In Harm's Way: The Sinking of the U.S.S. Indianapolis and the Extraordinary Story of Its Survivors (4 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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Before the surprise orders were given, it had been assumed
that she would spend at least another six weeks of repair in the yard, followed by two weeks of sea trials to complete necessary shakedowns. Much still remained to be tested, such as the calibration of her radar range finders, firing drills for her main battery of 8-inch guns, automatic weapons tracking drills, intraship flag drills, voice radio drills, coding board drills, and anti-aircraft tracking drills. Belowdecks, yard welders were still at work mending the ship’s steel frames.
that she would spend at least another six weeks of repair in the yard, followed by two weeks of sea trials to complete necessary shakedowns. Much still remained to be tested, such as the calibration of her radar range finders, firing drills for her main battery of 8-inch guns, automatic weapons tracking drills, intraship flag drills, voice radio drills, coding board drills, and anti-aircraft tracking drills. Belowdecks, yard welders were still at work mending the ship’s steel frames.
Even under McVay’s previous sailing orders, which had him leaving San Francisco in another two months, the repairs had been running behind schedule. And the end results of some of these repairs were uncertain.
One of the ship’s major problems, leading to the removal of one of the plane-launching catapults, had been solved, although never explained. After the catapult’s removal, however, the ship had developed a curious, albeit slight, three-degree list, or tilt, toward its lighter side. (If she was going to list, it should have been in the direction of the now heavier side.) The condition had been corrected by shifting freight and by the added weight of the oncoming fuel. McVay was also worried about the ship’s water condensers, supposedly repaired since they were damaged in the kamikaze attack; they were malfunctioning again. The condensers were used to make steam to run the
Indy
’s four turbine engines. Because they weren’t working to capacity, Captain McVay had posted an alert on board that all potable water had to be reserved for the engines. The crew was not allowed one drink from the scuttlebutts, or drinking fountains, dotted around the ship. But still, in the midst of all the activity on board, it was possible no one was paying attention to the alert.
Indy
’s four turbine engines. Because they weren’t working to capacity, Captain McVay had posted an alert on board that all potable water had to be reserved for the engines. The crew was not allowed one drink from the scuttlebutts, or drinking fountains, dotted around the ship. But still, in the midst of all the activity on board, it was possible no one was paying attention to the alert.
Of his crew, more than 250 of the 1,196 men were new to the ship, some fresh from boot camp and training school. How would these green hands perform in the open sea? Or battle? Of McVay’s eighty officers, thirty-five were also
new—at least one had graduated just weeks earlier from the Naval Academy in Annapolis. The navy had a nickname for the fresh Officer Candidate School graduates: they were called “ninety-day wonders.” The captain estimated that 25 percent of his crew was inexperienced, and he knew it would be a challenge to sharpen them into naval fighters before joining the invasion’s task force.
new—at least one had graduated just weeks earlier from the Naval Academy in Annapolis. The navy had a nickname for the fresh Officer Candidate School graduates: they were called “ninety-day wonders.” The captain estimated that 25 percent of his crew was inexperienced, and he knew it would be a challenge to sharpen them into naval fighters before joining the invasion’s task force.
As the afternoon wore on, McVay could see nothing but problems. Until yesterday, the ship hadn’t even been loaded with her complement of required life vests; then a double order arrived—nearly 2,500 vests. With available storage space tight, where was he supposed to stow all the extras? And to make matters worse, earlier, before announcing this special mission, naval command had ordered the
Indy
to taxi nearly 100 extra navy personnel to Pearl Harbor for further assignment; now these men were showing up with seabags in hand, looking for berths. McVay, frustrated by the increasingly crowded conditions aboard ship, worried about his ability to run his new crew through their regular battle drills once at sea. It was a madhouse.
Indy
to taxi nearly 100 extra navy personnel to Pearl Harbor for further assignment; now these men were showing up with seabags in hand, looking for berths. McVay, frustrated by the increasingly crowded conditions aboard ship, worried about his ability to run his new crew through their regular battle drills once at sea. It was a madhouse.
It was going to be a long night.
For the crew, the night ahead was filled with possibility. The sudden order to sail affected the boys in odd ways. Sailor Bob Gause, from Tarpon Springs, Florida, hatched a scheme to sneak off the ship to see his wife one last time. As a quartermaster, he had been so busy on the bridge during the last few days’ preparation that he hadn’t even had time to tell her the ship was sailing.
