, but more so at night with all navigation lights blacked out. Not wishing to be left behind and possibly face the enemy, Payne decided to brave the reefs.
Following close behind the ship’s pulling whaleboat, whose crew found the channel by using a lead line and a boat hook, the Isabel slowly groped her way. She reached the refueling dock about midnight, but it was deserted. Payne wandered through the darkened town searching for some kind of an official, but the place seemed to be deserted. Finally a native was found who spoke only fractured English. Fortunately, he was familiar with the refueling procedures, and was induced to give the ship’s company a hand in activating the pumps.
The Isabel refueled and got under way at about 0200 on 15 December 1942. Once again, following close behind the whaleboat, she safely crossed the reefs into the bay. Payne was certain the task force had moved out, but was happily surprised to find the Holland still at anchor. The sortie had been delayed until dawn because Rear Admiral Glassford had second thoughts about attempting to navigate through the minefields at night.
By 0800 all ships had cleared Balikpapan and were heading south at 15 knots. Payne felt less concern now that his ship was topped off with fuel and water, even though the Isabel was again steaming 8 miles astern of the formation.
On the morning of the sixteenth, the Houston left the task force and headed southwest for Surabaja, Java. At the same time the Isabel was ordered to proceed independently to Makasar to bring back harbor pilots for the Boise, Holland, and Otus. Normally such an assignment would be considered routine, but Payne entertained no such illusions. Ships of the Asiatic Fleet possessed only old charts of the Netherlands East Indies, charts whose reliability was highly questionable. The approaches to Makasar were laced with treacherous reefs, and it was not known if these had been augmented by a minefield. At any rate, the expendable Isabel would be the first to test the charts’ validity.
Ever so cautiously, Payne worked the Isabel safely into Makasar harbor, where the arrival of such a weirdly painted ship caused a near panic among the natives, who feared the Japanese were upon them. After assuring the populace that they were the “good guys” come to save the Indies, Payne was able to obtain three pilots and return with them to the task force.
On the seventeenth, the Isabel, comfortably moored next to the Holland at dockside, was ordered to move out to anchor in the harbor entrance as a submarine picket. Her sinking, if nothing else, would give warning to the others that a Japanese submarine was looking for trouble.
More sanctuary-seeking refugees from the Philippines arrived off Makasar the following morning. Escorted by ships of Destroyer Division 58 were the light cruiser Marblehead, the aircraft tender Langley, the transport Gold Star, and the tanker Trinity. It was, of course, the Isabel that took out the pilots to insure their safe passage through the tricky channel. Now, most of the Asiatic Fleet’s major support ships were congregated in Makasar harbor. As no one seemed to know what to do with them, they anxiously sat there awaiting orders to deploy to safer ports.
With the departure of Rear Admiral Glassford in the Houston, Captain S. E. Robinson, commanding the Boise, assumed the duties of task force commander. He was somewhat distressed when on 20 December the lilting voice of Tokyo Rose, courtesy of Radio Tokyo, announced that the war eagles of Japan would soon bomb Makasar and sink the American ships harbored there. Flashing back to Pearl Harbor and Manila, Robinson was not inclined to take such a warning lightly, and immediately ordered all ships moved to anchorages in the outer harbor, where they could quickly put to sea at the first indication of trouble. The Isabel, however, was an exception. She was ordered to remain in the inner harbor to act as liaison between the task force and the Dutch signal station ashore.
On 22 December Payne was directed, in the event the ships were ordered to move during the night, to stand by to activate a darkened navigational light to the south of Makasar. This was a hell of a good idea for everyone but the Isabel, because the light was situated on top of a partially submerged reef and access to it presented a dangerous problem even in daylight. At 0020, however, orders to activate the light were cancelled, and Payne was ordered to go ashore to inform the Dutch naval authorities that the task force was sailing.
The blacked out streets of Makasar were deserted except for native troops who sharply challenged Payne at every turn. It wasn’t easy, but he finally located the lone Dutch naval officer left in town, to whom he delivered the message. The man didn’t seem to give a damn one way or another, and Payne returned at 0340 to the Isabel, where he learned that the other ships had already departed and he was expected to follow without delay.
The moonless night was inky black. Because of the threat of Japanese bombers, all navigation lights were extinguished, and reference points ashore were impossible to find. Locating the channel and moving the Isabel safely through the reefs posed a touchy problem, but Payne’s orders were to join the task force—period. As they had done successfully at Balikpapan, Lieutenant (jg) Buass, equipped with a lead line, boat hook, and flashlight, preceded the ship in the pulling whaleboat. Jabbing away at the reefs, he located the channel, and directed the Isabel’s movements by flashlight until she was safe in deep water.
When the Isabel caught up with the task force two hours later, she was ordered to backtrack toward Makasar to look for the destroyer Paul Jones, which was mysteriously missing. At dawn the Paul Jones was sighted proceeding slowly on course. She signalled that in clearing the harbor she hit a reef, damaging a propeller so severely that progress could be made only on one engine. The ship was in no danger of sinking and would follow on to Surabaja for repairs.
The task force arrived at Surabaja late in the afternoon of 24 December and the Isabel was directed to moor at the head of Holland Pier. No sooner was the gangway in place than a working party of sailors came on board with orders to take the ship’s only radio transmitter. Lieutenant Payne vehemently protested, but got nowhere. The transmitter was urgently needed ashore to set up Admiral Hart’s headquarters, and the Dutch had none to spare. To add insult to injury, they also walked off with most of the Isabel’s navigational charts, including all of those pertaining to Australia.
