Authors: Doug Stanton
In Harm's Way: The Sinking of the U.S.S. Indianapolis and the Extraordinary Story of Its Survivors (12 page)
BOOK: In Harm's Way: The Sinking of the U.S.S. Indianapolis and the Extraordinary Story of Its Survivors
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What happened next was almost too much to bear, but he watched without averting his eyes. The hangar was by now filled with cots containing patients, and as the ship lurched to starboard, these men began sliding down the deck—first one at a time, then in groups. Gaining speed, they crashed into the water. Haynes watched as one man wearing a leg cast clawed at the air and then sank without a sound.
The helpless doctor crawled up the quarterdeck, which by now was listing at about sixty degrees, and grabbed at the lifelines. Nearby, about twenty steps away, a life raft and floater net were fastened to the bulkhead. The latter, made of heavy twine, was edged with thick cork floats. The weight of the net and the raft bore down toward the starboard rail, away from him, and he could lift neither. He was panicked, thinking of the lives he might save if he could free them both. But he couldn’t. There was nothing left to do but leave the ship.
He started slowly walking down the gray hull, amid a frightened crowd of boys, their screams and shouts rising and falling like a stunned choir’s. After about fifteen steps,
Haynes reached the bulbous keel. There was nothing but blackness before him. Here and there, little bouquets of flame twisted on the water.
Haynes reached the bulbous keel. There was nothing but blackness before him. Here and there, little bouquets of flame twisted on the water.
And then Haynes jumped.
Quickly, he began stroking away. When he turned to look back, the stern of the ship was pointing almost straight up at the sky. He saw boys standing motionless on one of the giant, stilled propellers on the port side, like figurines perched atop a beastly flower made of brass—riding the ship into the sea.
As the
Indy
sank, distress signals giving her longitude and latitude positions were broadcast on frequencies monitored by ships at sea and onshore stations. Radioman J. J. Moran had entered radio shack 1 after the torpedoing, and begun keying out messages. XRAY VICTOR MIKE LOVE, read one, WE HAVE BEEN HIT BY TORPEDOES. NEED IMMEDIATE ASSISTANCE.
Indy
sank, distress signals giving her longitude and latitude positions were broadcast on frequencies monitored by ships at sea and onshore stations. Radioman J. J. Moran had entered radio shack 1 after the torpedoing, and begun keying out messages. XRAY VICTOR MIKE LOVE, read one, WE HAVE BEEN HIT BY TORPEDOES. NEED IMMEDIATE ASSISTANCE.
It seemed doubtful that there was power enough to successfully transmit these pleas for help. In fact, he was working with a dead key. Radio shack 1, normally used to send messages, had borne the brunt of the second torpedo. The cables connecting the transmitters to the transmitting keys had been severed. Inside the shack, the heavy radio equipment rocked in its stanchions. One of the bulky transmitters tipped forward and crashed onto the deck.
Radio shack 2, located several hundred feet away, near the stern, under the number 2 smokestack, had remained up and running after the hit. All the lights were on, and the room was crowded with about fifteen radio crew members.
Radio technician Jack Miner—fresh from Yale University and nine months of rigorous training in radio and radar
electronics, had only been aboard the
Indy
two weeks. Miner entered radio shack 2 shortly after the torpedoing to find his superior officer, chief radio electrician L. T. Woods, trying to improvise sending a signal on equipment that wasn’t normally meant for the job. Woods grabbed Miner by the shoulders and positioned him squarely in front of one of the transmitters. It was black, about as big as a refrigerator, and filled with hundreds of foot-long vacuum tubes. Woods ordered Miner to warm up this transmitter, then went to work on one nearby, which operated on another frequency.
electronics, had only been aboard the
Indy
two weeks. Miner entered radio shack 2 shortly after the torpedoing to find his superior officer, chief radio electrician L. T. Woods, trying to improvise sending a signal on equipment that wasn’t normally meant for the job. Woods grabbed Miner by the shoulders and positioned him squarely in front of one of the transmitters. It was black, about as big as a refrigerator, and filled with hundreds of foot-long vacuum tubes. Woods ordered Miner to warm up this transmitter, then went to work on one nearby, which operated on another frequency.
