The Ghost That Died at Sunda Strait

By Walter G. Winslow

Recounting the last stand of the heavy cruiser Houston, this tale of survival brings to life the 1942 battle at Sunda Strait.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Naval Institute Press
• Release date: Dec 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9781612513010

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PROLOGUE

On the night of 28 February 1942, the heavy cruiser USS Houston (CA-30), in company with the Australian light cruiser HMAS Perth, vanished off the northwest coast of Java. The fate of both ships and those who manned them remained a mystery until the end of World War II, when small groups of survivors were rescued from Japanese prisoner of war camps scattered throughout the Malay Peninsula, Burma, Siam, Indochina, and Japan.

Of the 1,015 officers and men on board the Houston that fateful night, 655 were killed in action, drowned in the Java Sea, or were slaughtered ashore by natives; 360 escaped from the sinking ship, only to be captured as they struggled in the sea or sought to escape in the wilds of Java. Of the survivors, 75 died as POWs, but 285 lived through the ordeal of filth, privation, and brutal treatment thrust upon them for three and a half years in Japanese prison camps. I was one of them.

The cruiser, named in honor of the city of Houston, Texas, first gathered fame when President Franklin D. Roosevelt boarded her at Annapolis, Maryland, in July 1934 for an 11,783-mile cruise to the Caribbean, the Panama Canal, Honolulu, and Portland, Oregon. The president fell in love with the Houston, and in 1935, 1938, and 1939, he again took extended cruises on board her. Once, upon leaving the ship, the president said, "I want to take this opportunity to thank the officers and crew of the Houston for a very wonderful trip. I feel that this ship is home. . . ."

It is small wonder then that the USS Houston became known as The Little Flagship of the Fleet. It was a title richly deserved, for no other U.S. Navy ship has ever been so honored as to have embarked a president of the United States on so many different occasions. In addition, the Houston flew the flags of many other distinguished guests such as the secretary of the navy, the chief of naval operations, the commander in chief of the fleet, and admirals of various commands.

Although the Houston was one of the most beautiful fighting ships ever built, she carried comparatively light armor plating. Many contended she could not stand up long under punishment in battle, and on occasion, the Houston was even referred to as a paper cruiser. Subsequent events, however, were to prove the scoffers very wrong.

On 14 March 1942, a joint British Admiralty/U.S. Navy Department communiqué contained this shocking news:

. . . After dark on 28 February 1942, HMAS Perth and USS Houston left Tandjong Priok, Java with the intention of passing through Sunda Strait. . . . During the night an enemy report from HMAS Perth was received, indicating she and USS Houston had come in contact with a force of Japanese ships off St. Nicholas Point at about 2330 hrs. . . . Nothing, however, has been heard from HMAS Perth or USS Houston since that time. The next of kin of the USS Houston are being notified accordingly.

Texans, especially those in Houston, were so stunned and so emotionally aroused by the loss of the Houston that they immediately instituted a fund dedicated to building another Houston. The drive was quickly oversubscribed, to the extent that more than $85 million was raised, enough then to finance construction not only of the new light cruiser USS Houston (CL-81), but also a small aircraft carrier, the San Jacinto (CVL-30).

On Memorial Day in 1942, an impressive public ceremony was held in downtown Houston. With a replica of the lost cruiser in the background, one thousand Texas volunteers were sworn in to replace her gallant crew. The Honorable Neal Pickett, mayor of Houston, concluded his address to the large and inspired audience by reading a message from President Roosevelt, which read in part

On this Memorial Day all America joins with you who are gathered in proud tribute to a great ship and a gallant company of American officers and men. That fighting ship and those fighting Americans shall live forever in our hearts. . . .

The officers and men of the USS Houston were privileged to prove, once again, that free Americans consider no price too high to pay in defense of their freedom. The officers and men of the USS Houston drove a hard bargain. They sold their liberty and their lives most dearly.

Our enemies have given us a chance to prove there will be another USS Houston, and yet another USS Houston, if that should become necessary, and still another USS Houston, as long as American ideals are in jeopardy.

The officers and men of the USS Houston have placed all of us in their debt by winning a part of the victory which is our common goal. Reverently, and with all humility, we acknowledge this debt. To those officers and men, wherever they may be, we give our solemn pledge that the debt will be paid in full.