Whether the Isabel was forgotten or no one knew what to do with her is unknown, but she remained inactive in Surabaja until 15 January 1942. During that time, depth-charge racks were installed, but lack of underwater detection gear made her less than a threat to enemy submarines. Nevertheless, she was assigned to escorting merchant ships between the ports of Surabaja and Tandjungpriok, Java, and on occasion up dangerous “bomb alley” to Palembang, Sumatra. For the most part, the Isabel was alone escorting ships that blithely steamed along believing she afforded them some means of protection.
The Isabel was at Palembang on 23 January, when that city experienced its first bombing, and at Tandjungpriok on the twenty-eighth, when Japanese bombers initially worked over that port. On neither occasion did the ship suffer damage, but it was becoming increasingly clear to all hands that the Japanese were moving ever closer and all-out air attacks on the Netherlands East Indies could not be thwarted by the puny ABDA air force on hand to defend them.
Surabaja experienced its first major air raid at 1007 on 3 February 1942, and among those present was the Isabel. More than fifty twin-engine bombers, flying at 20,000 feet, dropped their deadly loads on the airdrome, a few thousand yards from the Isabel. Antiaircraft guns went into action, but the planes were well out of range. A hangar and several parked aircraft were demolished, and flames from other buildings in the complex shot high in the air. At the same time, fighter planes, sweeping in at masthead level, strafed anchored PBY seaplanes in the nearby seadrome, sinking several of them. The Isabel’s gunners fired their .30-caliber machine guns at the fighters whenever they came close, but the bullets went for naught. Frustrated seamen cursed their inability to fight back. Even one .50-caliber machine gun could have been used to advantage, but the Isabel was destined to face up to an aggressive, well-armed enemy with not much more than her crew’s clenched fists.
When the planes had done their grisly work and the all clear sounded, Lieutenant Payne received word to stand by to take Rear Admiral Glassford and party on a special mission. At 1240, ten English-speaking Dutch naval officers equipped with high-frequency voice radios reported on board as part of the admiral’s party. Payne attempted to learn their destination and the nature of their mission, but the Dutchmen clammed up, saying such information was top secret.
By 1600 the admiral had yet to arrive, and Payne went ashore to telephone headquarters for information. This was fortunate, for someone had dropped the ball. A near-frantic senior staff officer said the admiral was not going, but the Isabel should have been under way for several hours en route to rendezvous with a task force in Bounder Roads, about 90 miles east of Surabaja.
The task force of American and Dutch ships had been hurriedly thrown together for action against the Japanese. With no common codes and faced with a language barrier, communication among ships was impossible. Payne was told in no uncertain terms that the entire operation depended upon his getting the bilingual officers and their equipment to the American warships by 2330. Excuses for failure would not be accepted.
Payne had the Isabel under way by 1700, but he was deeply concerned because to arrive in time he would have to steam most of the way at the highest possible speed. Even then he might not make it if they encountered adverse winds or tides. The shortest route to the rendezvous was the east passage from Surabaja into Madura Strait. Although it led through a minefield and shoal water he had never traversed before, Payne, bedeviled by the urgency and importance of his mission and the knowledge that he had only six and one-half hours grace, headed the Isabel into the channel at 21 knots.
An hour out of Surabaja, while she was in the midst of the minefield, a sudden squall lashed the Isabel with sheets of rain. Visibility fell to 100 yards, forcing Payne to slacken speed, but he pushed on, navigating entirely by dead reckoning. The haunting fear of slamming into a mine or reef was intensified by the fact that a considerable error had been discovered in the magnetic compass. Whether or not they were correctly compensating for this error was a serious question.
Following two and one-half anxious hours, the Isabel broke into the clear and a fix was quickly obtained from shore tangents. Thanks to some fine by guess and by God navigation and some luck of the Irish thrown in for good measure, the ship was safely through the danger area and in the strait. It was somberly noted, however, that in getting there, the Isabel had run through a corner of the minefield.
The Isabel arrived at the rendezvous at 2340. She was ten minutes late, but had accomplished a nearly impossible feat, for which she received neither a derisive nor a congratulatory message. Assembled there, under the command of Rear Admiral Karel Doorman, were the Dutch light cruisers De Ruyter and Tromp, the heavy cruiser Houston, the light cruiser Marblehead, and seven destroyers—three Dutch and four American. Following the transfer of the communications personnel, the Isabel headed back for Surabaja without a soul on board knowing that the ABDA force would soon sail to attack Japanese cruisers and transports loitering near Makasar Strait.
By 0830 the next day, the Isabel was back in Surabaja, moored to Holland Pier, but there would be no rest for the weary. At 0920, bombers again attacked the navy yard, and Payne moved his ship into the channel to get as far away from falling bombs as possible. He tried to maneuver the Isabel into position to fire on the attackers, but her guns, as usual, were useless. Coincident with the raid, frantic radio messages came from the task force calling for fighter protection, but the few available fighter planes in Java had their own problems, and the ships under air attack were left to fend for themselves.
In the late afternoon, when the enemy planes had gone and fires were under control, it was learned that en route to the objective the task force had been attacked by enemy bombers. The heavy cruiser Houston and the light cruiser Marblehead had suffered major damage, and the mission had been aborted. This gloomy news was difficult to believe, but it reinforced the conviction of Payne and his crew that the Indies were doomed, while leaving unanswered the question, “What did the fates have in store for the Isabel?”