Once Miner had warmed up his equipment, he watched as Woods found a solution to the problem. Sticking out from the front of Woods’s transmitter was a toggle resembling a light switch, and Woods knew that if he flipped it up and down, he could send a series of binary signals—on-off, on-off—similar to the keying of the telegraph pad. Because the switch didn’t automatically spring back once it had been pressed down, Woods had to flip it in a staccato series of clicks.
Miner was amazed by Woods’s calmness. He watched the red, hair-thin needle in the meter monitor jump with each flip of the toggle switch. This meant that power was circling through the transmitter and traveling from the cables to the antennae. Woods keyed for about two minutes, clicking out the SOS and the ship’s coordinates.
The crew was so intent on the work that they completely lost track of the ship’s increasingly starboard list. When Miner broke himself away from the red-needle trance, he realized that the radio shack was heeled on its side at a steep angle. He and Woods kept falling downward into the machinery. Miner knew that if the room tipped any more, the two of them would be doing pushups against the bulkhead. Woods finally yelled, “Okay, abandon ship!”
Miner stepped out of the room to find the port rail pointing
up at the sky. Shit, he thought, he was on the ship’s low side; he remembered from boot camp that he had to get off the ship from the higher rail. Leaving from the low side meant risking having the
Indy
fall on top of him if he didn’t swim away fast enough, and it made him more vulnerable to the suction’s tendrils the ship would create as it sank. As a sailor crabwalked past him heading for the port rail, Miner grabbed his legs and cried out, “Let me pull up where you are!” But the panicked sailor kicked at Miner’s hands and knocked him free. He went tumbling down the deck and sailed over the top of the lifelines, which were just inches from the water.
up at the sky. Shit, he thought, he was on the ship’s low side; he remembered from boot camp that he had to get off the ship from the higher rail. Leaving from the low side meant risking having the
Indy
fall on top of him if he didn’t swim away fast enough, and it made him more vulnerable to the suction’s tendrils the ship would create as it sank. As a sailor crabwalked past him heading for the port rail, Miner grabbed his legs and cried out, “Let me pull up where you are!” But the panicked sailor kicked at Miner’s hands and knocked him free. He went tumbling down the deck and sailed over the top of the lifelines, which were just inches from the water.
Suddenly he was surrounded by darkness, as if the ship had rolled over on top of him. He thrust his hands up and yelled, “No!” He’d surfaced with his head in a metal mop bucket. Miner couldn’t believe it. He almost had to laugh:
The whole Pacific Ocean, and I come up in a bucket!
He chucked it aside. And then he began swimming, hard. He was confident that a distress message had left the ship, and he told himself that rescue had to be on its way.
The whole Pacific Ocean, and I come up in a bucket!
He chucked it aside. And then he began swimming, hard. He was confident that a distress message had left the ship, and he told himself that rescue had to be on its way.
In fact, in a radio shack on the island of Leyte, 650 miles to the west, the message had gotten through. It was received by a sailor named Clair B. Young, on security duty near the sleeping quarters of one Commodore Jacob Jacobson, the ranking officer of the Leyte naval operating base at Tacloban.
Sometime after midnight, a messenger arrived at the post with a dispatch. Young read the message by flashlight and quickly realized that it needed to be brought to the commodore’s immediate attention. The message announced that the USS
Indianapolis
had been torpedoed, and gave her co-ordinate
positions. Young hurried inside Jacobson’s hut, which was perched on a hill overlooking Leyte Harbor.
Indianapolis
had been torpedoed, and gave her co-ordinate
positions. Young hurried inside Jacobson’s hut, which was perched on a hill overlooking Leyte Harbor.
Jacobson was asleep under an umbrella of mosquito netting. Young turned his flashlight on the commodore’s face and announced, “I have a radio message for you, sir.” Jacobson roused himself and, rising on one elbow, read the message by the flashlight’s beam.