Others were bolder in their plans. Sailor Ed Brown had been plotting his escape since morning, when the captain first announced that all liberties were canceled. Brown, from Sioux Falls, South Dakota, felt he had always been
lucky—he never failed to find a way to get around things. He joined the navy in 1944 and left for boot camp an hour after playing his last high school basketball game. He and his father had had to hurry to make it to the train station to catch the troop train passing through; there wouldn’t be another for a week.
lucky—he never failed to find a way to get around things. He joined the navy in 1944 and left for boot camp an hour after playing his last high school basketball game. He and his father had had to hurry to make it to the train station to catch the troop train passing through; there wouldn’t be another for a week.
As the train pulled away, his father ran alongside shouting, “Now, son, I gotta tell you about the birds and bees! I forgot to tell you about the birds and bees!”
“What, Dad!”
And his dad cupped his hands and said, “You’re gonna meet some women, and the only thing they want is your money!”
Brown shrugged, confused. “Okay, Dad. Bye. Tell Mom I love her.”
He sat down, wondering, “What the hell’s he talking about? I don’t even have any money.”
Four months later, he was aboard the
Indianapolis,
and he thought he understood what his father had meant about the birds and bees. While the
Indy
was in overhaul these past two months, he had met a girl and they had made plans to go dancing tonight at the Club Lido.
Indianapolis,
and he thought he understood what his father had meant about the birds and bees. While the
Indy
was in overhaul these past two months, he had met a girl and they had made plans to go dancing tonight at the Club Lido.
Down in his compartment, four decks below the bridge where McVay stood fretting about the problems of the ship, Brown now stripped and dressed in his navy blues—blue woolen pants and a jumper, the standard uniform for a sailor on liberty—and then over these he pulled on his dungarees and denim work shirt.
Racing up the ladder topside, Brown grabbed a garbage can from the hangar deck and walked down the gangway, trying to appear at ease under his uncomfortable bundle of clothing. His ruse worked; to anyone watching, he looked like a sailor on work detail dumping the ship’s trash.
Once he was on the wharf, he cut behind a warehouse building and tore off his dungarees and shirt and stuffed them in the trash can, covering them with newspaper. And
then he sprinted through the yard’s main gate and stuck out his thumb for a ride into San Francisco. He was free!
then he sprinted through the yard’s main gate and stuck out his thumb for a ride into San Francisco. He was free!
But things did not come off quite as he expected.
At around 5 A.M. Monday morning, the shrill blast of the boatswain’s pipe came over the ship’s PA. Rolling over and scratching, naked or dressed in skivvies, the boys whose turn it was to go on duty grumpily set to getting the ship ready to sail.
Lines were sprung from the bow and stern, and navy tugs prepared to back out of the harbor with the
Indy
in tow. On the wharf, a lone figure came running, his hand waving wildly; it was Ed Brown.
Indy
in tow. On the wharf, a lone figure came running, his hand waving wildly; it was Ed Brown.
“What the hell are you doing off the ship!” yelled an officer standing at the top of the gangway. The tugs had now started the lean against the hawsers—the
Indy
was pulling away.
Indy
was pulling away.
The officer was so flustered by the sight of Brown pulling his sailor suit from a trash can that he could barely speak. He watched in astonishment as Brown stuffed his clothes under his arm and sprinted up the gangway, judged the six feet between him and the departing ship, and jumped. In another five seconds, he would have missed it altogether.
As the security detail of planes appeared in the pale blue sky, the
Indy
moved out into the harbor. Around them, navy patrol boats prowled in crossing patterns, keeping a respectful distance. But then, at 6:30 A.M., the
Indy
did something unexpected. She halted, as if waiting—but for what, it wasn’t exactly clear.
Indy
moved out into the harbor. Around them, navy patrol boats prowled in crossing patterns, keeping a respectful distance. But then, at 6:30 A.M., the
Indy
did something unexpected. She halted, as if waiting—but for what, it wasn’t exactly clear.
One thousand miles to the east, on an expanse of scrubby desert in New Mexico, a tremendous flash filled the morning sky. It was an explosion of improbable magnitude, vaporizing the 100-foot tower from which it emanated. The searing blast turned the desert sand beneath it into glass. In high school textbooks, this moment would come to be known as the Trinity test; it was the first explosion of a nuclear device in the history of the world.
