In Harm's Way: The Sinking of the U.S.S. Indianapolis and the Extraordinary Story of Its Survivors (21 page)
Authors: Doug Stanton
BOOK: In Harm's Way: The Sinking of the U.S.S. Indianapolis and the Extraordinary Story of Its Survivors
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Earlier in the day, upon learning of Gwinn’s position coordinates, Captain Granum, back in Tolosa, had kicked the rescue
effort into high gear. He had confirmed the
Indy
’s departure from Guam and concluded that the latitude and longitude reading corresponded to ones she had probably passed over on her trip to Leyte. That she was almost certainly the missing ship in question was becoming clearer by the minute. With the approval of Commodore Gillette, Granum issued urgent orders dispatching several patrol vessels and planes to the rescue area. He was now coordinating the rescue operation with the efforts of the Peleliu search and recon command, from which Gwinn, Atteberry, and Marks had flown.
effort into high gear. He had confirmed the
Indy
’s departure from Guam and concluded that the latitude and longitude reading corresponded to ones she had probably passed over on her trip to Leyte. That she was almost certainly the missing ship in question was becoming clearer by the minute. With the approval of Commodore Gillette, Granum issued urgent orders dispatching several patrol vessels and planes to the rescue area. He was now coordinating the rescue operation with the efforts of the Peleliu search and recon command, from which Gwinn, Atteberry, and Marks had flown.
At the same time, the commander of the nearby western Carolines, under the jurisdiction of Vice Admiral Murray on Guam, ordered all ships and planes in the vicinity to come to the rescuers’ aid.
Shortly before Marks landed in the late afternoon, two B-17 Flying Fortresses from the Third Emergency Rescue Squadron of the Army Air Forces in Peleliu had arrived at the rescue site. The crew aboard these long-rangebombers, who had heard Gwinn’s earlier messages, unloaded seventeen life rafts, two twenty-six-foot wooden lifeboats, numerous life vests, and three dozen five-man rubber life rafts to clusters of boys in Haynes’s group.
Around 7:15 P.M. another PBY, the
Playmate 1,
also landed. This plane was piloted by Lieutenant Richard Alcorn of the U.S. Army Air Forces. He set down two miles north of Marks and immediately began cruising through the surf, passing dead bodies and floating debris, the ship’s detritus that had been borne along with the boys. To aid his search in the dusk, Alcorn turned on his plane’s light. Mistaking it for survival flares, other planes arriving on-scene began dropping supplies on him. Despite the mishap, Alcorn was actually able to pick up one survivor before he realized that he could do no good in the dark; he had landed too far
afield from most of the survivors anyway.
28
Alcorn quickly realized, however, that he could be of use by operating his plane’s lights as beacons to guide circling aircraft and rescue ships to the scene. He would spend a total of more than fifty-one hours in the area, returning to Peleliu only to refuel.
Playmate 1,
also landed. This plane was piloted by Lieutenant Richard Alcorn of the U.S. Army Air Forces. He set down two miles north of Marks and immediately began cruising through the surf, passing dead bodies and floating debris, the ship’s detritus that had been borne along with the boys. To aid his search in the dusk, Alcorn turned on his plane’s light. Mistaking it for survival flares, other planes arriving on-scene began dropping supplies on him. Despite the mishap, Alcorn was actually able to pick up one survivor before he realized that he could do no good in the dark; he had landed too far
afield from most of the survivors anyway.
28
Alcorn quickly realized, however, that he could be of use by operating his plane’s lights as beacons to guide circling aircraft and rescue ships to the scene. He would spend a total of more than fifty-one hours in the area, returning to Peleliu only to refuel.
Haynes, exasperated that his boys were still dying with rescue so imminent, knew he had to do something. After Marks had dropped his rafts, Haynes paddled over to one of them, but found himself too weak to pull the toggle that would self-inflate the craft. In the end, it had taken three boys to release the cord. They elected Haynes to be the first to board the safe, dry refuge, an honor he at first refused, but they were insistent. After agreeing, he had to remove his bulky life vest, a torturous process. Free from the thing for the first time in nearly four days, his shoulders rubbed raw and bleeding, he was hoisted up by the boys and flopped over the rail. Immediately, he started looking for water on board—he had to find water. But he found none.