The first time I saw The little Flagship of the Fleet was on 9 August 1938. The presidential flag was flying proudly from her mainmast as she steamed into the harbor of Pensacola, Florida, and moored alongside the Naval Air Station dock. I was undergoing flight training at the time and, like everyone else in the Naval Air Training Command, was in dress-white uniform, lined up awaiting inspection by the commander in chief. Following a twenty-one-gun salute, President Roosevelt, looking tanned and fit, slowly drove past our parade formation in an open car.

When we broke ranks after the inspection, I hurried to look at the famous cruiser. With youthful awe, I marveled at her powerful 8-inch guns, six of which were in two turrets forward, and three more in the after turret. Of keen interest were the two scout-observation planes in ready position on the port and starboard catapults. Two more could be seen, stowed with wings folded, in small hangars just aft of the quarterdeck. I tried to imagine what it might be like to be catapulted from a ship under way, and to navigate those little planes over miles of trackless ocean.

Visitors were not permitted on board, but from what I could see by sauntering along the pier, the Houston was spotless and her crew immaculate. I paused by the officers’ gangway to listen to an old salt, who fancied himself a Houston plank owner, expound upon the ship’s many virtues, one of which was the special elevator installed to convey the crippled president from the quarterdeck to his cabin and the bridge. I approvingly studied the Houston’s sleek lines. Little did I suspect that within a few short years I would be on board her in a faraway sea, engaging superior enemy forces in mortal combat.

War can be one of man’s most exhilarating experiences, just as it can be terrifying and repugnant. It can also be one of the most nerve-racking, especially for those who must stand alert at battle stations in enemy-dominated waters for prolonged periods of time without adequate food, rest, or recreation. The men of the Houston learned this first hand, having maintained a constant vigil against sudden attack by Japanese submarines, bombers, or men-of-war for almost three months.

The story of the USS Houston, particularly that grueling last month, when in rapid succession and against appalling odds came the battles of the Flores Sea, Banda Sea, Java Sea, and, finally, Sunda Strait, is one of the great epics of the United States Navy. Yet, historians have failed to give the magnificent USS Houston her rightful place in time. Therefore, in memory of my valiant shipmates and our fighting ship, I hereby endeavor to set the record straight.

1

OUT OF THE FRYING PAN

The Japanese claimed to have sunk the heavy cruiser USS Houston, flagship of the United States Asiatic Fleet, so many times during the early months of World War II that she was nicknamed The Galloping Ghost of the Java Coast. Now she was no more. Blasted into a helpless, burning hulk, she lay deep in her watery grave. There in the Java Sea, the Houston would remain until the end of time, manned by most of my shipmates.

It was about 0100 hours on 1 March 1942. I was swimming away from the fearful place where only minutes before the great ship had gone down. From the surrounding darkness, I heard the screams of drowning men and the sharp cries of others desperately attempting to locate shipmates. The savage, ugly battle had exacted a heavy toll on both sides. Yet, unaccountably, fate had spared my life.

The nearest land was 140 feet . . . straight down! To survive, I had to reach dry land through a sea infested with the enemy, man-eating sharks, and vicious barracudas. But I never doubted that I was going to make it.

My intention was to play it alone, to remain inconspicuous and get out of the area before the Japanese began searching for survivors. My first goal was one of the small islands off the coast of northwest Java, where I could secure a native outrigger canoe. Nothing was to stand in my way. If I couldn’t buy one, I would steal or kill to get it. Sailing had long been my hobby, and I figured that by hugging the shoreline, out of reach of Japanese warships, I could slip through Sunda Strait, sail east along the Netherlands East Indies chain, and finally turn south to Australia—a distance of almost 2,000 miles. Food and water would be no problem; both could be obtained ashore.

Physically, I was in excellent shape and had escaped the sinking Houston with only a slight cut on my forearm. Because I had gone over the side with two life jackets, I would have no difficulty in swimming the hours necessary to reach land. One of these jackets was the naval aviator’s self-inflating type, commonly called a Mae West after the buxom movie queen. At times, however, a Mae West would not inflate in the moment of need. So I had taken the precaution of also wearing one of the bulky kapok jackets of standard issue. On my belt hung a .45 automatic with two extra clips of ammunition, all heavily coated with Cosmoline to prevent saltwater corrosion, and a razor-sharp, double-edged knife that a Moro on the Philippine island of Mindanao had bartered for a few pesos. My wallet contained $160 in assorted currencies, American, British, Dutch, and Australian. This was a must for a Houston pilot. We could never be sure when we flew away from the ship on our daily war patrols whether or not she would be afloat on our return. Equipment for my venture seemed adequate.

