Ship of Ghosts - James D. Hornfischer [36]
Anyone privy to the signals exhales in relief, for the difference between battleships and heavy cruisers is as between life and death. Battleships were known to be about. Admiral Nagumo’s carrier group sailed with two of them, the swift Kongo and Haruna, tracking these waters without enemy peer. But these are not battleships—if they had been, their presence would have been forcefully announced at a range of twenty miles. Much to the relief of Commander Hara and the rest of the Japanese destroyer captains, the cruisers Nachi and Haguro are with them now. Admiral Takagi has ordered Nishimura’s troop carriers to withdraw while the cruisers and destroyers settle the question of their access to Java’s beaches.
Within minutes, Lt. Bruce D. Skidmore, stationed high in the Houston’s foremast, reports enemy cruisers bearing thirty degrees relative to starboard, steaming southwest on a nearly perpendicular course to the northwesterly oriented Allied line. The enemy fleet reveals itself slowly, like a winter forest growing out of the equatorial sea. The steel branches proliferate. There is no telling how large it is. On the Houston, a sinking feeling sets in that they are outnumbered. Yet somehow it manages to coexist with a prickle of excitement that the ship is finally going to get to do what it was built for. “We realized help would come, but not today,” said Marine Pfc. Marvin Robinson. “The feeling was—and I think the skipper had a large part to do with this feeling—‘Looky fellows, let’s give them hell. Let’s give them all we’ve got. They’ll be here.’” There is not a man on the Houston who doubts the crew’s morale, even in these most adverse conditions.
A halo of copper-orange flame envelops the silhouettes of two heavy cruisers, the Nachi and the Haguro, before clouds of cordite smoke conceal them and a light reverberation of thunder rolls in behind. Excitement has gotten the better of the Japanese. Admiral Takagi’s flagship and its sister ship in Cruiser Division Five have opened fire at nearly thirty thousand yards. The range is too long by some two thousand yards. The projectiles take more than a minute to travel that far. Well ahead of Doorman’s column, white towers of seawater rise, stand briefly, then collapse from their base, the spray-whipped peaks drifting as mist.
Doorman evaluates his predicament, gauges time and motion, worries that the Japanese ships might beat him to the intersection of their converging courses. If that happens, the enemy will cross his formation’s T, thereby exposing his lead ships to full broadsides from the entire opposing line. Doorman changes course twenty degrees to the left, paralleling the course of the enemy cruisers. The maneuver momentarily hangs the three leading British destroyers out on the cruisers’ starboard bow, closest to the Japanese. The HMS Electra, the right-hand ship in the scouting line, attracts vicious fire. From fifteen thousand yards, the light cruisers and even a few destroyers can reach her. A spectrum of dye-colored foam rises around her. The Electra’s commanding officer, Cdr. C. W. May, has the ship “twisting like a hare” chasing shell splashes. Whether by reason of signaling problems or Admiral Doorman’s tactical preference, the lead British destroyers are kept on a leash. They do not form up to attack with torpedoes. Doorman orders His Majesty’s tin cans to scurry to the safety of the Allied column’s disengaged port side and form up into a column, awaiting their moment.
From overhead comes the buzzing of aircraft, as yet out of sight. Admiral Doorman has requested air support, but the call has gone unheeded. These planes are probably not friendly. On this day Surabaya’s air defense command will concentrate its meager resources on bombing Nishimura’s convoy, not protecting Doorman