Authors: Doug Stanton
In Harm's Way: The Sinking of the U.S.S. Indianapolis and the Extraordinary Story of Its Survivors (14 page)
BOOK: In Harm's Way: The Sinking of the U.S.S. Indianapolis and the Extraordinary Story of Its Survivors
12.04Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
Kuryla was retching but looked like he felt better than McCoy. Kuryla had found his raft a half hour earlier, and his shouts had helped lead Payne, Outland, Brundige, and Gray to the relative safety of theirs. Kuryla reached over the side and plucked up what looked like a greasy black ball. Rubbing off the covering, he discovered it was an onion coated in fuel. He tucked it inside his vest for safekeeping.
McCoy was able to scavenge a tin of malted milk tablets from a passing wave. But, rooting around in the raft itself, he found nothing useful whatsoever. He badly wanted to get his hands on a signal mirror or some flares. Tied to the rail of the raft in a rope harness was a wooden water beaker, but it was empty, and McCoy guessed it had never been filled before the ship’s hurried departure. Ravenous, McCoy tried eating one of the malted milk tablets, but they just made him more thirsty; his lips and tongue were already dry as a bone.
Clearly, things were going from bad to worse. He resolved to take action: he would clean his pistol. Reaching down into the water inside the raft, he found his holster still attached to the belt on his fatigues. He removed the .45 and held it up in the air, shaking the water from the barrel. McCoy could disassemble and put back together the weapon blindfolded, and that was essentially what he tried to do now. He guessed that he and his raftmates would need it sooner or later to signal a passing plane or a rescue ship.
McCoy told everyone to hold out their hands, then placed a gun part in each outstretched palm. Using his T-shirt, he wiped the oil from the receiver and grip—it was a poor cleaning job, at best. When a tin of petroleum jelly floated by, he snatched it and eagerly greased the action on the pistol.
Kuryla couldn’t believe it; this crazy marine was cleaning his gun in the middle of the ocean. McCoy racked a round and announced that the gun was clean. Then he spotted something floating on the horizon—something huge and gray. It was heading directly for them.
“You see that?” he asked Kuryla. McCoy became convinced that it was a ship, and he was certain that it was coming to rescue them. He raised his pistol and fired off a shot. The gun’s sound was instantly swallowed by the air. McCoy peered anxiously into the dark, hoping to see a return flash from the ship, some signal he’d been spotted. Nothing—he saw nothing.
“What’s wrong with these people!” He racked another round, then fired again.
“Sonofabitch! Why don’t they see us!” And then McCoy had an awful thought: What if whatever he was shooting at started shooting back? He suddenly realized that the silhouette might be a sub. Or maybe a Japanese destroyer.
19
He felt dumber than he’d ever felt in his life. He wondered if he had gone out of his head without even knowing it; he knew he had to keep a close check on his feelings, his actions. He felt like throwing up again.
19
He felt dumber than he’d ever felt in his life. He wondered if he had gone out of his head without even knowing it; he knew he had to keep a close check on his feelings, his actions. He felt like throwing up again.
Dr. Haynes and his group of boys were on the verge of collapse. Herding them together had been painstaking work, and it seemed to Haynes they would never get everybody rounded up. The tireless efforts of Father Conway and Captain Parke aside, the boys were close to scattering in all directions.
“Count off!” Captain Parke bellowed. Parke, the boys had always said aboard ship, might give them hell, but he also gave them credit for their efforts as military men. Slowly at first, they began sounding off, until the number
grew to 400. To Haynes, it was an amazing spectacle of command and endurance on Parke’s part. The marine then ordered the boys to tie their life jackets together to keep them from drifting apart. It worked. Instinctively, each one wrapped his legs and arms around the boy in front of him. In this way, each one could also lie back on the chest of the boy behind him. Together, they drifted like this, looking up at a blackness that had no shape and that felt nearly suffocating.
grew to 400. To Haynes, it was an amazing spectacle of command and endurance on Parke’s part. The marine then ordered the boys to tie their life jackets together to keep them from drifting apart. It worked. Instinctively, each one wrapped his legs and arms around the boy in front of him. In this way, each one could also lie back on the chest of the boy behind him. Together, they drifted like this, looking up at a blackness that had no shape and that felt nearly suffocating.
