Only five miles from land, Leopoldville still had a chance of being beached if the tow ships arrived soon. But word was not getting through. Everyone was celebrating Christmas Eve, and very few personnel were on duty. All potential rescue boats sat idle, their crews on leave. The town bars and restaurants were filled with revelers. Flickenng lights and festive decorations framed the shop windows as both the military and civilian residents celebrated the last Christmas of the great war. They had no way of knowing a life-and-death struggle was taking place just off shore.
Thirty minutes passed before Convoy Commander John Pringle, captain of H.M.S. Brilliant, signaled Cherbourg, "Taking off survivors.
Need assistance." By waiting too long to give the order to abandon ship, Limbor had sentenced the ship to become a war tomb.
The officers at the harbor-entrance control post were startled at the unexpected request. "Survivors of what?" they inquired.
"Leopoldville hit. Need assistance." No message came from Leopoldville at all.
On shore, military bureaucracy reigned supreme. Messages were sent, received, and passed on. Orders were given but not relayed.
Highranking officers enjoying Yule parties could not be bothered.
Finally, men of decision began to take responsibility for the rescue operationmen like Lieutenant Colonel Tom McConnell at Fort Louest at the harbor entrance.
McConnell was a successful Indiana businessman before the war and minced no words in describing the situation to his superiors. He turned the phone lines blue with descriptive language, demanding, pleading, castigating sergeants and generals alike in an attempt to get a rescue operation underway. In no uncertain terms, he notified the general in command of the port that he was taking it on his own authority to send out rescue vessels. By the time McConnell's efforts had sent army rescue tugs on their way to the sinking ship, fifty minutes had passed.
Ensign Natt Divoll, the navy duty officer at Fort Louest, wasn't having much better luck until he connected with Lieutenant Commander Richard Davis. When Divoll's call came from the fort, Davis didn't merely cut through red tape, he shredded it. Less than five minutes after being notified of Leopoldville's situation, Davis had two PT-boats racing toward the stricken ship. Two minutes later, a third left port. He then sent officers into town to pull sailors and soldiers from the bars. Shortly after 7 P.m Davis had Cherbourg started toward mobilization.
Minutes later, the first lifeboats carrying Congolese crewmen arrived at the docks and were questioned. Hospitals were notified, food and beds arranged. The rescue was at last being coordinated.
The people on shore began to realize a disaster was in the making, but the soldiers on board Leopoldville still hadn't been warned that the ship was slipping away beneath their feet.
In a precise display of skilled seamanship, Commander Pringle took the bull by the horns and brought his destroyer alongside Leopoldville.
Only thirty-nine years old, Pringle had spent twenty-two of them at sea.
As his ship approached, Pringle's crew threw out mooring lines.
With no Belgian crew to catch them, the British destroyer was finally secured alongside by soldiers, the ship's British gunners, and sailors from Brilliant, who leaped aboard Leopoldville.
The high seas pounded the much smaller hull against the larger one.
Steel plates buckled and groaned in protest as they scraped together.
The sounds were ominous, and Pringle realized he could not remain tethered to the troopship for very long. Still, the look of apprehension in the soldiers' faces was enough to repel any thoughts he might have of backing away quickly.
He would keep the two ships together for as long as possible before Brilliant was battered to scrap. Soon shouts came from his men to the soldiers.
"Jump, Yank, jump!"
The evacuation was without focus. No officers were directing the movement, and the job of organizing fell to the sergeants and NCOS.
As the ship continued its list, the troops realized that the chance of Leopoldville's remaining afloat was diminishing with every minute.
Those still belowdecks were directed topside. They huddled on the open decks, exposed to the frigid wind, overcoats tightly buttoned.
Most still carried rifles, packs, and helmets.
The cold, dark night, the violent sea, the waves plunging and thrusting the little destroyer up and down like a toy boat, made the leap a terrifying undertaking for the young men crowded on the decks of the troopship. It was made all the more appalling by the men who mistimed their jump and missed the destroyer, falling into the water between the two ships before being crushed to death as the surge drove steel plates against steel plates.
By 7:20 H.M.S. Brilliant had managed to take aboard almost seven hundred soldiers of the 66th- The other destroyers of the convoy, Hotham, Anthony, and Croix de Lorraine had given up the hunt for the U-boat and headed for port. With no damage reports coming from Leopoldville, they were still unaware the troopship was in danger of sinking.
Pringle was growing more concerned for his ship. The constant impact caused by the turbulent sea had loosened the steel plates of Brilliant's hull. From belowdecks, his engineering officer reported the pumps were keeping up with the sudden flood of water but the flow was increasing. His radioman reported that he picked up signals from PT-boats and rescue tugs that were rushing to the scene.
"Sever the lines holding us to Leo!" Pringle shouted to the officer directing the evacuation below on the open deck.