On 5 February 1942, the air raid alarm sounded at 0933 and once again the Isabel moved away from the dock as Japanese planes launched their usual morning attack on the navy yard and airfield. PBY seaplanes in the seadrome were strafed by Zero fighters, one of which was shot down by an Allied fighter. Another Zero, pulling out of a dive, passed within 200 yards of the Isabel and her old .30-caliber Lewis guns burped into action. Hits were scored as tracers could be seen ripping into the enemy plane, and all hands eagerly waited for it to spin in. But it didn’t. Instead, the Zero, trailing black smoke, flew away out of sight. Nevertheless, all hands on board the Isabel were elated to think that at long last their guns had struck home and, with a little luck, they’d scored a kill.
At dusk the Isabel was ordered to escort the Lillian Luckenbach, a large American freighter, westward along the north coast of Java. In so doing, the Isabel was to transit a new channel through the complex Surabaja minefields, the legs of which were marked by screened, colored lights ashore. As no local pilots were available, the crew of the Isabel again faced another hazardous nocturnal challenge.
It was dark. The Isabel, making 10 knots with the Lillian Luckenbach trailing astern by a mere 1,000 yards, was midway through the first leg of the minefield. Obtaining good bearings on the marker beacons had been no problem and, according to the plotted tangents, the ships were steaming safely in the middle of the channel. Suddenly a Dutch motor torpedo boat (MTB) was sighted racing toward the Isabel and flashing light signals for her to stop immediately. She was standing into danger! Payne signalled the Luckenbach to stop and ordered the Isabel stopped to await the approaching MTB.
A brisk wind was blowing and, as the ships lay to, Payne was concerned that the Isabel might drift out of what he thought was the channel into the minefield. But another danger threatened the Isabel. Lookouts yelled the warning, and Payne shot a glance astern to see the huge black bow of the Luckenbach bearing down on them. He instantly ordered full speed ahead, averting by a scant few yards a collision of terrifying proportions.
After getting squared away again in what his charts indicated was the middle of the channel, and believing he finally had the Luckenbach stopped, Payne again ordered the Isabel’s engines stopped to await the approaching MTB. Someone on board the MTB was shouting they were in the middle of the minefield and if they did not clear out they would be blown to hell when Payne, acting on a premonition of impending doom, glanced over his shoulder. Good God, there it was again. The bow of the Luckenbach, looming monstrous in the gloom, was about to crash down upon the Isabel. The engine room gang responded magnificently to frantic signals from the bridge and the Isabel, with only seconds to spare, moved away from certain destruction.
By this time Payne was beside himself. He had to make a quick decision. His course so far led him to believe his chart was correct and that those on the MTB knew nothing about the new channel. Besides, it appeared that he had more to fear from the Luckenbach than the minefield, so he chose to continue as before. When the ships finally passed safely through the minefields, Payne and most of the others on board the Isabel felt that during the transit they had aged at least five years.
The Isabel was back off the entrance to Surabaja harbor at noon on 7 February. Japanese bombers were pounding the city, and Payne waited for the all clear to sound before venturing into the narrow channel. He was still waiting at 1314, when an operational priority message from commander, Southwest Pacific was received, directing him to proceed immediately to a position about 75 miles west to pick up survivors of a small Dutch steamer, the Van Cloon. She was on fire and sinking as a result of torpedo and gunfire attacks by a submarine. The Isabel was also directed to report her estimated time of arrival in the rescue area. Because the radio transmitter, removed weeks before, had never been replaced, a typed message replying to the dispatch was passed to a Dutch patrol boat off the harbor entrance to be relayed by radio to U.S. Navy headquarters in Surabaja. Once this was accomplished, the Isabel raced to the rescue.
Three hours later, a Royal Netherlands Navy PBY seaplane flew overhead and signalled the location of the survivors. Course was changed and in about fifteen minutes six small lifeboats under sail were sighted heading in a southerly direction. They were now in waters where an enemy submarine was known to be hunting and, because the Isabel lacked submarine detection gear, additional lookouts were posted. Payne knew full well that Japanese submarines often lurked near their victims to knock off ships attempting to rescue survivors, and he had no intention of falling into such a trap.
Before picking up survivors, Payne combed the area, seeking signs of the enemy submarine. When nothing was seen, he maneuvered the Isabel alongside the first lifeboat, and was about to take on survivors when an alert lookout sighted a torpedo wake 1,000 yards away moving to intercept the Isabel. Lines to the lifeboat were immediately cast free, and the occupants cautioned to remain put. Payne ordered all engines ahead full and, when clear of the lifeboat, called for full left rudder. At the same time a submarine periscope was seen off the port quarter.
As the Isabel heeled in a sharp left turn, the submarine’s conning tower began to emerge from the sea like some monster of the deep surfacing to gloat over its prey. Instantly the Isabel’s forward, port 3-inch gun opened fire. The shell was a little off in deflection to the left, and over in range. A rapid second shot exploded in the water close to the conning tower. Before a third could be fired, the submarine’s commander pulled the plug to seek safety in the deep. Meanwhile, the torpedo intended for the Isabel passed harmlessly to starboard.