Clouds intermittently darkened the moon as I swam toward the silhouette of a high volcanic peak marking the northwestern end of Java. I could see no one. The screams of drowning men no longer pierced the night. An eerie silence had descended on the world around me.

I was swimming with slow, energy-conserving strokes when a dark, round object bobbed in the water in front of me. Believing it to be a coconut, I reached to push it aside. It was a human head! Horrified, I turned to swim away, but the bodyless head followed. For a few frantic strokes it seemed to perch on my shoulders. Finally, I outdistanced the grisly thing. Minutes later, I spotted a life raft and swam closer to discover it was overloaded with Houston survivors, many of them wounded. I could do nothing for them, so without stopping, I continued toward my objective, using a slow side stroke and, occasionally, the breast stroke.

Several hundred yards away from the life raft, I came upon a man floundering in the water. When he saw me, he cried out for help. I swam over to him. He was a young marine I recognized as having been stationed with a .50-caliber machine gun crew in Houston’s foremast.

Help me, Mr. Winslow, he said desperately. I don’t have a life jacket! I can’t make it!

I assured him he was in luck, for I just happened to have an extra one. I slipped out of the kapok jacket and helped him into it. Then, with an inward prayer, I pulled the toggles to inflate my Mae West. With a hissing sound, the compressed gas rushed to expand the cells, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

I didn’t relish the thought of company, but there was no alternative. He insisted upon staying with me, and I couldn’t just swim off and leave him alone, so together we swam westward.

Occasional rain squalls blotted out our vision. We swam on, hoping we were headed in the right direction. About a half hour later, we found ourselves close to a group of men swimming together and excitedly jabbering in a strange tongue. We paused to listen. To our bedevilment, they turned out to be survivors of a sunken Japanese ship. We moved away quickly and quietly.

With safe distance between ourselves and the enemy, and relieved to have avoided a dangerous encounter, we were confronted with a new threat. Out of the darkness we heard the chugging of a motor and were dismayed to see a small boat heading directly toward us. Since no Allied boats could be in the area, this one had to be Japanese, probably searching for survivors. When the boat approached, we quickly slipped out of our life jackets and ducked under the water, clinging desperately to our only means of survival as they bobbed innocently on the surface. The sound of propellers seemed to pass overhead. My lungs were about to burst when, by the diminishing sound, I considered it safe to surface. The young marine, gasping for air, popped up alongside. Back in our life jackets, we struck out again.

The marine, at times, would lag behind and call for me to wait. This infuriated me. He made too much noise, and I feared his shouts would attract the Japanese. Several times I warned him to keep quiet, but he was in such an excited state that he seemed incapable of keeping his mouth shut. It was frustrating to think that his noisy presence might thwart my escape. I had no intention of being killed or captured by the Japanese because of someone else’s indiscretion. Finally, I decided that if he shouted once more, I would kill him. This was not a particularly rational moment in my life, for I, too, was excited and desperate to remain alive and free.

The marine’s last chance came sooner than expected. He had drifted about ten yards behind me and was slowly losing ground. I had resolved to keep going. If he couldn’t keep up, he would have to make it on his own. Then he cried out again. His penetrating shouts, Mr. Winslow, Mr. Winslow, wait for me, rang out in the night. This was the end. This was a struggle for survival. It was his life or mine. I drew the dagger from its sheath and swam toward him, grimly determined to kill. I was about to plunge the long blade into his chest when he said, Gee, Mr. Winslow, I’m glad you waited for me. Instantly, my mind cleared, and I was aghast at myself for the horrendous deed I had been about to commit. Disgusted and ashamed, I slid the dagger back into its sheath. Sternly, I once again warned him to keep his mouth shut. The marine never suspected how close he had come to death. For this I was thankful.

At times the moon broke through the scattered clouds, and we could see the big volcano’s dark outline still many miles away. At the rate we were swimming, it would take hours to reach it; yet, to escape the Japanese we had to reach an island before sunrise.

Swimming only a few miles off the Java coast, we saw numerous lights flashing like giant fireflies along the shoreline. In all probability, they were signal lights from Japanese landing parties. Between us and the shoreline we made out the vague silhouettes of enemy ships. It was impossible to land on the coast, for the Japanese were already there in force. We had to keep heading west.