He managed to help lift ten more boys into the raft, and a remaining twenty had to hang on to the lifelines around it. Soon, however, the afternoon heat grew unbearable and the boys in the raft jumped back into the cooler sea. Their core body temperatures were now dipping below eighty-five degrees, at which point most major motor functions stumble and cease. That they were functioning at all was a miracle, but looking at them, Haynes thought they all looked like cadavers. The condition of the men was so acute, he knew that they couldn’t wait much longer for water.
His suffering now seemed natural. He felt close to God,
as if he were about to be lifted up, pinched between two massive, invisible fingers reaching down from the sky. With great mental strain, he tried to operate a desalinating pump stored in the raft but found he had trouble even reading the directions. Yet he didn’t give up. For several long hours he pumped what he thought was potable water, only to discover that each batch was poisoned with the tang of the sea. He cursed his increasing stupidity until, in a fit of despair that had been steadily building, he pitched the pump overboard. For the first time since the sinking, he fell to pieces.
as if he were about to be lifted up, pinched between two massive, invisible fingers reaching down from the sky. With great mental strain, he tried to operate a desalinating pump stored in the raft but found he had trouble even reading the directions. Yet he didn’t give up. For several long hours he pumped what he thought was potable water, only to discover that each batch was poisoned with the tang of the sea. He cursed his increasing stupidity until, in a fit of despair that had been steadily building, he pitched the pump overboard. For the first time since the sinking, he fell to pieces.
He started weeping. He wept angrily over his failure to find water for his boys, over his inability to keep so many from dying. He felt ashamed that he couldn’t do more for them, but he knew he was doing the best he could. And that was all he could ask of himself anymore.
Circling overhead, Lieutenant Commander Atteberry began directing Marks toward microgroups of hard-struggling survivors. The two planes were in constant radio contact as Marks taxied the plane through the swells. Often all he could see were walls of water and then a glimpse of the next wave.
The
Playmate
2’s side hatch was open, and a Jacob’s ladder (a series of steps strung on rope) hung from its lip. A crewman stood on the rungs as Marks handled the plane.
Playmate
2’s side hatch was open, and a Jacob’s ladder (a series of steps strung on rope) hung from its lip. A crewman stood on the rungs as Marks handled the plane.
“Okay, Dumbo, come right,” radioed Atteberry. “Steady as you go … left, a little bit.”
“Okay, we see him!” Marks radioed back. Fearing he might run over a survivor, Marks cut the engines. The crewman on the ladder reached down and grabbed hold of a boy who was floating face down, gripping his arms and yanking. What he pulled from the sea nauseated him: it was only the
upper half of a body. They repeated the taxing process; often, when the crewmen grabbed hold of the swimmer, they found the boy was too weak to hang on.
upper half of a body. They repeated the taxing process; often, when the crewmen grabbed hold of the swimmer, they found the boy was too weak to hang on.
Adrian Marks was asking who these men were. He pulled aboard one boy, a petty officer, who told him they were from the
Indianapolis.
Indianapolis.
Marks now had the information that for the past five hours had eluded the command back in Peleliu and Guam. But he was too busy to code a message communicating the ship’s identity to the outside world. He aimed the plane toward the next cluster of men. The world could wait for the news; he had work to do.
As Marks’s plane floated past, picking up survivors, Haynes decided to make a try for it. Dr. Haynes didn’t really swim as much as claw his way over the water about sixty feet. By the time he reached the rope ladder hanging from Marks’s hatch, he was nearly dead.
But he didn’t get on the plane. Looking up through blurry eyes, he called out for a beaker of water and a life vest. He pulled the vest on, loosely tying it. Then, pushing the beaker ahead of him as he paddled, he finally made it back to the raft. After downing a small cup, he poured out an allotment and then pointed to a boy. “This is for him,” he croaked, his throat parched, before handing the glass down the line of waiting hands. When the glass came back, Haynes refilled it. And repeated the process, choosing a new boy to drink. The sight of the water trembling in the glass was excruciating for Haynes; it was all he could do to prevent himself from gulping it all down himself. And by the looks of the sunken, vacant eyes of the rest of the boys, he knew that they were all exercising incredible restraint. As he continued serving
them, he felt a blooming sense of pride—not one of these sailors was cheating by drinking out of turn. Haynes would forever marvel over this moment.
them, he felt a blooming sense of pride—not one of these sailors was cheating by drinking out of turn. Haynes would forever marvel over this moment.