The patrol plane, attracted by the gunfire, flew to the area and dropped depth charges within 50 yards of the submarine’s last known position. Three minutes later the Isabel was in the same area steaming in a tight circle to release five depth charges set to detonate at 200 feet. When the last charge exploded it threw high in the air a spout of oily water, which left behind a lingering rainbow spray. Damage to the submarine could not be assessed, but oil bubbling to the surface suggested that considerable damage had been inflicted.*
Convinced that if they had not sunk it they had given the submarine a lesson it would not soon forget, Payne returned to pick up the survivors. When the operation was completed at 1815, a muster roll check showed that all of the 187 passengers and crew, which included 10 women and children, were on board and none had suffered serious injury.
According to the Van Cloon’s commanding officer, the submarine surfaced about 6,000 yards from his ship and ordered him to stop and abandon ship. He responded by radioing for help and turning away in a vain attempt to outrun the submarine at full speed, which for the little steamer was all of 10 knots. With this, the submarine’s deck gun went into action. Accuracy of fire was poor, but with superior speed the sub soon closed the range. When a shell slammed through the unarmed merchantman’s side, rupturing a boiler, the captain ordered abandon ship.
The submarine stopped firing long enough for crewmen of the Van Cloon to lower away half the lifeboats, but when the gun again commenced lobbing shells, those still on board didn’t linger to observe the fall of shot. They went over the side with a rush. The few lifeboats were dangerously overcrowded, but fortunately the sea was calm, minimizing their chances of capsizing. Under sail, the survivors beat away from the doomed ship, which was quickly dispatched by a torpedo.
When the last bedraggled survivor had been hoisted on board, Payne headed full speed for Surabaja. To elude submarines, he took a zigzag course, but all turns had to be made with a very small rudder angle because, with fuel tanks almost empty and a heavy deck load of passengers, the top-heavy Isabel heeled dangerously in a turn. That night the ship transited the minefields, and at 0436 discharged survivors at Rotterdam Pier.
Having gone without sleep for over thirty-six hours, the Isabel’s crew was dog tired, but rest and relaxation were not theirs for the taking. At 0955, enemy bombers attacked the navy yard, forcing the Isabel to clear the dock area and into the stream. When the all clear sounded an hour and a half later, Payne again moored his ship at Rotterdam Pier to refuel.
The tempo of air attacks on Surabaja increased, and on 9 February 1942, bombers terrorized the city from 0824 until 2000. For the first time, the downtown area was attacked along with the docks and airfield. Numerous fires, which scorched the night, were hardly under control when, at 0748, the bombers were back. They returned at 1000 and hit again at 1240, while the Isabel was escorting the merchant ships Van Outhoorn (Dutch) and Giang Seng (British) through the minefields en route to Tandjungpriok. But the Isabel’s charmed life was not jeopardized. Although she and her charges could take no evasive action, the Japanese ignored them.
Soon after clearing the minefields, the Gian Seng turned back; because of bad coal she could not generate enough steam. The Isabel and her remaining charge arrived at Tandjungpriok on 12 February. Needing minor engine room work, which required shutting down her power plant, the Isabel was permitted to berth alongside the KLM pier. Although electricity and water were obtained from the pier, there was insufficient water to run the ice machines properly, and the sultry equatorial heat soon found its way into the cold food lockers. In two days’ time 1,000 pounds of beef, 200 pounds of pork, 100 pounds of chickens, and many other perishables which could not be replaced in that port city spoiled. This forced the entire crew to go on a diet of rice and canned corned beef.
Fifteen February 1942 was a disheartening day for the Isabel’s crew. News of the appalling British defeat at Singapore was shocking enough, but also on that day Admiral Thomas C. Hart, commander in chief of the Asiatic Fleet and commanding the ABDA naval forces, was relieved of command and ordered home. Throughout the Asiatic Fleet, Admiral Hart was considered a brilliant naval officer, and was highly esteemed. This assessment of the admiral was in sharp contrast with that of the British and Dutch, who snidely suggested he was an “old fogy” and lacked war experience. It was, in fact, the British and Dutch who conspired behind his back to have him recalled. Three days later, as the cruiser Durban, carrying Admiral Hart out of the Netherlands East Indies, passed the Isabel close aboard, the admiral waved and sent a message to all hands, “May God bless you and keep you during the difficult days to come.”
By 17 February, Tandjungpriok harbor was crammed with merchant ships awaiting sailing orders. The port area and the nearby city of Batavia were overrun with pitiful, confused refugees from Singapore and other areas of Southeast Asia, all hoping, for the most part in vain, to escape the onrushing armies of Japan.
That morning Lieutenant Payne visited Dutch naval headquarters in Batavia and was shocked to learn that the Japanese had landed on the island of Bali, less than 200 miles east of Surabaja. In addition, three large enemy invasion fleets were poised to strike at Java; one was coming down Banka Strait from Singapore, another from Bandjarmasin in southern Borneo, and the third from Makasar. This unnerving intelligence strongly indicated to Payne that it was high time his one-ship task force, along with the merchant ships in the harbor, hotfooted it through Sunda Strait to safer ports before the door slammed shut. In spite of the gravity of the situation, Payne, whose last vague directive from commander, Southwest Pacific (ComSoWesPac) was to take his instructions from Dutch headquarters in Batavia, was ordered to escort a British merchantman, the Deucalion, back to Surabaja.