Just as a rain squall engulfed us, the heavy silence of the night was broken by the churning of a ship’s propellers. Suddenly, the monstrous bow of a transport burst out of the rain, bearing down on us. Frantically, we swam to keep from being run over. The bow wave washed over me as I struggled to kick away from the ship’s side and its murderous propellers. Once in the clear, I floated exhausted, watching the ship pass by.

Japanese soldiers lined the rail. I was close enough to hear them talking. Almost afraid to breath, I remained deathly still until the ship had passed on into the night. The marine was nowhere to be seen. Fearing he had been run down and chopped up by the propellers, I resumed swimming. Ironically, I missed him and felt depressed. I had just about shrugged him from my mind when something splashing in the water about twenty yards away attracted my attention. Then came the familiar cry, Mr. Winslow, Mr. Winslow, wait for me! This time I didn’t mind. Miraculously, the ship had knifed between us, sending him to one side and me to the other.

As time wore on, the marine became tired. His slow pace was jeopardizing my chance to escape. I was distressed and, again, on the verge of leaving him to shift for himself, when we came to a large raft with many Houston survivors clinging to it. This was a prime target, as far as I was concerned, which offered those who clustered in and around it nothing more than a damn good chance to get either captured or killed. Realizing this, I wished them luck, said good-by to my companion, and struck out, alone and free, to carry out my own survival plan.

A few yards away from the raft, my thoughts of escape were rudely jolted. Behind me I heard someone thrashing in the water and then the familiar voice yelling, Mr. Winslow, Mr. Winslow, wait for me! I was exasperated with this persistent marine who refused to understand when he wasn’t wanted.

I did my best to persuade him to return to the raft, but it was no go. He insisted on coming with me. It was useless to argue, so we swam on to the west. The moon had appeared, and we could plainly see our ultimate target, the big volcano behind which lay Sunda Strait. Lights still blinking along the coast indicated that preparations for the enemy’s landing were under way. We searched desperately, but in vain, for an island. My marine companion was nearing exhaustion, and his kapok-filled jacket was waterlogged, making it all the more difficult for him to keep up. I urged him on, but he was incapable of staying with me. Soon, I knew, I would be forced to leave him. Escape would be impossible with him dragging along like a sea anchor.

Out of the vast silence, we became aware of a strange buzzing sound, growing louder and louder. Ahead of us appeared what I thought was the conning tower of a Japanese midget submarine, moving in our direction. This dark object rose a foot or more above the surface. Excited, I drew my .45. It was an enticing target, but why I thought a bullet could even dent the thing is beyond me. I pointed the gun and was about to shoot when reason returned and I held my fire. This was the most fortunate decision I ever made. Had I pulled the trigger, I would probably never have heard the gun, for the buzzing object that passed some five feet from us was a spent torpedo.

The time had now come to part company with the young marine. I explained that I could wait for him no longer, because it would soon be dawn and considerable swimming had to be done if I were to escape. Wishing him all the luck in the world, and truly saddened to leave him behind, I went on alone.

My muscles were tired, so I swam with an easy breast stroke. Occasionally, when my strength returned, I tried the faster overhand style. At one point there was a violent exchange of gunfire from ships a mile or two to the north of me. The sharp crack of the guns and the brilliant flashes lighting up the sky led me to believe that the Dutch destroyer Evertsen, which was to have followed us, had fallen into a Japanese trap. The shooting lasted only a matter of minutes, and then a leaden silence descended over the somber sea.

Several times I passed over spots where the water was exceptionally warm, and I thought it had probably surfaced from the ruptured innards of sunken ships. Once I swam through an oil slick, which covered me with a sticky coat, but soon afterwards I had the good fortune to swim through a pool of gasoline, which dissolved most of the oil from my body.

Air had been slowly leaking from my Mae West, so that it was barely keeping me afloat. To inflate the jacket, I had to unscrew a valve, insert a small rubber tube in my mouth, and blow into it. Normally, this would have been easy, but the volume of air in the jacket was so low that when I stopped swimming, the jacket wouldn’t keep me afloat. Still, it had to be done! I took a deep breath, unscrewed the valve, and blew into the tube. Immediately, I sank beneath the surface. Lungs nearly bursting, I struggled back up for air and tried again. Complicating the maneuver was the fact that my hands were slippery with oil and I couldn’t close the valve before a good portion of the air escaped. Finally, I managed to reinflate the jacket, but the effort sapped most of my remaining strength. For a while I paddled slowly, breathing heavily. Then I struck out with renewed energy, summoned up by the thought that I had to keep swimming or die.