The men aboard the
Indianapolis
knew nothing of this explosion. But shortly after the ship paused, a marine delivered a message by motor launch. It was presented to Dr. Haynes, who, as a senior medical officer of Admiral Spruance’s flagship staff, was authorized to open it.
Indianapolis
knew nothing of this explosion. But shortly after the ship paused, a marine delivered a message by motor launch. It was presented to Dr. Haynes, who, as a senior medical officer of Admiral Spruance’s flagship staff, was authorized to open it.
Haynes quickly perused the message, then took it to the captain on the bridge. It read: INDIANAPOLIS UNDER ORDERS OF COMMANDER IN CHIEF AND MUST NOT BE DIVERTED FROM ITS MISSION FOR ANY REASON.
Essentially, President Harry S. Truman was ordering the ship ahead at any cost.
Captain McVay appeared neither pleased nor anxious. He gathered his officers and informed them, “Gentlemen, our mission is secret. I cannot tell you the mission, but every hour we save will shorten the war by that much.” He also told them that in the event of a sinking, the black canister, which had been loaded on board with such care the previous afternoon, was to be placed in its own raft and set adrift. Only after doing this were the men on board to tend to their own safety.
McVay rang the engine room. Soon the propellers caught the water—the whole ship began to quake. It was like the movement of a freight train, imperceptible at first, but communicating power, the promise of speed.
Lashed to the port hangar deck, the large, wooden box rode easily as the
Indy
’s nose swung for the Golden Gate Bridge. The box was made of plywood and one-by-fours and resembled a heavily constructed packing crate; the screws were all countersunk and sealed carefully with red wax to prevent tampering. An area of thirty feet by thirty feet was cordoned off around it with red tape.
Indy
’s nose swung for the Golden Gate Bridge. The box was made of plywood and one-by-fours and resembled a heavily constructed packing crate; the screws were all countersunk and sealed carefully with red wax to prevent tampering. An area of thirty feet by thirty feet was cordoned off around it with red tape.
In the middle of the space, Private McCoy stood guard. He had orders to consider the watch “live ammunition duty,” which meant that he was to keep one round in the chamber of his .45 at all times. He was to use the weapon if necessary. It seemed silly—who was he going to shoot? He knew all these guys. He watched as the crew pressed to the tape, peering in, guessing out loud about the crate’s contents. They imagined it was everything from Rita Hayworth’s underwear to gold bullion.
Behind McCoy, inside the wooden crate, sat the integral components of the atom bomb known as “Little Boy.” In the canister welded to the flag lieutenant’s cabin was the carefully packed uranium-235, totaling half the fissible amount available in the United States at the time, its value estimated at $300 million. In twenty-one days, the bomb would be dropped on Hiroshima.
The contents of the crate were known to only a handful of people: President Truman and Winston Churchill; Robert Oppenheimer and his closest colleagues at the Manhattan Project; and Captain James Nolan and Major Robert Furman, who were now aboard the
Indy.
In reality, Nolan was a radiologist and Furman an engineer engaged in top-secret weapons intelligence.
Indy.
In reality, Nolan was a radiologist and Furman an engineer engaged in top-secret weapons intelligence.
For Nolan and Furman, the past three days had been an intense ordeal as they moved the bomb—what Oppenheimer and others bemusedly called “the gadget”—by a secret, plain-clothes convoy from Los Alamos, New Mexico, to Kirtland Army Air Force base in Albuquerque, where the
black canister was given its own parachute and set aboard a transport plane on a seat between Nolan and Furman. After landing at San Francisco’s Hamilton Field, each stoplight and intersection along the route to Hunters Point had been timed and mapped in advance to ensure a safe, predictable arrival. Nolan and Furman had slept near the gadget with loaded .45s in a safe house at Hunters Point, their fake artillery uniforms laid out and ready for the dawn departure.
black canister was given its own parachute and set aboard a transport plane on a seat between Nolan and Furman. After landing at San Francisco’s Hamilton Field, each stoplight and intersection along the route to Hunters Point had been timed and mapped in advance to ensure a safe, predictable arrival. Nolan and Furman had slept near the gadget with loaded .45s in a safe house at Hunters Point, their fake artillery uniforms laid out and ready for the dawn departure.