It was almost midnight 18 February when, during a driving rainstorm, the two ships cautiously worked their way through the Surabaja minefield channel into the inner harbor. At dawn, Payne moored the Isabel alongside Holland Pier, which had been bombed the previous day but was still serviceable, and immediately went to U.S. Navy headquarters for instructions. He was confounded to find the place deserted and to learn that ComSoWesPac had been gone for several days. Most of the staff had moved to the port city of Tjilatjap on the south coast of Java, and the admiral to ABDA naval command headquarters—an elaborate, bombproof underground layout at Bandung in the mountains of central Java.
Payne then decided to check Dutch naval headquarters to find out what orders, if any, were there for the Isabel. En route he happened to meet a commander in the Royal Navy, the ex-shipping advisor in Singapore, who had learned on good authority that the Japanese had blocked Bali Strait. The only other escape route into the Indian Ocean lay through Sunda Strait, but a large enemy task force had been detected moving in that direction. This meant that the Isabel and all Allied ships in the Java Sea would soon be trapped. The Britisher, who was scheduled for air transportation to safer climes, concluded his gloomy report with a, “Cheerio, old chap—the best of luck.” His parting remarks, however, did little to instill in Payne that “good all over” feeling.
At Dutch navy headquarters Payne met Commander Thomas H. Binford, commanding Destroyer Division 58, who had just arrived with the four pipers Stewart, John D. Edwards, Parrott, and Pillsbury. That night they, along with other Allied ships, were going to attack Japanese ships reported to be in Bandung Strait reinforcing their troops ashore on Bali. He suggested that if Payne wished to take the risk, the Isabel was welcome to tag along and hope to get through the strait during the melee. This invitation, quickly accepted by Payne, went up in smoke, however, when Dutch navy officials refused to permit it and insisted that the Isabel would escort a small convoy to Borneo.
Payne was beside himself, for in directing such an operation the Dutch showed a complete disregard for the plain facts of life. With the Japanese controlling practically all of Borneo, and especially the air and seas surrounding it, this mission was doomed before it started. To verify that he must obey such unrealistic orders, Payne attempted to contact U.S. Navy headquarters in Tjilatjap. Failing that, he managed to phone Allied headquarters at Bandung, where he learned that the situation was normal, “All fouled up.” The Isabel, it seems, was supposed to have been in Tjilatjap several days before, but someone at headquarters mislaid the message. They were sorry about that.
Payne was told to forget the Borneo caper and convoy the 10-knot American freighter Collingsworth west along the north coast of Java and attempt to pass through Sunda Strait into the Indian Ocean. If all went well, the ships would continue southwest toward Cocos Island. Further orders would be sent by radio. For such a voyage, the Isabel would have to refuel from the Collingsworth and, to do so, Payne was told to confiscate a hose if one could not be purchased.
While Payne was away from the ship there had been two air raids, in spite of which his executive officer, Lieutenant Buass, had managed to complete refueling the ship and to stock up on meat and fresh vegetables. All hands, having subsisted for more than four days on corned beef and rice, were especially happy about the latter.
Prior to getting under way, Payne and the Collingsworth’s captain met to discuss various aspects of their hazardous journey. The most pressing problem was that of communications. The Isabel’s radio transmitter had never been replaced and, ever since arriving in Java, the ship had been unable to communicate with anyone. It was, therefore, arranged that the Isabel’s messages for naval headquarters would be passed to the Collingsworth for transmittal. But there were complications. Although the merchantman could set up to transmit on the special navy frequency, she lacked a frequency meter to determine if the transmitter was putting out correctly. Besides, the navy frequency was beyond the range of the ship’s receiver. To overcome these deficiences it was decided that the Isabel would listen in on her receiver and coach the Collingsworth on frequency by signal flags—HYPO for high and LOVE for low.
The two ships cleared the minefields at 2115, and set a course for Sunda Strait with the Collingsworth keeping station 500 yards astern of the Isabel. From the bridge, Payne, looking down on the forecastle, could see the black, snake-like outline of a great length of hose for which no money had changed hands. He would ask no questions as to how or where it was acquired, for that was the private business of a very enterprising crew.
On the afternoon of 20 February a burning ship was sighted about 10 miles to the north, but Payne did not desert the Collingsworth to investigate because his first responsibility was for his convoy’s safety. Earlier they had passed through the grim flotsam of a sunken ship which reaffirmed the unhappy truth that enemy submarines haunted the Java Sea. For all Payne knew, one could be lurking near the flaming hulk to claim another victim. It was a hard decision to make, but Payne continued on.
At 1330 on 21 February, the ships put into Bantam Bay on the northwest coast of Java to hide until dark before attempting the transit of Sunda Strait, a mere 30 miles away. The Isabel went alongside the Collingsworth to refuel using the confiscated hose, which was heavy and not very flexible. It worked fairly well in the sheltered bay, but there were serious reservations concerning its use in the open sea. This could pose a difficult problem if the Isabel were ordered to escort the Collingsworth further west, provided the ships made it safely into the Indian Ocean.
With sundown the moment of truth arrived, and the ships got under way for Sunda Strait. Japanese forces were rumored to have already landed on the Sumatra side, and it was likely that their submarines would be skulking in the strait to sink ships attempting to escape from the Java Sea. On board the Isabel battle stations were manned and tensions ran high as all available personnel kept a sharp lookout for signs of trouble. The plan was to hug the Java side, where against the blackness of the mountains the darkened ships would be less likely to be seen by enemy eyes.