As the brilliant tropical dawn broke slowly over the Java Sea, I saw a small island covered with banana and coconut palms. With joy in my heart I headed for this haven so essential to my escape plan.

Approaching the island, I became aware of a very strong current that threatened to carry me past it unless I swam faster. Using every ounce of strength my body could muster, I drew closer. But my chances of reaching the island were growing slimmer. I lashed out with my utmost effort to make my hands and feet propel me to my goal. I had gotten to within ten feet of the shore, when I could go no farther. Drained of every ounce of strength, I lay motionless in the water. I watched forlornly as the merciless current carried me beyond reach of the last point of the island and blasted my every hope of escape. I took a last look at the beautiful island . . . just what I had wanted. Hungrily, I eyed the ripe bananas and coconuts abounding there.

The sun burned brighter as I slowly propelled myself along with the current. Nothing else could be done. I was several miles away from land. I looked in all directions but could see no other human being on the surface of the sea.

The morning wore on, and the current was carrying me toward a large enemy convoy anchored off the coast. My body was too tired to fight the whims of the current, so I numbly accepted the fact that I was soon to be killed or captured by the Japanese. Neither prospect was a happy one.

A Japanese Zero flew low overhead and dived on me several times. I could do nothing but gaze helplessly into the pilot’s guns and wonder when he was going to open fire. His guns remained silent; it is likely he was attempting to draw the attention of those aboard ship to a man in need of help.

Time dragged on. The equatorial sun blazed from directly over-head. I was incredibly thirsty; my tongue felt like a large ball of cotton. I wondered what the end could be, although nothing seemed to matter anymore. A mile or so from the transports, a Japanese destroyer came over the horizon headed in my direction. I could see she had paravanes streamed, sweeping the area for mines. Paravanes, I knew, ran deep below the surface, and the heavy cables supporting them were capable of cutting off a man’s leg. So, even though I was fifteen yards from the ship and well removed from the cables, I was apprehensive. Sailors lined the rail as the destroyer passed, and I thought it rather strange that no attempt was made to shoot or capture me.

Finally, the current carried me in among the anchored transports, where landing barges loaded with troops, tanks, trucks, and supplies were shuttling rapidly from ship to shore. I lay motionless within a few feet of passing barges. Troops in full war dress did nothing but stare at me as though I were a strange type of sea turtle. The fact that these men were heading for combat, and I was certainly the enemy, made it seem logical they might have checked their guns by shooting me. What perplexed me more was that no one even made an effort to capture me. I drifted around in the midst of all this activity for what seemed an hour or more, exhausted, extremely thirsty, badly sunburned, and resigned to whatever fate was in store for me. I wondered what in hell kind of war this was for the enemy to ignore me so completely.

Finally, a landing barge, returning empty from the beach, approached. It was manned by two Japanese soldiers, one of whom rolled down the bow of the craft and came forward to pull me aboard. When he extended his hand, I remembered my .45 and quickly unbuckled the belt, letting it sink to the bottom of the sea. The Japanese greatly prized such guns, and this one was extremely annoyed by my action. No sooner had he pulled me aboard than he booted me in the behind . . . but long hours in the water had numbed me to the point where I felt no pain.

As I lay face down on the bottom of the landing barge, my mind once again became active. I thought of escape. The dagger hidden inside my trouser leg would be useful, but on the other hand, I would probably be searched. Uncertain how the Japanese would react if they discovered this weapon, I decided to surrender it. Pulling the knife from its hiding place, I tossed it at their feet. One of the soldiers picked it up and examined it curiously. It was probably his first souvenir of the war. The other, not to be outdone, demanded that I surrender my Mae West. I was happy to get rid of the old gal. She had saved my life, but for what!

The landing barge ground to a halt on a sandy beach. One of the soldiers took his bayonet-fixed rifle and motioned with it for me to get out. The feel of land under my feet was wonderful, although my legs were weak and wobbly. I was kept standing by the barge for several minutes while a loud discussion ensued in which the soldiers were evidently trying to determine what to do with me.

Along the shoreline, as far as I could see in either direction, the Japanese army was at work. Landing barges continually shuttled in from the ships, carrying men and materials of war. Numerous soldiers were rapidly unloading supplies and stacking them under the palm trees. All of this activity went on with precision and good organization. I was amazed. I had heard that the Japanese were poorly organized and couldn’t possibly operate as