“Do you have a reply, sir?” Young finally asked.
“No reply at this time,” the man said. “If any further messages are received, notify me at once.” He sent Young away. Confused, the sailor returned to his post. No effort was made either to confirm or to deny the SOS’s legitimacy.
15
15
A second message was also received at Leyte, according to a sailor named Donald Allen. Allen was serving as a jeep driver for the acting commander of the Philippine Sea Frontier, Commodore Norman Gillette. From his office in Tolosa, twelve miles south of Tacloban, Gillette oversaw all naval operations on the island.
Shortly after midnight on July 30, a radioman in the officer of the day’s Quonset hut, where Allen was standing guard duty, announced that he had just received a distress message from the
Indy
that listed her coordinates. In response, an officer on duty then dispatched two fast, oceangoing navy tugs from the Leyte harbor, bound for the site of the sinking.
Indy
that listed her coordinates. In response, an officer on duty then dispatched two fast, oceangoing navy tugs from the Leyte harbor, bound for the site of the sinking.
At the time, Commodore Gillette himself was playing bridge on the nearby island of Samar, north of Leyte, with a group of officers. According to Allen, later that night, upon
hearing that the tugs had been dispatched without his authority, Gillette recalled them to the harbor, even though they had completed about seven hours of the twenty-one-hour cruise. No further investigation was made to determine if indeed a ship was sinking.
hearing that the tugs had been dispatched without his authority, Gillette recalled them to the harbor, even though they had completed about seven hours of the twenty-one-hour cruise. No further investigation was made to determine if indeed a ship was sinking.
Finally, a third message was received aboard a landing craft in the Leyte harbor. A sailor named Russell Hetz was on watch when the ship’s radio room received an SOS dispatch from a ship claiming to be the USS
Indianapolis
, and then, eight and a half minutes later, Hetz’s ship received a duplicate message. The radio crew tried contacting the
Indy
but couldn’t get a response. Hetz’s vessel forwarded the message “thru chanels [
sic
]” (presumably to the Leyte naval operating base), but it was ignored.
16
Indianapolis
, and then, eight and a half minutes later, Hetz’s ship received a duplicate message. The radio crew tried contacting the
Indy
but couldn’t get a response. Hetz’s vessel forwarded the message “thru chanels [
sic
]” (presumably to the Leyte naval operating base), but it was ignored.
16
The prevailing protocol within naval command was that messages that couldn’t be confirmed by a reply were to be disregarded as pranks. Such responses were more or less pro forma at this point in the war. The Japanese forces, hoping to confuse U.S. intelligence and draw out search vessels, had made a habit of broadcasting bogus distress signals. Earlier in the war, such a message might have been investigated, but tonight it was written off as a potentially deadly move in the war game.
Shortly after the distress calls were sent, Captain McVay found himself alone, leaning against a bulkhead near the port rail. He debated the merits of going down with the ship and considered the immense guilt that he would feel if he were one of the few to survive. He also dreaded the drilling he knew he’d face from naval command once he was back on shore. A captain’s primary responsibility is his ship’s well-being. McVay understood that, ultimately, he was to blame for the screaming and moaning he heard rising in the night. Yet the sinking had been so quick that he still couldn’t understand it. All the normal response systems had collapsed almost immediately. It was all like a nightmare he couldn’t wake from.
He climbed onto the rail and stood perched above the Pacific. Well, he thought, this is the end of me. Without warning, he was brushed off the ship by a tall wave moving along the submerging rails. Looking up from the water, he could see a propeller overhead, and it looked as if the ship might fall on top of him. And then he started swimming through the hot, spilled oil, feeling it burn the back of his neck. He heard a swishing sound, and when he turned, his ship was gone.
It would later be estimated that 300 men died immediately during the torpedoing and subsequent explosions. Close to 900 made it off the ship.