Seldom more than 500 yards off shore, and at times passing between naked rocks and the beach, the ships pressed on at the agonizing speed of 10 knots—the Collingsworth’s best. Heavy clouds blanketing the sky were a godsend, but at 2305, with the ships only a third of the way through, the clouds vanished and a brilliant moon blew their cover. On they steamed, occasionally to see a Dutch patrol boat silently waiting in a cove along the route. It was reassuring to know they were not alone.
By 1115 the next day, the Isabel and her convoy were safely through Sunda Strait and steaming on a southwesterly course. ComSoWesPac had not been heard on the air for several days, which caused Payne to wonder if navy headquarters was still in Tjilatjap. The Collingsworth had received orders to proceed to Ceylon, but none had come for the Isabel. Payne was faced with a problem. Should he continue on with the Collingsworth or break radio silence to contact headquarters? The latter action was decided upon and, by using a line-throwing gun with a tin can attached to the line’s bitter end, a coded message requesting instructions was passed to the Collingsworth for transmission to ComSoWesPac.
Calibrating the merchant ship’s transmitter proved a frustrating operation, one which under other circumstances could have been funny. The Isabel monitored the transmissions, and by semaphore signalled the Collingsworth to come up or down on frequency. The Collingsworth’s captain was the only person on board who understood semaphore, so he would receive the directions and then go tell his radio operator. After making adjustments, they would try again. This jury-rig procedure continued for nearly four hours until, at last, the transmitter was correctly tuned.
Call after call went out to ComSoWesPac, who failed to answer. Fortunately the tanker Pecos in Tjilatjap harbor took the message to pass on by hand to ComSoWesPac, whose radio was inoperative. Late that afternoon the Isabel received orders to leave the Collingsworth and proceed to Tjilatjap. This was followed by another, more sobering message from ComSoWesPac: “Situation is critical, ABDAFLOAT wishes to inform and impress all hands with the necessity for exerting every effort to prevent enemy landing on Java. At every opportunity the offensive must be taken and sacrifices made in accomplishing this.”
The Isabel entered Tjilatjap harbor to moor alongside the tanker Pecos on the afternoon of 23 February. The harbor, reached by a long, narrow channel, was jammed with more than fifty merchant ships, apparently waiting for sailing orders. Payne was concerned that enemy bombers might sink a ship or two in the channel and lock the remainder in for the duration. He found it impossible to rationalize why these ships were retained in such a vulnerable position.
For the next three days more ships—including the destroyers Whipple, Bulmer, Pillsbury, and Parrott; the minesweepers Whippoorwill and Lark; and the gunboat Asheville—continued to arrive in the already overcrowded harbor of Tjilatjap. Several times each day air raid alarms sent everyone racing to battle stations, but, praise the Lord, the enemy bombers failed to materialize.
On 27 February, two Japanese submarines were reported to have been seen on the surface outside the minefield, and it became painfully obvious that the noose was being tightened on the ships at Tjilatjap. Following an air raid alert that morning, the tanker Pecos, escorted by the destroyers Whipple and Edsall, got under way and moved safely out to sea. Immediately after them, as fast as they could file through the narrow channel, went more than forty unescorted merchant ships to seek safer ports far away from the Netherlands East Indies. Many would never make it.
Although Payne had been told to stand by to proceed south, he was ordered at dawn of the twenty-eighth to move the Isabel up the Kali Donan River, which empties into the harbor, moor alongside the east bank, and cover the entire ship with palms. Camouflaged as an innocent extension of the jungle, she might be able to escape any bombing that occurred. This led Payne to believe they might remain in Tjilatjap longer than expected and, while his crew diligently chopped down palm trees, he went ashore to be briefed on the situation.
At navy headquarters he was informed that plans had changed. The destroyer Pillsbury, originally scheduled to remain until the impending end to evacuate naval personnel, was departing that afternoon for Australia. Now to the Isabel would fall the dubious honor of being the last U.S. Navy ship to leave Tjilatjap. The decision had been predicated on the assumption that the Isabel was of no particular military value, and her loss would make little difference in the war against Japan.
Payne returned to his ship to find the crew fighting swarms of savage mosquitoes, and eating copious amounts of quinine to stave off malaria. To top this, Lieutenant Buass told him that while they were covering the ship with palm fronds, one of the Chinese mess boys, somewhat bewildered by the proceedings, asked if they were going to have a ship’s party. Party!
Late the following morning, 1 March 1942, Payne visited headquarters to find it cloaked in gloom and abounding with the most depressing news. The Allied fleet had lost a disastrous battle in the Java Sea, and the fate of most ships was uncertain. Their prolonged and mysterious silence, however, forebode the worst. The fleet tanker Pecos, loaded with survivors from the aircraft tender Langley, which had been bombed and sunk on 27 February, radioed that morning that she was under attack by dive bombers. Nothing had been heard from her since, raising grave fears that she too had fallen prey to the Japanese.
To envelop gloom in gloom, Japanese forces were landing on the north coast of Java, and at least two enemy aircraft carriers, several cruisers, and an unknown number of submarines were roaming the Indian Ocean to intercept ships attempting to escape to Australia. Their presence was attested to by numerous frantic radio calls for help from merchant ships which had departed Tjilatjap during the last few days. It was obvious to Payne that the Isabel’s chances of avoiding a Japanese-induced rendezvous with Davy Jones were growing slimmer by the hour.
There was, however, one shred of good news. The Isabel would sail that night. Vice Admiral Glassford and staff would arrive later in the day from Bandung to embark in the Isabel, and Payne was directed to commence refueling at 1600, then stand by to get under way soon after dark.