Lifting the boys aboard the
Playmate 2,
Marks discovered that many had swollen, broken legs and arms; boarding was a hideously painful process. At times, as Marks and his crew gave a heave-ho, the flesh of the latest retrieval remained in their hands. The seawater had eaten away all the body hair from some, who came aboard whimpering, pale, and smooth-skinned as newts. Marks and his crew were horrified.
Playmate 2,
Marks discovered that many had swollen, broken legs and arms; boarding was a hideously painful process. At times, as Marks and his crew gave a heave-ho, the flesh of the latest retrieval remained in their hands. The seawater had eaten away all the body hair from some, who came aboard whimpering, pale, and smooth-skinned as newts. Marks and his crew were horrified.
Soon Marks had picked up some thirty boys and watched as they were carefully arranged on the deck of the Catalina. They thrashed uncontrollably in their delirium, kicking holes in the fuselage. Within a matter of a few hours, the entire water supply would be exhausted. Each boy was forced to wait several minutes between refilling his cup in order not to upset his shrunken stomach. After two drinks, which totaled just one cup of water, the boys fell into a deep sleep, broken only by requests for more fluid.
Ed Brown and Bob Gause were hauled aboard, sandwiched between several dozen other boys. Brown had spent the day floating and staring at the oblivion of the sky, hypnotized by what he saw there. It was a Western Union telegram that stretched from horizon to horizon, and it read: DEAR MRS. BROWN, WE REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR SON IS MISSING IN ACTION. Now he lay on the plane’s deck, overjoyed, even as his rescuers stepped and walked over him.
In his exhaustion, Bob Gause was sitting in several inches of water, remarking that it must really be raining like hell for the inside of the plane to be this wet.
“What do you mean, rain?” said a boy sitting next to him. “It’s not raining.” Then the two realized the plane was taking on water; it appeared to be sinking. (The water, in fact, was entering the plane at the seams split during Marks’s rough
landing.) A number of the boys started bailing like crazy, fearful they were going to start their ordeal all over again.
landing.) A number of the boys started bailing like crazy, fearful they were going to start their ordeal all over again.
Some of the hallucinating sailors had reacted violently to the idea of rescue. Soon the
Catalina
’s deck was stacked tight with boys kicking senselessly at phantoms. The odor of vomit and excrement filled the plane. Having run out of room inside the plane, Marks stacked more boys on the wings, where they were wrapped mummy-style in parachutes and bound with rope to prevent them from rolling off. By nightfall, he had rescued 56 survivors. Approximately 300 still waited, but darkness, total now, made further rescue efforts impossible. Marks could do no more until daylight; he resolved to wait until the rescue ships arrived.
Catalina
’s deck was stacked tight with boys kicking senselessly at phantoms. The odor of vomit and excrement filled the plane. Having run out of room inside the plane, Marks stacked more boys on the wings, where they were wrapped mummy-style in parachutes and bound with rope to prevent them from rolling off. By nightfall, he had rescued 56 survivors. Approximately 300 still waited, but darkness, total now, made further rescue efforts impossible. Marks could do no more until daylight; he resolved to wait until the rescue ships arrived.
His job was done. The
Playmate 2
drifted through the dark, echoing with the howls of the boys stored inside.
Playmate 2
drifted through the dark, echoing with the howls of the boys stored inside.
Captain Graham Claytor and the
Cecil J. Doyle
steamed into the field of debris and bodies at 11:45 P.M. Claytor wasted little time getting involved. Lowering a motorized whaleboat, he began off-loading survivors from Marks’s Catalina into the
Doyle
’s sick bay. At 12:52 A.M., Friday, August 3, the high-speed transport
Bassett
(APD 73) arrived, and within four hours the destroyers
Ralph Talbot
and
Madison
and the destroyer escort
Dufilho
(DE 423) were also in the area. Although more than twelve hours had passed since Gwinn sighted the survivors, not one of the rescue vessels, except for Marks’s, had yet learned the name of the boys’ ship.
Cecil J. Doyle
steamed into the field of debris and bodies at 11:45 P.M. Claytor wasted little time getting involved. Lowering a motorized whaleboat, he began off-loading survivors from Marks’s Catalina into the
Doyle
’s sick bay. At 12:52 A.M., Friday, August 3, the high-speed transport
Bassett
(APD 73) arrived, and within four hours the destroyers
Ralph Talbot
and
Madison
and the destroyer escort
Dufilho
(DE 423) were also in the area. Although more than twelve hours had passed since Gwinn sighted the survivors, not one of the rescue vessels, except for Marks’s, had yet learned the name of the boys’ ship.