Now, as the
Indy
began steaming for the open ocean, Truman was with Churchill in Potsdam, a suburb of Berlin. He was about to deliver the Potsdam Declaration to Japan: surrender, or be annihilated. Earlier, the USS
Indianapolis
had paused after leaving the wharf to await the test results of this instrument of annihilation; if it had failed, she would have been ordered back to the pier.
Indy
began steaming for the open ocean, Truman was with Churchill in Potsdam, a suburb of Berlin. He was about to deliver the Potsdam Declaration to Japan: surrender, or be annihilated. Earlier, the USS
Indianapolis
had paused after leaving the wharf to await the test results of this instrument of annihilation; if it had failed, she would have been ordered back to the pier.
But the Trinity test had succeeded, and, by 8:30 A.M. on July 16, 1945, Captain Charles Butler McVay had cleared the San Francisco harbor and was sailing to war.
Good-bye, Golden Gate
Whenever the
Indy
sailed under the Golden Gate, we used to say,
“Going out to sea was the worst of hell.”
And coming back—that was the best of hell.
Indy
sailed under the Golden Gate, we used to say,
“Going out to sea was the worst of hell.”
And coming back—that was the best of hell.
—BOB MCGUIGGAN, seaman first-class, USS
Indianapolis
Indianapolis
Sailing to Tinian Island, South Pacific Ocean
For every sailor, passing under the Golden Gate bridge was a solemn moment. Silently eyeing its ochre spans, the boys wondered if they would ever lay eyes on it again. Down on the fantail, on the ship’s stern, headquarters for the enlisted men, some of the boys formed a betting pool: anybody who wanted could throw in a buck to wager on the next time they’d see the Golden Gate. Ed Brown, having successfully avoided the brig, was in the middle of the action, his white sailor’s hat filled with bills.
“The Golden Gate in ’48!” he said.
“I say ’47!” said another sailor.
“Ah, you’re all crazy, this war won’t be over for another ten years.” The boys booed.
Bob Gause was standing at the wheel as the ship made her way out of San Francisco Bay. Beside him was Captain McVay, looking stern, unflappable.
When Gause looked up at the bridge, his blood ran cold. There on the span, although he could barely make her out, was his wife. And she was waving! Beside her were other wives, also signaling their regretful good-byes. Gause couldn’t believe it. Hunched down, he glanced out of the corner of his eye to see if the captain was looking in the same direction, too. The last thing he wanted was for McVay to growl, “Say, Gause, you see all those women up there? I wonder who they’re waving at.”
The sailor would have to tell the truth. And that could get him court-martialed. He’d violated navy orders by letting his wife know when the
Indy
was leaving. A poster he’d seen in San Francisco, depicting a drowned sailor, had said it best.
Its caption read: A CARELESS WORD … A NEEDLESS LOSS. Another had admonished: CARELESS TALK GOT THERE FIRST.
Indy
was leaving. A poster he’d seen in San Francisco, depicting a drowned sailor, had said it best.
Its caption read: A CARELESS WORD … A NEEDLESS LOSS. Another had admonished: CARELESS TALK GOT THERE FIRST.
Gause didn’t breathe easy until the ship had completely cleared the bridge and the beautiful structure was fading off the stern.
McVay’s orders for this mission remained sealed in an envelope he’d kept locked in a vault in his cabin. Following the schedule he’d been issued, he waited until he was the specified distance from land before tearing open the document.
Then he picked up the microphone on the open bridge: “Men, this is a speed run to the island of Tinian, where we are to deliver the cargo. We can’t lose time. All hands be sharp. That is all.”
Coxswain Mike Kuryla now opened the PA’s line to enlisted men’s country, which included everything to the rear of the number-one smokestack and the captain’s bridge. This area was about 300 feet long and 60 feet wide, terminating at the stern of the ship. As a coxswain, it was Kuryla’s job to handle the ship’s landing lines and craft, as well as pipe messages. He wore a seven-inch silver pipe on a lanyard around his neck. Positioning his mouth close to the small metal screen mounted in a wooden control board located on the quarterdeck, he gave the pipe a blow.
“Now hear this, now hear this! Work party lay to, clean and sweep all decks and ladders!”