The Isabel was at the refueling pier that afternoon when twenty-one officers and enlisted men reported on board for transportation. Other than Admiral Glassford and several of his senior officers, who would now depart Tjilatjap via a navy PBY seaplane, these were the last of the U.S. Navy staff in Java. Payne was informed that Admiral Glassford, temporarily headquartered in the city’s only hotel, wished to see him at once.
Although Payne was happy to show the Isabel’s heels to Java, it would be an understatement to say that he was less than enthusiastic with the admiral’s orders, which had all the earmarks of a dangerous mission. The newly designated commanding officer of the submarine Spearfish, Lieutenant Commander James C. Dempsey, would sail with the Isabel. Seaward of the minefields, the Isabel would rendezvous with the Spearfish and put him on board. Following that, Payne was free to proceed to Exmouth Gulf, Australia, where fuel was available. Now Payne was aware that three submarines were known to be lying off the harbor entrance, two Japanese and one American. Without underwater detection gear, his ship, in the dark of night, was somehow supposed to locate the friendly submarine and transfer the officer. The thought pinged sharply through Payne’s head that such an operation could result in the loss of the Isabel as well as the Spearfish. There was one other thing the admiral ordered Payne to do. The Sea Witch, a new C-3–type American merchantman, was in port, and he was made personally responsible that, no matter what, she sailed that night under escort by the Isabel to safe waters.
From headquarters Payne visited the harbor master to request a pilot for the Sea Witch. Here he met unexpected difficulty. The harbor master adamantly refused to permit the ship to sail until her cargo of P-40 fighter planes and trucks was completely unloaded, a task which would carry over well into the following day. Payne was flabbergasted. In view of the fact that Java was about to be overrun by the Japanese, and everyone who could was fleeing to safer lands, he tried to convince the man that it would only be a matter of a few days before the entire cargo would fall into enemy hands. The Dutchman, however, held fast, insisting that there would be no pilot until he gave the word.
Not to be outdone, Payne enlisted the services of a native cab driver who helped him find one of the harbor pilots. With the promise of three times the normal fee, he agreed to take the ship out that night. Payne then took the pilot to the Sea Witch, where he found the captain more than anxious to escape from Java. The harbor pilot agreed to meet the Isabel off the minefield entrance at midnight, regardless of any attempts of the harbor master to prevent the ship’s sailing.
The Isabel got under way under the unwelcome glare of a full moon at 2110, and an hour later cleared the minefield to begin the dangerous search for the Spearfish. At 2325 the sea near the Isabel erupted, and the large black hull of a submarine hove into view. The Isabel’s guns quickly trained on the submarine and all hands remained tense until she was challenged and identified herself as the Spearfish. Without wasting time, Lieutenant Commander Dempsey was transferred, and the submarine slipped silently back into the depths of the Indian Ocean, leaving the Isabel alone to await the arrival of her convoy.
Midnight passed with no sign of the Sea Witch, and Payne feared something had happened to prevent her sailing. While he waited, Payne kept the Isabel steaming on various zigzag courses to counter possible moves by enemy submarines. The brilliant moonlight was cause for great concern, for there was no place the ship could hide, and at 0300 Payne’s worst fears were realized. The frantic shouts of lookouts alerted Payne to a torpedo wake to port heading toward them. It was too late to take evasive action. Terrified, all hands watched the lethal tin fish speeding to intercept the Isabel. The ship was doomed. But a miracle occurred. The torpedo passed directly beneath the bridge without exploding and raced away into the night. Lacking means to locate the attacker, Payne rapidly changed direction and at full speed headed away from the danger area.
This narrow escape from oblivion was excuse enough for Payne to abandon the Sea Witch, but he decided to wait longer. One hour later, at 0130 on 2 March 1942, the Sea Witch stood out and joined up. As she did, the weather turned squally. With thick clouds blocking out the moon and shrouded in torrents of rain, the two ships headed south with the Sea Witch maintaining station 500 yards astern of the Isabel.
Payne’s orders were to head for Exmouth Gulf, Australia, but the admiral’s last words were to escort the Sea Witch to safe waters. At the time, however, there appeared to be no such thing as safe waters. To the east, Japanese forces were known to be sinking ships attempting to go directly to Australia, and Payne determined that his best bet was to steam due south before heading for Australia. He calculated that by the most economical use of fuel the Isabel could make Fremantle in southwestern Australia.
By noon of 2 March the storm clouds had lifted, and at 1235 a twin-engine Japanese bomber sighted the ships. On board the unarmed merchantman and the underarmed Isabel, men fearfully watched as the plane dropped lower and circled out of gun range. It remained in their vicinity for twenty minutes before flying away. Apparently it was on a reconnaissance mission and without bombs, otherwise it surely would have attacked the Sea Witch, a prime 10,000-ton target.
Fears did not diminish with the plane’s departure, for, with their location now no secret, they could be attacked at any time by aircraft, warships, or both. But fortune smiled once again. The ships steamed on throughout the long afternoon until rain and darkness once again became their allies.
On 3 March the weather turned mean. Southwest winds of force five whipped up heavy seas, which pounded the Isabel unmercifully. Spray, blown high over the ship, condensed on the stacks, leaving them crusted with thick layers of salt. At 0900 the tops of a strange warship were sighted approaching at high speed bearing 227 degrees true. Earlier a frantic distress call of only two words, “Raider, raider,” had been heard from the gunboat Asheville. Her silence from then on boded disaster, and the nature of this ship was of great concern. The seas were too rough to make a run for it. Besides, the Sea Witch was making her best speed, 14 knots. Nothing could be done but wait and pray.
