On the morning of July 13, 1943, the New Orleans Federal Building did not hum with its usual bustle of busy sailors. The hushed halls of the Eighth Naval District headquarters that Tuesday were instead steeped in somber reverence for a historic ceremony. Five months earlier, submarine skipper Commander Howard Walter Gilmore had willingly sacrificed his life to save the USS Growler (SS-215) and its crew. Now, he would posthumously become the first WWII submariner to receive the Medal of Honor.
At 10:00 a.m., a select group of close friends, family, and high-ranking naval officers gathered to honor Gilmore’s selfless act. Before them stood the recently widowed Hilda St. Raymond Gilmore—in a black dress and mourning veil—with two young children at her side. The three of them would accept the nation’s highest award for military valor on Howard Gilmore’s behalf.
Rear Admiral Andrew Carl Bennett, the commandant of the Eighth Naval District, presided over the ceremony and presented Hilda with her late husband’s medal. She in turn draped the award around the neck of her son and Gilmore’s namesake, Howard Jr. Bennett also handed the 10-year-old boy a letter addressed to the Vice Chief of Naval Operations, recommending his appointment to the US Naval Academy when he reached the appropriate age for admission.
In addition to the Medal of Honor, Hilda received a folded ceremonial flag that has since become part of The National WWII Museum’s collection. The Museum recently displayed this piece in the newly renovated Malcolm S. Forbes Rare and Iconic Artifacts Gallery, a space dedicated to highlighting unique and uncommon items along with universally recognized objects that capture the defining experiences and significant moments of the WWII era. A deeply symbolic artifact, the flag is both a testament to Gilmore’s final act of heroism and a poignant reminder of the personal sacrifices that sailors often made aboard submarines in the “Silent Service” of World War II.
Commander Howard Gilmore’s story is certainly one of extraordinary valor, dedication, and sacrifice. Born in Selma, Alabama, on September 29, 1902, he began his storied naval career immediately after graduating high school. Eighteen months after enlisting, Gilmore attained the rank of Yeoman Second Class before receiving an appointment to the US Naval Academy through competitive examination. He left New Orleans for Annapolis in 1922, graduating from the academy with distinction four years later and returning to life on the water.
Gilmore got his start as a junior officer on surface ships. He served aboard the battleship USS Mississippi (BB-41) for three years followed by six months on the destroyer USS Perry (DD-340) before electing to pursue other naval career paths. He attended submarine school in New London, Connecticut, and, upon completing the seven-month course, proceeded to the Panama Canal Zone to serve aboard USS S-48. In the summer of 1932, Gilmore returned to his hometown of New Orleans and married Hilda Jane St. Raymond. The Navy then sent him back to Annapolis to complete postgraduate studies in ordnance before assigning him to a brief tenure at the Naval Gun Factory in Washington, D.C. Following those years ashore, Gilmore finally returned to the sea as the executive officer of the USS Shark (SS-174).
The Shark’s shakedown cruise proved something of a nightmare. After its commissioning, the sub’s first assignment was duty in the Panama Canal Zone, where Gilmore and a fellow sailor narrowly survived having their throats cut during an assault by a local gang of thieves. Gilmore then moved on to serve as the executive officer of the USS Dolphin (SS-169) for two years before rotating back to shore duty at the Naval Proving Grounds in Virginia from May 1939 to January 1941. Then came his turn to take the lead, assuming the role of commanding officer aboard the submarine he first served on, USS S-48.
The December 7, 1941, attack on Pearl Harbor changed everything for Gilmore. The following day, he received a new assignment to command the USS Growler, which was still undergoing construction at the Electric Boat Company in Groton, Connecticut. Gilmore and his executive officer, Lieutenant Arnold Schade, would finish fitting out the vessel and put it into commission with a battle-ready crew. Following the Growler’s official commissioning in March 1942, Gilmore and his men set off on the Gato-class submarine—outfitted with 24 torpedoes—for their base at Pearl Harbor. There, they completed a short stint of picket duty with the Hawaii defense force before embarking on their first war patrol.
Their first combat destination was near Dutch Harbor in Alaska’s Aleutian Islands, and it did not take long for the Growler to find action. Five days into the patrol, the crew sighted its first targets of the war: three Japanese destroyers anchored in Reynard Cove along the eastern coast of Kiska. Gilmore commanded his men to close distance for a submerged attack and let loose four torpedoes before surfacing. It was a major success, earning Gilmore the Navy Cross. The citation credits him with sinking two ships and severely damaging the third, while safely escaping enemy controlled waters and returning the ship home with minor damage.