In the center of this human ring, Dr. Haynes floated in his life vest. Like most of the men, his face was covered in oil. Many of the sailors didn’t recognize him. Soon the cries started out, “Hey, anybody seen a doctor? We need a doctor here!”
Haynes considered the request. He felt curiously ambivalent about announcing himself. He knew it would be much easier to hang back, to slink away into the crowd and shirk the responsibility of treating boys who were really too sick to be helped. The prospect of facing the misery around him without the aid of any medical supplies filled him with dread.
Then he heard a voice:
Your job is to make people better.
It was as if his mother were whispering in his ear. He hadn’t thought of her much lately. Now he pictured her with his father in their comfortable house on Fifth Street in Manistee, Michigan. He wondered if she was looking at the lake, and whether it was sunny there. His father would be at his dental practice, filing away on some farmer’s teeth. When Haynes snapped out of the reverie, he realized what he needed to do.
Your job is to make people better.
It was as if his mother were whispering in his ear. He hadn’t thought of her much lately. Now he pictured her with his father in their comfortable house on Fifth Street in Manistee, Michigan. He wondered if she was looking at the lake, and whether it was sunny there. His father would be at his dental practice, filing away on some farmer’s teeth. When Haynes snapped out of the reverie, he realized what he needed to do.
A few boys were vomiting so violently that they were actually doing somersaults in the water. Trying to keep calm, Haynes called out: “Here! Right here! Where is the sick sailor?” And then he moved into the throng. About a dozen sailors were holding a body aloft, an incredible feat of strength considering they were all treading water furiously to stay afloat beneath the added weight.
The man in question was in terrible shape. His eyes had
been burned away. The flesh on his hands was gone, and what remained were bare tendons. The boys held him in an effort to keep these wounds out of the stinging bath of salt water.
been burned away. The flesh on his hands was gone, and what remained were bare tendons. The boys held him in an effort to keep these wounds out of the stinging bath of salt water.
Haynes recognized the man as his good friend and liberty buddy, gunnery officer Stanley Lipski. Miraculously, Lipski had made his way blind from the quarterdeck, off the ship, and into the water. Haynes knew that Lipski’s pain must be intolerable—he himself could barely look at his old friend, who was moaning softly. Stanley, he knew, was one tough bird; Haynes also understood that he didn’t have long to live. Reluctantly, he turned away to those he could actually help.
The horizon glowed with a faint bloom of sunrise. Dr. Haynes prayed that daylight would comfort the boys.
Floating to the northeast of both Haynes and McCoy, Captain McVay was formulating his own plan for survival. Other than the oil in his eyes, he was neither injured nor in other physical distress. He was actually in remarkably good shape. Even his wristwatch was still working perfectly. He was, however, unable to shake the fear that he was the only one to have made it off the ship alive.
Then something nudged him. It was a potato crate. He hopped on top and grasped it between his legs, continuing to scope the horizon. But he still couldn’t see any other survivors.
He could hear voices in the distance, though. Two life rafts drifted toward him from the darkness, and he stroked over atop his potato crate. Finding the rafts empty, he climbed aboard one of them and quickly lashed it to the other. Out of the night came a yell: “Help! Anybody out there!”
“Yes! It’s the captain here!” Bearing down on the paddle,
he rowed ahead to meet three blackened, indistinguishable faces. He pulled a quartermaster named Vincent Allard aboard his own raft, and then hauled the other two sailors into the second.
he rowed ahead to meet three blackened, indistinguishable faces. He pulled a quartermaster named Vincent Allard aboard his own raft, and then hauled the other two sailors into the second.