Then the fun began. But to get the boys to work, Kuryla had to catch them first. The old salts on board were the best at avoiding duties with their games of hide-and-seek. Kuryla knew exactly where to look; preferred hiding places included bulkhead corners or the turrets of the ship’s 8-inch guns.
“Come on, sailor, grab a broom and get to work!” Kuryla
said when he managed to squeeze the bums out of hiding. “Now don’t give me any guff,” he’d roar. Kuryla, a building contractor’s son from Chicago, was just nineteen, but his experience and attitude more than compensated for his youth. As he rounded up the boys, the work division brought the deck to life with hoses, mops, and swabs, scrubbing dirt and salt from all painted surfaces. The navy was fanatical about cleanliness, and there was a lot of ground to cover. In all, it would take a man ten minutes at a dog-walking pace to travel the entire 610 feet of the deck, all of which was painted gray, including the two heavy, seven-foot-long anchors set high in the bow like the eyes of a curious gargoyle.
said when he managed to squeeze the bums out of hiding. “Now don’t give me any guff,” he’d roar. Kuryla, a building contractor’s son from Chicago, was just nineteen, but his experience and attitude more than compensated for his youth. As he rounded up the boys, the work division brought the deck to life with hoses, mops, and swabs, scrubbing dirt and salt from all painted surfaces. The navy was fanatical about cleanliness, and there was a lot of ground to cover. In all, it would take a man ten minutes at a dog-walking pace to travel the entire 610 feet of the deck, all of which was painted gray, including the two heavy, seven-foot-long anchors set high in the bow like the eyes of a curious gargoyle.
Anyone watching the crew work could have gotten a glimpse of America: there were boys who hailed from Texas ranches, Greek neighborhoods in Chicago, sprawling cities, and remote villages no one had ever heard of. As was the tradition, all the sailors wore handmade knives in scabbards at their sides. They were dressed in dungarees, denim shirts, and black boots called boondockers, their white pillbox hats rolled over their foreheads.
The crew swept and hosed the deck forward from the fantail, past the rear 8-inch gun turret. Some skirted to the rail, past the 5-inch and 40 mm and 20 mm gun decks hanging high overhead from the ship’s framework like steel lily pads. Under Kuryla’s watchful eyes, others moved past the number-two smokestack and the two airplane hangars surrounding it, to the quarterdeck. It was one of the
Indy
’s social hubs, like the fantail and mess halls belowdecks.
Indy
’s social hubs, like the fantail and mess halls belowdecks.
Beyond the quarterdeck was officers’ country, with its four levels in ascending order: communications platform, signal bridge, navigation bridge, and fire control station. Captain McVay usually resided in command on the navigation bridge. His realm overlooked the bow, where two more turrets of 8-inch guns sat, their nearly forty-foot barrels poking out to sea. Underneath the four bridges were the officers’ sleeping quarters and wardroom; nearby stood the code
room and radio shack 1, also known as Radio Central, which received incoming messages from Honolulu twenty-four hours a day. Here, seated around a half-moon-shaped desk spanning the ten-foot room, men sat at keyboards, listening through headphones while typing minute-by-minute incoming messages from commands spread across the Pacific. The nimble accuracy of these men was so valuable that they were exempted from operating the guns.
room and radio shack 1, also known as Radio Central, which received incoming messages from Honolulu twenty-four hours a day. Here, seated around a half-moon-shaped desk spanning the ten-foot room, men sat at keyboards, listening through headphones while typing minute-by-minute incoming messages from commands spread across the Pacific. The nimble accuracy of these men was so valuable that they were exempted from operating the guns.
Behind the number-two smokestack stood emergency radio shack 2, its transmitters warmed up and ready in case Radio Central was knocked out of commission.
Below the main deck, there were two more main levels, airless hells lit by hundreds of bulbs nestled in wire cages. Directly below the fantail was the brig, where Private McCoy, when he wasn’t standing duty at the secret crate, guarded prisoners. There were currently two fellows in the brig, cooks who had gotten drunk on liberty and gone AWOL in San Francisco, a rather frequent occurrence.