Bob Hesse, the platoon sergeant from New York, along with a handful of his men, edged acrOSS the forward part of the ship until they reached the anchor chain on the forecastle. Someone from the British destroyer yelled at them.
"We're cutting off, Yanks! You'd better jump now! It will be your last chance!"
To Hesse it looked as if two-thirds of Leopoldville was already under water. The bow had risen until they thought they were in the clouds.
Hesse looked at his men, including Alex Yarinosh, Ed Riley, and Dick Dutka, and said, "Let's go. Every man for himself."
They all stood on the railing, waiting for Brilliant to rise within jumping distance for what was perhaps the last time. As the smaller ship lifted on the next wave, they jumped together, all six of them.
Every man landed safely. To Hesse, it seemed like he was leaping off the Empire State Building.
British sailors, armed with axes, cut away the lines and Brilliant backed away from Leopoldville. Commander Pringle planned to head for Cherbourg and disembark the survivors he had saved before returning for another evacuation. He did not believe that Leopoldville would be on the bottom of the English Channel before he could leave the dock.
The big rescue tug A.T.R-3 arrived and pulled along the opposite side of the doomed troopship. Skipper Stanley Lewandowski was cussing up a storm at the waves already closing over the stern of Leopoldville.
He was damned mad.
Twice he had attempted to maneuver alongside before the ship sank, but was stopped by the davits of the lifeboats that hung out and down.
Had the Belgian crew remained a few minutes more and loaded the lifeboats properly, the davits would have been retracted and Lewandowski could have pulled his boat abreast of the railing.
His radio man, Seaman First Class Hugh Jones, tried to contact the Leopoldville, but received no reply. Lewandowski had been equally frustrated by a group of two hundred men standing at attention on the bow. Entreaties for them to jump aboard went ignored. Later, as he pulled them from the water, he was told an officer wouldn't allow them to jump. Now the Belgian ship was disappearing before his eyes.
"Pull them poor kids aboard!" he shouted to his crew as he clutched the spokes of the helm and threaded his massive tug into the sea of heads floating in the wreckage. Three of his crew jumped overboard to help heave exhausted and freezing soldiers onto the deck of the tug.
There were many heroes that night who gave their lives saving others.
One was Colo
nel Ira Rumburg,. whose widow did not know how her husband died until Staff Sergeant Jerry Crean told her fifty years later.
Rumburg, a huge man at six feet eight inches, who weighed in at 250 pounds, had fastened himself to a rope. For over an hour as the ship slowly sank, he was lowered into the hold again and again, coming up with one man under each arm every time. Crean believed the colonel made over ten trips before Leopoldville slipped stern first to the bottom, taking Rumburg with her.
Captain Hal Crain died as a legend. Struggling through the oily water in the darkness deep within the demolished holds, Crain saved man after man, diving into flooded compartments, pulling out the halfdrowned and the injured. Dozens of men gave credit to the officer for rescuing them. Hal Crain did not live to be thanked by those he saved.
His posthumous Soldier's Medal was awarded to his widow and baby son.
Crean was also awarded a Soldier's Medal for his work in saving lives that night. Leading a dozen of his men down a rope ladder, he struggled for two hours, swimming around keeping everyone together.
He found duffel bags and debris in the water and made his men hold on to anything that could float. He has never forgotten the few who simply gave up and drifted away into the darkness.
PFC Steve Lester of K Company sacrificed his own life to save four others who were trapped around him in the glass-enclosed area on the deck as the ship sank. He smashed the windows with his hands and lifted his buddies through the shattered openings. The last to go, he didn't make it. The Soldier's Medal was awarded posthumously to his wife and three small children.
British Gun Layer Bill Dowling helped pull men trapped below through a hatchway. Those who were injured were carried to the infirmary by Dowling and his mates.
Sergeant Albert Montagna had the distinction of helping both Rumburg and Crain bring a score of men out of the hell below before he found himself floating in the icy water beside the ship.
In the infirmary, the doctors and medics remained working over the injured. Stretcher cases were carried out and laid on the deck. A few were lowered onto the Brilliant. Many were literally thrown onto the decks of tugs and a Coast Guard corvette. A few stretcher cases were washed off the deck as the ship began her plunge to the bottom. They sank like stones, with their occupants helplessly strapped aboard.
The heroism of those who went down into the stricken hold to pull up the wounded, the stories of those who leaped into the water and were rescued by the efforts of men on the rescue vessels can never be forgotten by soldiers of the 66th who still live.
Except for their heroic efforts in saving the injured and those trapped below, none of the officers made a command decision. They were untrained for such a disaster and were as lost and helpless as their men.
And yet the conduct of the troops on board Leopoldville for the two hours prior to its sinking went down in military annals as one of the finest examples of discipline ever observed. All stood in blind obedience awaiting orders that never came.