The long minutes of waiting, while the ship loomed ever larger, were filled with unmasked tensions, especially when it was determined she was a cruiser. Suddenly, the stranger’s signal light flashed a challenge. The Isabel replied. All hands were grimly silent as more light signals were exchanged, and then, the word was passed. She was the heavy cruiser Phoenix. Instantly, wild, delirious shouts went up from the Isabel’s crew. To know they were not alone in an ocean where the enemy roamed at will was cause for rejoicing. Although the Phoenix soon disappeared to the east, the cruel pressures of vulnerability, which for many days had plagued the Isabel’s crew, all at once vanished, replaced by a heartwarming aura of optimism.
Winds and seas abated during the early hours of 4 March and speed, which had been reduced to 12 knots, was increased to 14. This day was uneventful other than the receipt of a dispatch to all Allied ships warning of two enemy aircraft carriers launching planes. The position given was 400 miles to the northeast, too far away to cause trouble.
The two ships were again pounded by gale force winds and heavy seas on the fifth. Time after time, green water surged over the Isabel’s bridge, and the little ship, with her decks constantly awash, pitched and rolled and shuddered. Huge waves tore away the forward ammunition locker, and at times it seemed as though the ship itself would break in two. Steam pressure suddenly dropped off at 1045, and the Isabel lost headway. Sea water, sloshing down fuel tank vents, which were often underwater, had contaminated the oil. With a prayer that not all fuel tanks were contaminated, the chief engineer shifted to another. It worked, and within fifteen minutes pressure and speed were regained.
All hands cheered to see land that afternoon off the port quarter. It was far away, but the wild, unpopulated southwest coast of Australia was to them the promised land. They were now less than 400 miles from Fremantle, and if the oil held out and the Isabel did not come apart at the seams, they would make it. Both, however, posed serious problems. Their fuel, even without the contamination, was seriously low, and the seas, with the setting sun, were growing increasingly rough. They had been unable to prepare normal meals for more than two days. A few sandwiches and canned food had been the order of the day. There was a foot of water in the wardroom, and no place for passengers or crew to sleep except in a few sloppy-wet places topside. With the belief that the Isabel might founder, no one even attempted to sleep below decks. Existence for those on board the Isabel was miserable.
The USS Isabel (PY-10), “relief” flagship for commander in chief, U.S. Asiatic Fleet. Naval Institute Collection
The weather calmed down somewhat by the next morning, and although the ship continued to experience trouble with contaminated fuel, speed was maintained at 13 knots throughout the day. Two empty fuel tanks were filled with water for ballast, and with the two remaining almost empty but fouled with sea water, the Isabel’s capability of making port was marginal.
Rottnest Island Light, marking the entrance to Fremantle harbor, was sighted at 0100 on 7 March 1942. Words cannot express the exhilaration which surged through the hearts of those on board the Isabel. A dreadfully long nightmare was about to be happily concluded. With only four hours’ fuel remaining, the Isabel dropped the hook in Fremantle harbor, and the gutsy little ship and her courageous crew were safe at last.
In concluding the saga of the Isabel, it might be well to point out that the destroyer Pillsbury, which left Tjilatjap harbor in the Isabel’s place, vanished without a trace. The same fate was met by the gunboat Asheville and numerous merchant ships attempting to reach Australia. Thus, it is apparent that Lieutenant Payne’s decision initially to sail on a southerly course was fortuitous. To confirm that, a PBY pilot reported that on the day after the Isabel left Tjilatjap, he sighted a Japanese cruiser and two destroyers a mere 40 miles east of her.
In summary, the Isabel, considered expendable even before the war began, superbly performed every dangerous assignment, and somehow managed to come through unscathed. Stripped of her radio transmitter and unable to communicate with headquarters or other units of the fleet, she was in a precarious position in wartime. Because of obsolete armament and lack of underwater detection gear, she was seriously disadvantaged in the face of enemy opposition. Scoffed at as a fighting ship and on occasion completely forgotten, the Isabel, manned by a derring-do crew, safely led elements of the fleet through dangerous minefields and treacherous reef-strewn waters, escorted numerous vessels through areas dominated by the enemy, probably shot down an attacking plane, sank a Japanese submarine, and rescued 187 survivors from a sunken ship.
The Isabel was there and narrowly escaped disaster in the bombing of the Cavite Navy Yard. Strangely enough, she happened to be in the harbors of Tandjungpriok and Surabaja, Java, and Palembang, Sumatra, when each of these cities suffered their initial bombing attacks. Because she was expendable, the Isabel was assigned the dubious distinction of being the last Allied naval vessel to leave port in Java, and upon her miraculous arrival in Australia, the Isabel’s mail was found in the “Sunken Ships” file.
Ironically, the heroic achievements of the Isabel’s crew went unnoticed, and not a single officer or enlisted man received a commendation of any kind. A grateful navy, however, did award the Isabel one battle star on the Asiatic-Pacific Service Medal for participation in Philippine Island operations from 8 December 1941 to 2 March 1942, a medal awarded to everyone else in the Asiatic Fleet, no matter what they did.
*According to the U.S. Navy’s official history of the Isabel, the Dutch navy credited her with sinking the submarine. The PBY seaplane, which hovered over the area after the Isabel departed, confirmed the kill.