The boys surrounded the sinking ship in dog-paddling throngs as the
Indy
shook with more explosions and belched fire from her split deck. Since the torpedoes hit, she had plowed ahead for nearly two miles, the forward part of the ship increasingly submerged, and now, in this final moment, she had slowed to about three knots, or three and a half miles
per hour. The boys watched with horrified fascination as the ship finally stood straight on end and paused, trembling—the stern pointed directly at the sky—then began to sink, slowly at first, then picking up speed, drawn suddenly into the deep by the nose. Within fifteen seconds, the entire bulk of the ship disappeared. All that remained was a wide swath of debris, about half the length of a football field, boiling with foam. The foam itself hissed, like an immense swarm of bees.
Indy
shook with more explosions and belched fire from her split deck. Since the torpedoes hit, she had plowed ahead for nearly two miles, the forward part of the ship increasingly submerged, and now, in this final moment, she had slowed to about three knots, or three and a half miles
per hour. The boys watched with horrified fascination as the ship finally stood straight on end and paused, trembling—the stern pointed directly at the sky—then began to sink, slowly at first, then picking up speed, drawn suddenly into the deep by the nose. Within fifteen seconds, the entire bulk of the ship disappeared. All that remained was a wide swath of debris, about half the length of a football field, boiling with foam. The foam itself hissed, like an immense swarm of bees.
There were no birds in the sky, no wind; only the lapping of the noxious stew of seawater and fuel oil against kapok life vests. There were no stars; just the occasional flash of a crescent moon, like a needle of bone threading its way through a flying curtain of cloud. At times, the exhausted boys floated in complete darkness, unable to discern any horizon at all, the sea rising and falling in heavy swells. At other moments, the boys were lit by a ghostly silver light. The living prayed out loud while the dying screamed.
Beneath the boys, beneath their kicking feet, the ship was falling as if in slow motion, its bow aimed at the bottom of the sea. A porthole or two still glowed from within, the last flickering remnants of the numerous fires raging through her compartments. At some point, the pressure became more than the ship could bear, and the
Indy
began self-destructing under her own weight. Air chambers, bulkheads, gas tanks, and boilers—anything that hadn’t exploded—now belched, releasing more gas and debris into the diving ship’s slipstream.
Indy
began self-destructing under her own weight. Air chambers, bulkheads, gas tanks, and boilers—anything that hadn’t exploded—now belched, releasing more gas and debris into the diving ship’s slipstream.
Completely submerged, the ship let loose one last tremendous explosion, a resounding
whumpfff
, and the shock waves jellied the warm, black water.
whumpfff
, and the shock waves jellied the warm, black water.
In her final seconds, she reached a terminal velocity of as much as thirty-six feet per second, or about twenty-five
miles per hour, just slightly slower than her best flank speed during the run from Hunters Point. She was falling in three and a half miles of water, some of the deepest on the planet, and it took nearly five minutes for her to reach the bottom, a place so remote and dark and cold that in the history of the world no light had ever shone there. As she slammed into the ocean floor in a giant cloud of silt, her steel hull broke into two pieces and gradually rocked to a halt.
miles per hour, just slightly slower than her best flank speed during the run from Hunters Point. She was falling in three and a half miles of water, some of the deepest on the planet, and it took nearly five minutes for her to reach the bottom, a place so remote and dark and cold that in the history of the world no light had ever shone there. As she slammed into the ocean floor in a giant cloud of silt, her steel hull broke into two pieces and gradually rocked to a halt.
It had taken only twelve minutes for the USS
Indianapolis
to vanish.
Indianapolis
to vanish.
McCoy could feel this last explosion reverberating in his bones, his gut. He was swimming harder than he’d ever swum in his life, trying desperately to flee the ship as she plummeted to the bottom of the sea.
As he swam, he felt something reach out and grab his left leg and tug off his shoe. And then it jerked him backward in his swimming stroke, pulling him underwater, dragging him down deep. The last thing he remembered before blacking out was the rush of water past his face and the sensation that his eyes were ready to pop under the increasing pressure.
BOOK: In Harm's Way: The Sinking of the U.S.S. Indianapolis and the Extraordinary Story of Its Survivors
9.06Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
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