From the fantail, it was about a three-minute walk to the middle of the ship, where, on the lower levels, the majority of the 1,114 enlisted men bunked in some 25 compartments arranged in rows like combs in a vast, steamy hive. The compartments consisted of narrow passageways just big enough for two men to pass each other brushing shoulders. Bunks rose from floor to ceiling on both sides and were chained against the wall when not in use. A boy assigned a top bunk practically had to throw himself six feet into the air and somehow manage to move sideways at the same time, inserting himself in the slot that was his home. Lying on his pillow, the overhead, or ceiling, was only twelve inches from his nose. He usually fell asleep staring at a picture of a Vargas girl torn from the latest
Argosy
magazine.
Argosy
magazine.
The mess halls—there were two main ones for the enlisted crew—were a thirty-second walk from the sleeping compartments. The largest one was forty by sixty feet and loud as a gymnasium. Next door was the gedunk stand, and
next to that was the post office, where mail went after its delivery by passing ships or by airdrop from planes. Letters from home were, unfortunately, often months old. Ed Brown, while shelling the island of Saipan, received his invitation to his high school graduation six months late. He wrote back, “Thanks, but I won’t be able to make it.”
next to that was the post office, where mail went after its delivery by passing ships or by airdrop from planes. Letters from home were, unfortunately, often months old. Ed Brown, while shelling the island of Saipan, received his invitation to his high school graduation six months late. He wrote back, “Thanks, but I won’t be able to make it.”
Past the post office, heading toward the bow, were the ship’s dentist office, a library stocked with detective novels and aging
National Geographic
magazines, and a photo lab for developing battle reconnaissance photos taken by the observation planes. Least favorite for the ship’s sometimes recalcitrant cleaners was the bathroom, or head, a charmless spot with twenty-foot-long troughs flowing with seawater along each wall. On top of some were communal wooden benches with holes cut out for sitting. (Senior officers had private toilets and showers.)
National Geographic
magazines, and a photo lab for developing battle reconnaissance photos taken by the observation planes. Least favorite for the ship’s sometimes recalcitrant cleaners was the bathroom, or head, a charmless spot with twenty-foot-long troughs flowing with seawater along each wall. On top of some were communal wooden benches with holes cut out for sitting. (Senior officers had private toilets and showers.)
Below the crew’s head were the engine rooms, and, like the radio shacks, these were separated—one located fore and the other aft—by boiler rooms. The division was a safeguard; if one of the areas was blown up, there would be a reserve.
Topside, rising from the deck were two 100-foot observation towers called “sky aft” and “sky forward”; they were connected by phone to the bridge, which was manned with “telephone talkers.” Their job was to keep communications open with McVay throughout the various gun stations.
Positioned strategically around the deck were stacks of life rafts, four high. Two wooden lifeboats rested in stanchions near the stern, and hanging on the bulkheads were twenty-four floater nets. There was enough lifesaving equipment to handle over 1,500 men. Clearly, for the men aboard, though, the quickest and easiest way off the ship in case of emergency was with an inflatable life belt or a life vest; these were stored in hanging bags tacked along the bulkhead running the length of the ship, and each man kept one within easy reach on a hook next to his bunk.
In case of attack, the favored contingency plan was rescue from nearby escorting vessels, such as the destroyers that had generally accompanied the
Indy
on her previous three years of battle duty. This afternoon, however, she traveled alone, as she was well over 6,000 miles behind front lines.
Indy
on her previous three years of battle duty. This afternoon, however, she traveled alone, as she was well over 6,000 miles behind front lines.
Captain McVay was tense but composed as he stood watch on the bridge. Already, the day had brought a bit of excitement, the kind of circumstance that he had to try to avoid to get the ship to Tinian on schedule. Within several hours of clearing the Golden Gate, the
Indianapolis
had run into rough seas, with swells of fifteen feet. The ride had been a bone-jarring ballet of dips and vaults. The ship’s eight White-Forster boilers were driving four sets of Parsons turbines (each engine block measured about ten feet long and five feet high), and the ship, which weighed as much as a ten-story office building, was pushing 107,000 horsepower. But it was not fast enough for McVay. He rang the engineer for more speed, and the
Indy
jumped to twenty-eight knots. Her four massive propellers, each one spanning fifteen feet, began striping the indigo sea with a wake as wide as an eight-lane highway.