McVay knew Allard well. At thirty-three, the quartermaster had served on the
Indy
for three years—since the ship’s early days of the Aleutian Islands bombardment at the beginning of the Pacific war—under five different captains. A quartermaster served his captain in the daily enforcement of the ship’s regulations, and this morning McVay had never been happier to see him.
Indy
for three years—since the ship’s early days of the Aleutian Islands bombardment at the beginning of the Pacific war—under five different captains. A quartermaster served his captain in the daily enforcement of the ship’s regulations, and this morning McVay had never been happier to see him.
With Allard were Angelo Galante, twenty, and Ralph Klappa, eighteen: two seamen of the lowest rank. Klappa, in fact, had only come on board the
Indy
in San Francisco. Angel Galante had been on the ship for just several months. The two boys were true green hands, and McVay feared they were dying. They had apparently swallowed a good deal of salt water and oil, and were vomiting.
Indy
in San Francisco. Angel Galante had been on the ship for just several months. The two boys were true green hands, and McVay feared they were dying. They had apparently swallowed a good deal of salt water and oil, and were vomiting.
Twenty minutes later, some good fortune followed. Out of the early morning light came another raft. On board was twenty-two-year-old John Spinelli, a cook from New Mexico whose wife had recently given birth to a baby girl. (Spinelli, in fact, had received the order to return to the ship at Mare Island while visiting his wife and new daughter in their hospital room just two days after she was born.) With Spinelli were John Muldoon, a thirty-year-old machinist’s mate from New Bedford, Massachusetts, who’d been aboard the
Indy
for over two years; yeoman Otha Havins, twenty-two, and his buddy Jay Glenn, twenty-one, an aviation machinist’s mate; and George Kurlick, twenty-two, a fire control man. Kurlick was naked, blanketed only by life vests, but all the others were dressed in their dungarees and denim shirts. And except for the persistent intense stinging in their eyes from the fuel oil, none was seriously injured.
Indy
for over two years; yeoman Otha Havins, twenty-two, and his buddy Jay Glenn, twenty-one, an aviation machinist’s mate; and George Kurlick, twenty-two, a fire control man. Kurlick was naked, blanketed only by life vests, but all the others were dressed in their dungarees and denim shirts. And except for the persistent intense stinging in their eyes from the fuel oil, none was seriously injured.
“Boys,” McVay said, surveying his motley crew, “is this all that’s left of us?” Spinelli didn’t have an answer. Only
several hours earlier, he’d been playing a little after-hours pinochle with his buddies in the bakeshop, a pan of fresh rolls cooling on the table. And then his world had sunk beneath him. But being in McVay’s presence was a huge comfort.
several hours earlier, he’d been playing a little after-hours pinochle with his buddies in the bakeshop, a pan of fresh rolls cooling on the table. And then his world had sunk beneath him. But being in McVay’s presence was a huge comfort.
McVay took command of the three rafts, one floater net, and eight sailors—a ragtag flotilla that he intended to lead, nonetheless, with unbending fairness and sturdy naval discipline. “Don’t worry,” he told the crew, “we will be rescued—don’t lose faith. Keep heart.”
The words rang hollow; McVay realized that there was no guarantee rescue would come anytime soon. He hoped that the pilots of the tractor planes that he’d requested to meet him for gunnery practice at 6 A.M. on Tuesday, July 31, near Homonhon Island (fifty miles east of Leyte) would report their failure to show.
20
If they didn’t report the ship missing, McVay further reasoned, and if no one had received their SOS, rescue would begin when the
Indy
didn’t show up in port at Leyte midday on Tuesday.
20
If they didn’t report the ship missing, McVay further reasoned, and if no one had received their SOS, rescue would begin when the
Indy
didn’t show up in port at Leyte midday on Tuesday.
With this in mind, he told his group that Thursday seemed the earliest date they could hope for aid. He confidently announced that it would be ships, not planes, that would find them. “Planes,” he explained, “would be flying too high to ever see us.”