A deep rumbling sound came from within the hull of Leopoldville as the cold water reached and burst her boilers. Creaking and groaning, the bow lifted in the air and began a downward spiral as the ship began her final journey to the seabed. Bodies were seen to fall like leaves from her open decks. At 8:30 P.m with a mighty hiss of escaping steam, the troopship vanished under the black water stern first and was seen no more.
It was estimated that over a thousand men were left floating in water with temperatures as low as 48 degrees F. Many were sucked down with the Leopoldville, including Captain Limbor, whose body was never found. Only now did panic set in as the men struggled to stay alive in the frigid water. Men who couldn't swim seized those who could and dragged them under.
It was as if a crowd at a football game gave out a great roar.
Hundreds of men were shouting, crying, begging for help from God.
Many pleaded for their mothers. Some cursed anyone and everyone responsible for their plight. A great number simply gave up and died by drowning or from exposure. Those who survived the horrible ordeal relived it for many years through their nightmares.
Vince Codianni of Company K was one of several men who were trapped under a glass passengers' shelter as the ship lurched to port and began her plunge. Codianni was pulled under when his clothing caught on part of the glass shelter. A strong swimmer, he struggled free and gained the surface, but not without injury. His front teeth had been knocked out, his tongue slit in two, and his neck and arms badly gashed by shattered glass.
Incredibly, Codianni survived two hours in the frigid water, his clothes frozen to his body, listening to cries of help before they finally faded into the night. He was found and pulled from the sea more dead than alive by a French tug.
Private Edwin Phillips, headquarters Company, was pulled from the water and laid on the deck of a navy minesweeper. Thinking he was dead, a crewman gave him a nudge with his foot. "You can't be alive," he said.
"I am too," Ed murmured softly.
"That's good," said the crewman. "We're not supposed to pick up dead bodies."
Phillips went on to live a long and healthy life.
The crews of the tugboats, Coast Guard corvettes, and French fishing boats worked like madmen to pick up the mass of men fighting cold and waves and death. Hypothermia came quickly to those who didn't drown. Cold and exhaustion sapped their strength along with the heavy waterlogged overcoats and boots most of them had failed to cast off.
Tired and numb to the point of unconsciousness, few had the strength to climb aboard the rescue craft on their own. Almost all were saved by sailors and fishermen who hoisted the half-dead soldiers over their boats' sides or jumped in the water to help them.
Lewandowski kept his tug on station. His men took on seventy survivors before the cries in the night faded and he reluctantly turned his boat back to the harbor. The first boats to arrive in Cherbourg with survivors carried a few of the dead. The boats that returned later carried many more. As time went on, fewer and fewer of those picked out of the water were still alive, while the number of dead grew in staggering numbers.
On reaching the docks, a great number of the 66th's survivors were left to fend for themselves. Some were placed in tent cities or any barracks or building that offered shelter from the cold night.
Hundreds, suffering from exposure and shock, were taken to hospitals.
The dead were laid in rows along the dock. Medics went from body to body, checking to see if any were still among the living. They were accompanied by a priest who checked the dead's dogtags and gave last rites to the Catholics amid the dead.
Of Leopoldville's crew, Captain Limbor was the only officer to lose his life. The ship's carpenter and three Congolese also died.
Because the Admiralty still refuses to divulge information on the sinking, any loss among the ship's British contingent is unknown. The 66th Panther Division was decimated. Over 1,400 men were rescued.
Approximately 300 died in the blast from the torpedo, while 500 died later in the water.
The official death toll stands at 802.
It was a tragedy compounded by fate, miscalculation, blunders, and ignorance. If the evacuation of the ship had been carried out properly, hundreds of families would not have received telegrams notifying them of the loss of their loved ones.
The official investigations were varied but limited. Those back home were told only that their sons or husbands had died or were missing in action. Few ever became aware of the real truth behind their loss.
Leopoldville was swept under the carpet and the sinking buried in official files.
Except for those brought back for interment in the United States, the men whose bodies were recovered lie buried in the Omaha Beach Cemetery in Normandy. Inside the cemetery you will find a ceremonial colonnade called the Garden of the Missing which honors 1,557 American Gis whose bodies were never recovered. At the rear, engraved on the wall, you will find the names of the missing men who still lie at the bottom of
the English Channel with the Leopoldville.
There are two endings to the tragedy the survivors of the Leopoldville would like to see before they join the hallowed ranks of their buddies, who passed on ahead. One is a monument at Arlington National Cemetery, honoring the 800 who died with the ship. The second is a postage stamp dedicated to their memory.
Is it asking too much for our government to acknowledge their sacrifice?
The submarine that set the stage for the terrible tragedy, the U-486, was herself sunk by the British submarine Tapir four months later.
Oberleutnant Gerhard Meyer and his entire crew perished.
Only the battleship Arizona, sunk during the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, lost more men than Leopoldville. The troop transport was closely followed by the ill-starred cruiser Indianapolis, whose death toll came to 783.