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Final Fling. Her bow had been blown off, but the remaining turrets were still blazing away. She was firing so fast that she was constantly lit up in the dark, "like liquid fire squirting from a hose."
Then suddenly the Gulf was dark again. There were no more targets, they had been destroyed. The U.S. ships moved off. Said Norton-Taylor's dispatch:
"It was then that we picked up, in the beam of a searchlight, a ship's bow protruding from the quiet sea. The Admiral ordered a destroyer to investigate. For a long time the destroyer was silent, as she also threw a beam. The Admiral kept asking 'Who is it? Who is it? Acknowledge. Acknowledge.'
"His impatience was plain over the TBS ("talk-between-ships") loudspeakers on the bridges of the U.S. ships waiting in the dark. It seemed an unconscionable time before the destroyer, her searchlight still probing, answered: "I am sorry to report it is Five Zero."
That was the Helena. She had gone down in 20 minutes, but her bow had floated a little while longer. Then it, too, was gone. She sank gently, without exploding, the thick oil bubbling black as the Pacific night from her shattered hull. The men went over the side, into the oil. There was no fire.
Last week the Navy added a postscript: nearly 1,000 men of the Helena's complement "today stand fit and ready to fight again." Some of them, oil-smeared and haggard, were picked up near the ship's grave. Others got to nearby islands, lived with the resourcefulness of good fighting men, were finally retrieved. They went to other ships, other stations. But they were still Helena men, would always be.