During the predawn hours, the
Bassett
would pick up 152 survivors, the single largest group to be plucked from the sea, before being ordered to return to Leyte. These boys were primarily from the Twible group of rafters, who were
drifting about fifteen miles to the northeast of Haynes’s swimmers. Between these two floated Captain McVay and his group of nine. Alone, and leading the drift about seven miles to the northwest of Haynes, were McCoy and his four raftmates.
Bassett
would pick up 152 survivors, the single largest group to be plucked from the sea, before being ordered to return to Leyte. These boys were primarily from the Twible group of rafters, who were
drifting about fifteen miles to the northeast of Haynes’s swimmers. Between these two floated Captain McVay and his group of nine. Alone, and leading the drift about seven miles to the northwest of Haynes, were McCoy and his four raftmates.
Many, to the amazement of the
Bassett
crewmen, didn’t want to be rescued. When the
Bassett
lowered its Higgins boats, the boys swimming in the searchlights became convinced that their rescuers were Japanese sailors. (Higgins boats, also called LCVPs, are high-sided, flat-bottomed craft often used by marines for beach landings.) Likewise, the rescue crews, who still didn’t know the identity of their catch, weren’t so sure a trick wasn’t being played on them. All they could see were oil-blackened faces and the whites of deeply sunken eyes staring back at them. Drawing his pistol, one rescuer yelled out, “Hey! What city do the Dodgers play in?”
Bassett
crewmen, didn’t want to be rescued. When the
Bassett
lowered its Higgins boats, the boys swimming in the searchlights became convinced that their rescuers were Japanese sailors. (Higgins boats, also called LCVPs, are high-sided, flat-bottomed craft often used by marines for beach landings.) Likewise, the rescue crews, who still didn’t know the identity of their catch, weren’t so sure a trick wasn’t being played on them. All they could see were oil-blackened faces and the whites of deeply sunken eyes staring back at them. Drawing his pistol, one rescuer yelled out, “Hey! What city do the Dodgers play in?”
“Brooklyn!” came the reply. The crew gunned its boat ahead to the rescue.
To get the boys aboard required some imaginative thinking. One rescuer convinced the survivors he was taking them to a dance and made them form a conga line leading to the Higgins boat. Others were told they were heading out for a night of liberty on the town. Twenty-year-old
Bassett
rescuer William Van Wilpe was uncommonly brave, jumping into the sea from his boat after three survivors had fallen out. They sank immediately, dead weight. Van Wilpe emerged on the surface carrying all three in his arms, a Herculean effort. Later, when he dislocated his shoulder, he popped it back into place himself and quickly resumed his duty.
Bassett
rescuer William Van Wilpe was uncommonly brave, jumping into the sea from his boat after three survivors had fallen out. They sank immediately, dead weight. Van Wilpe emerged on the surface carrying all three in his arms, a Herculean effort. Later, when he dislocated his shoulder, he popped it back into place himself and quickly resumed his duty.
Jack Miner tried feverishly to swim away from the approach of an LCVP, but was too weak. He was lifted over the rail of the craft, kicking and struggling. Lifted up by a burly, bearded sailor, Miner believed he was in the arms of the angel Gabriel. He stopped struggling when a slice of orange
was shoved in his mouth. To Miner the fruit tasted like heaven, and when he finished it, he sucked greedily on the rind.
was shoved in his mouth. To Miner the fruit tasted like heaven, and when he finished it, he sucked greedily on the rind.
At 4 A.M., the searchlight of the
Cecil J. Doyle
found Dr. Haynes’s raft in its sharp beam.
Cecil J. Doyle
found Dr. Haynes’s raft in its sharp beam.
Sitting next to the doctor was one of his boys who had lost his marbles. “Hey,” the kid yelled up to the
Doyle.
“Have you got any water on board?”
Doyle.
“Have you got any water on board?”
The eager answer came back, “We got a lot of water on board!”
The kid was silent. After a moment, he said, “’Cause if you ain’t got any water, go away and leave us alone!”
A cargo net was rolled down the metal hull of the
Doyle,
and Haynes was hauled from the sea with a rope tied around his waist. He was naked, burned, and half out of his mind. But he pushed away the men holding him up, announcing: “I can stand on my own!”
Doyle,
and Haynes was hauled from the sea with a rope tied around his waist. He was naked, burned, and half out of his mind. But he pushed away the men holding him up, announcing: “I can stand on my own!”
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