All the boys, though bone-weary and scared, felt good about their chances.
At dawn, when the sun launched off the horizon and began its race into the sky, the temperature shot from a nighttime cool of low 80s to over 100 degrees. Just twelve degrees
north of the equator, the heat was merciless. The men’s exposed heads baked as they squinted in agony and paddled about.
north of the equator, the heat was merciless. The men’s exposed heads baked as they squinted in agony and paddled about.
The large group led by Ensign Harlan Twible and Richard Redmayne seemed to have everything it needed to survive—life rafts, floater nets, and food—but lacked cohesion among their ranks. Unlike the group headed by Haynes, Parke, and Father Conway, which was performing as one unit bent on survival, this group was mostly an uneasy collection of alienated souls. Redmayne had been badly burned in the explosions, and although he was an officer, he was not in a position to command.
Ensign Twible tried to compensate, but he was seriously underexperienced. Still, he had taken to heart his Naval Academy training, and he began a close imitation of what he believed an officer’s behavior should be. He wasn’t trying to fool anyone; he was only trying to keep the men alive and get them organized into some kind of survival plan. Three weeks earlier, he’d been riding a train across the country, freshly graduated from the academy; now more than 300 oil-smeared faces stared back at him as he issued orders. As he told them to tie their life vests together, the blank look in their eyes startled him. Few obeyed.
Then, from within the crowd, a voice said, “You heard the officer. Now do it!” This was Durward Horner, a gunnery captain, one of the old salts who was widely respected by the crew.
Twible spotted one of the sailors holding up a bottle of whiskey. He couldn’t believe it—what had the boy been thinking as he struggled to get off the ship? “Toss that out,” Twible ordered. “It’ll only cause you trouble.” The sailor grumpily handed the bottle over and Twible emptied it into the sea.
Jack Miner—minus the bucket that had fallen on his head earlier—was in a daze, but he tried to do as commanded. As Twible was issuing an order to remove shoes so as to swim
more easily, Miner looked down and saw something flash beneath his feet. One moment the image was there, and then it was gone. He gave it no more thought.
more easily, Miner looked down and saw something flash beneath his feet. One moment the image was there, and then it was gone. He gave it no more thought.
About two miles to the south of this group, Dr. Haynes, Captain Parke, and Father Conway were undeterred by the day’s scorching heat. One of their boys found a life ring and passed it to Parke, who quickly devised a use for it. Attached to the ring was 200 feet of ship’s line. Parke ordered the boys—as many as would fit—to grab hold. As if impelled by an invisible wind, the line began curling around the epicenter of the life ring. With the boys attached, it whirled slowly and in a circular motion, creating a flower of pain, with the most severely wounded caught in the middle.
Captain Parke ordered Haynes into the center among the wounded, while Father Conway paddled the edges, hearing confessions and saying last rites for those too wounded to carry on. About half the boys were naked or dressed only in skivvies, while others wore only a shirt or just their shoes. Some had nothing but a hat. Still, the boys’ spirits rose as the day progressed, and they cheerfully cursed their predicament. Having endured the torpedoing, the group was plagued by a strange giddiness. At times, they laughed and shouted over one another’s heads like men at a New Year’s Eve party; rescue, most were sure, was just a day, maybe two, away.
BOOK: In Harm's Way: The Sinking of the U.S.S. Indianapolis and the Extraordinary Story of Its Survivors
12.04Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
Other books
When I Find You: A Trust No One Novel by Brown, Dixie Lee
Beautiful Ghosts by Eliot Pattison
Eternal Love (Bend to My Will #11) by Emily Jane Trent
People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks
Wicca for Beginners by Thea Sabin
The Pieces We Keep by Kristina McMorris
Horse Thief by Bonnie Bryant
Fallen Elements by Heather McVea
The City by Gemmell, Stella
A Time for Home: A Snowberry Creek Novel by Alexis Morgan