If the first patrol was a success, the second was an absolute triumph. The assigned area was in the East China Sea near Taiwan, then called Formosa. During the Growler’s 25 days inside the patrol area, Gilmore capitalized on several favorable opportunities, landing a hit for every three torpedoes fired and sinking nearly 26,000 tons of enemy merchant shipping. In recognition for his leadership and “courageous efficiency,” he received a Gold Star in lieu of his second Navy Cross. The following patrol did not present any opportunities for the Growler and its crew to enhance their record, and the fourth would prove disastrous, becoming one of the submarine’s most memorable.
New Year’s Day ushered in the Growler’s fourth patrol, but it was in the predawn hours of February 7, 1943, that the crew encountered its fiercest combat to date. The sub had surfaced to charge its batteries off the southwest coast of the Solomon Islands, and shortly after 1:00 a.m., lookouts spotted a Japanese supply ship-turned-gunboat on the horizon. The Hayasaki was a 2,500-ton combat support vessel modified to engage submarines. Catching such an adversary unawares seemed an auspicious opportunity, so Gilmore gave chase. He left the relative safety of the conning tower and stepped out onto the bridge with his men as the sub closed distance with the target.
Unfortunately, conditions were not entirely favorable. A hazy fog hovered above the moonlit waters, reducing the crew’s visibility, and no one on board realized that the enemy ship reversed course and sped straight for the Growler—at least, not before it was too late. By the time the torpedomen were able to lock on to the Hayasaki, the converging ships were too close for them to fire. Collision was imminent.
Even a glancing blow could have spelled disaster for the Growler and its crew, so Gilmore sounded the collision alarm and took corrective measures to avoid being rammed. In the process, he unwittingly put the Growler on its own collision course, striking the Hayasaki amidships and ripping its side plating wide open. In a last-ditch effort to inflict more damage, machine gunners aboard the sinking Hayasaki raked the Growler’s bridge at point blank range with .50-caliber bullets, killing the assistant officer of the deck and a lookout instantly and injuring Gilmore and two others. In the immediate aftermath of the fusillade, Gilmore had to make a life-and-death decision.
The Growler sustained severe damage in the collision, and its fate seemed bleak. Roughly 18 feet of its bow was bent to port, rendering the forward diving planes and torpedo tubes useless. Electrical systems on board malfunctioned while water streamed through several leaks. The only option for the submarine and its crew to survive the encounter was an immediate crash dive. Gilmore commanded his men to clear the bridge and prepare to submerge. The officer of the deck and the quartermaster aided the two wounded lookouts down the hatch as Gilmore came to the grim realization that he could not get below in time if he wanted the sub to escape.
With no time to spare—and at the expense of his own life—Gilmore gave his final, legendary command: “Take her down!” The executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Arnold Schade, hesitated briefly, thinking that Gilmore might find his way to the ladder. After a short time and no such luck, Schade had no choice but to abandon hope and obey his commander’s direct orders to dive. As the Growler slipped beneath the surface and away from danger, the mortally wounded Gilmore rode the bridge to his death. Schade returned the following day in an attempt to locate his body, but the sea had claimed the commander.
For three months, the Navy kept the details of Gilmore’s heroic final moments confidential, but when the story finally became public, it was met with widespread admiration and respect. The Medal of Honor ceremony in New Orleans was a formal recognition of Gilmore’s legacy as a paragon of naval valor. Hilda Gilmore later said that “the submarine was his very life,” and Gilmore’s willingness to pay the ultimate price to ensure his ship and crew’s survival underscores the depth of his courage and commitment to the submarine service.
The ceremonial flag bestowed on Hilda Gilmore remains a symbol of the nation’s gratitude and remembrance—though its modest size belies its immense significance as a connection between present and future generations to a personal story of individual bravery and sacrifice. The Museum is fortunate to be able to fulfill the flag’s intended purpose of presentation and to honor Commander Gilmore. As part of the Museum’s collection, it will forever be preserved and hopefully continue to foster a deep appreciation for the freedoms secured by such sacrifices.
Chase Tomlin
Chase Tomlin is an Associate Curator at The National WWII Museum.