Dewey knew that the strain of the long night had taken a terrible toll on the ailing captain of his flagship. He offered to excuse Gridley from duty and urged him to go below for some much needed sleep. Gridley refused. “Thank you, Commodore,” he said, “but [the Olympia] is my ship and I will fight her.” A mess attendant passed by with a steaming can of coffee. Gridley took a cup, and left for his battle station in the conning tower.

The Battle of Manila Bay began at dawn and ended shortly after noon. The Olympia, firing her forward turret, led the Asiatic Squadron down along the shoreline in a close-order column headed directly for the Spanish ships. Except for the flagship Reina Cristina, all of the Spanish ships remained fixed to their moorings or at anchor.

Closing on the enemy, Gridley swung the Olympia to the west and ran parallel to the Spanish line, adding the fire of the ship’s port batteries to the barrage. Behind him, at 200-yard intervals, the rest of the squadron formed a close ellipse and followed his every move. The Olympia led the American line in a series of U-turns that, with each pass, closed the distance between the themselves and the Spanish. Heavy black smoke covered the bay as the hapless Spanish ships received fire from alternating starboard and port guns.

As the Olympia headed eastward to begin her fourth pass down the Spanish line, the Reina Cristina, maneuvered out of the smoke and headed straight for the American ship. The Spanish flagship was 1,200 yards from Gridley’s ship when several hits forced the Reina Cristina to limp back to shoal waters. It was a gallant but futile effort.

At 7:30 A.M. Dewey received word that the Olympia’s ammunition was low. Concerned that the rest of the squadron was in the same position, Dewey ordered his ships to withdraw and take stock of the situation. Not willing to alarm the crewmen, he gave breakfast as the reason for the withdrawal. One gunner remonstrated to Dewey’s chief of staff, “For God’s sake, captain don’t let us stop now! To hell with breakfast!”

At the captains’ conference that was called, all the news was good. Ammunition supplies were still ample, and though the squadron had taken a number of hits, damage was slight. Only six Americans had been wounded and there were no fatalities.

Shortly after 11:00 A.M. the Asiatic Squadron regrouped to renew its assault on the Spanish fleet. Only the shore batteries and one small cruiser, Don Antonio de Ulloa, were still firing. By 12:30 P.M. the Ulloa had been sunk, and Montojo surrendered. Dewey had executed his orders to perfection. The Americans had sunk or destroyed seven warships. The Spanish had suffered 381 fatalities; the Americans, none. The battle, however, would claim one American life a month later.

The searing heat and poor ventilation in the Olympia’s conning tower, combined with the strain of the battle, had proved too much for Gridley. At some point during the day he struck his side on the edge of the chart table, and when the battle was over Gridley had to be carried from his post. He never rose from his sickbed, and Benjamin Lamberton replaced him as captain of the Olympia.

On June 5, Captain Charles Vernon Gridley died in the harbor of Kobe, Japan, on his way home aboard the passenger liner Coptic. Four days later, his casket was carried through the streets of Yokohama in an impressive funeral procession, accompanied by an honor guard of Imperial Japanese Marines. All foreign ships in the harbor flew their flags at half mast.

Gridley’s ashes were returned to the United States and interred at Lakeside National Cemetery in Erie, Pennsylvania, where four guns sent by the United States Navy from the Spanish Arsenal at Cavite in Manila Bay were placed on his grave. In March of 1918, the navy bestowed another honor on the Olympia’s late captain when his daughter Ruth helped launch a new destroyer, the USS Gridley.

With the immortal words, “You may fire when you are ready, Gridley,” Commodore George Dewey honored his old friend by allowing him to lead the American squadron’s charge against the Spanish. But the command did more than set the stage for the May 1, 1898, battle. Those eight words assured the dying captain of a place in American history.

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Richard Harris is a free-lance writer who specializes in military affairs and history. His work has appeared in armed forces journals and popular magazines.

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