Indianapolis
had run into rough seas, with swells of fifteen feet. The ride had been a bone-jarring ballet of dips and vaults. The ship’s eight White-Forster boilers were driving four sets of Parsons turbines (each engine block measured about ten feet long and five feet high), and the ship, which weighed as much as a ten-story office building, was pushing 107,000 horsepower. But it was not fast enough for McVay. He rang the engineer for more speed, and the
Indy
jumped to twenty-eight knots. Her four massive propellers, each one spanning fifteen feet, began striping the indigo sea with a wake as wide as an eight-lane highway.
By sunset, she had made 350 miles, excellent time.
But McVay couldn’t relax. The captain’s head was filled with potential problems. For starters, there was the obvious concern of maintaining the secrecy of his mission, and all that this involved. Until reaching Tinian, his ship would be traveling under radio silence, which could only be broken in the event of trouble. Because the
Indy
was traveling so fast, McVay had to keep a close eye on fuel consumption, rendering the voyage a racy balancing act between speed and conservation.
Indy
was traveling so fast, McVay had to keep a close eye on fuel consumption, rendering the voyage a racy balancing act between speed and conservation.
Although McVay was encouraged by the time he was making, his executive officer had now informed him that the water condensers were still malfunctioning. All hands, McVay announced, were ordered to shower with salt water. Every ounce of freshwater was needed to pour into the boilers.
Still, McVay tried to be his usual self, a man who liked to describe his ship as a “happy ship,” and whose easygoing nature was extraordinary for a naval captain. Most commanders, enlisted men joked, were either big SOBs or little SOBs. McVay, however, was neither. He was known for his egalitarian spirit and for his graciousness. Sometimes, while anchored in a harbor, he instigated skeet-shooting sessions off the
Indy’
s fantail. Out of nowhere, his voice would sound over the PA: “Anyone interested in fishing, join me at the bow.” When new crew members came aboard, he made an effort to greet them by name, saying, “Welcome, sailor. We’re going to have a happy cruise.”
Indy’
s fantail. Out of nowhere, his voice would sound over the PA: “Anyone interested in fishing, join me at the bow.” When new crew members came aboard, he made an effort to greet them by name, saying, “Welcome, sailor. We’re going to have a happy cruise.”
But the stakes of this tour were high. If he succeeded in this voyage, delivering the cargo safely and quickly, it was possible that Charles McVay, completing the arc of a thus far stellar career, would make admiral. It was possible that he might actually surpass the accomplishments of his family.
McVay’s grandfather, the first Charles McVay, president of the Pittsburgh Trust Company, had financially supported the Naval Academy during its lean years after the Civil War. McVay’s celebrated father, Admiral Charles McVay, Jr., had commanded the Asiatic Fleet during World War I. He was a stern taskmaster, who had retired in 1932 to Washington, D.C., after an illustrious forty-two-year naval career. An 1890 graduate of the Naval Academy, he had taken the school’s motto—“God, Country, and Regiment”—to heart. He had drilled these values, in turn, into his son.
And the son had been a good student. Charles Butler McVay III had graduated as an ensign in 1919. He was fluent in French and had completed a Naval War College correspondence
course in international law. He served with distinction in several navy commands, working aboard twelve ships in the Atlantic and Pacific. In 1943, he was awarded a Silver Star while acting as executive officer aboard the cruiser
Cleveland
in the Battle of the Solomon Islands. After this, he was appointed chairman of the Joint Intelligence Staff in the Office of Vice Chief of Naval Operations in Washington, D.C. His assignment to the
Indianapolis
in November 1944 was his first as a captain.
course in international law. He served with distinction in several navy commands, working aboard twelve ships in the Atlantic and Pacific. In 1943, he was awarded a Silver Star while acting as executive officer aboard the cruiser
Cleveland
in the Battle of the Solomon Islands. After this, he was appointed chairman of the Joint Intelligence Staff in the Office of Vice Chief of Naval Operations in Washington, D.C. His assignment to the
Indianapolis
in November 1944 was his first as a captain.
In many ways, McVay was a study in contradictions. Although at times he was quite outgoing, there was sometimes a shyness about him, which people would mistake for arrogance. The captain’s temper could flare on occasion, but he rarely held a grudge. McVay was cut from the cloth of a schooled navy tradition yet remained simpatico with his enlisted crew, many of whom had quit high school to join the navy. With his broad smile and chiseled features, women found him irresistible; men were drawn to his sense of jocular bravado. He was known to love a good bourbon once the ship’s engines had been shut down. But never before.
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