by Doug Stanton
Back on board, boys with knives slashed at bags of kapok life jackets and floater nets. Trying to free one of the Indy’s twenty-six-foot whaleboats, a sailor was crushed as the deck slid beneath him and he found himself pinned to the ship’s bulkhead under the heavy wooden craft. Mike Kuryla worked at the Indy’s second motor launch, but the increasing list made this impossible; he couldn’t manage to pull the release pin securing it to the stanchion. He was forced to give up. Finding a bag of life vests hanging nearby, he emptied the netting and, shouting that he had life preservers for all who still needed them, began handing them out by the armful.
At this point, about eleven minutes had passed since the torpedoes struck, and the boys leaving on the high, port side were sliding down the long expanse of exposed hull, which was mercifully clear of barnacles as a result of the Indy’s extensive overhaul in San Francisco. They entered the water with a splash, screaming as they dropped.
On the low side of the ship, the starboard rail was now level with the water itself, and the boys on this side could walk off like swimmers stepping into a pool. Some stepped off without even getting their hair wet. They settled with the lightest of splashes and began swimming away.
It was here, depending on which side they left the ship, that the crew began to seal different fates for themselves. Those who departed from the port side entered a sea nearly devoid of any lifesaving equipment. Because the ship was heeling to the right, or starboard, all the lifesaving gear was sliding down the deck and into the sea in that direction. The boys leaving the Indy from the lower rail bobbed along a pitching swell littered with empty powder cans, wooden desk chairs and desks, papers, and crates of potatoes and carrots. Loose life vests and rafts were also floating in the water off this low side. The boys needed to work fast, collecting what they could before swimming as far as possible away from the ship, whose burning hulk was now threatening to roll over on top of them.
Regardless of which side of the ship they exited, the boys were swimming directly into the poisonous field of black fuel oil spewing from the ship’s exploded hull. It was sticky as molasses, and they couldn’t avoid swallowing it as they paddled around in the heavy swells. It smothered them in a noxious blanket, clogging their eyes, ears, and mouths, eating away with acid intensity at all their sensitive membranes.
Many simply drifted in shock. All that was visible of their blackened faces was the whites of their eyes and their red, screaming mouths.
Chaos was at full fiery whirl.
CHAPTER FIVE
Abandon Ship
I jumped and I swam. I looked back
and the ship stood right on end, and there must have been
300 sailors standin’ on the fantail, and it just went under.
And they drifted off like a bunch of flies.
—ROBERT GAUSE, quartermaster first-class, USS Indianapolis
MONDAY, JULY 30, 1945
McCoy knew something very bad had happened, but because there was no smoke, fire, or loss of electricity in the brig, it was hard to figure out what exactly was going on. He was completely unaware of the terror unfolding in the forward area of the ship. Before the hit, McCoy, dressed in a green T-shirt and fatigues, had been standing beneath the air vent that rose through the bulkheads, angling for the coolest sip of salt breeze, lulled by the steady rhythm of the massive, brass propellers turning on the other side of the bulkhead. Then: Wham!
The lights had blacked out, and the compartment rang like a gong. McCoy had been tossed fifteen feet across the brig to an opposite wall, where he hit a bunk. This set into motion a chain reaction of bunks falling to the floor. McCoy ended up pinned with an unconscious boy’s body draped across his legs. After he rolled him off, he stood up and felt for broken bones. He was fine.
McCoy’s first thought was that the Indy had been rammed by a Japanese destroyer. Or that maybe the ship had hit a mine. He had no idea. One thing he was sure of: his first order of duty was to help the wounded out of the sleeping compartment adjoining the brig, then hurry to his battle station at the 5-inch gun located aft on the ship. All around him, sailors were screaming out in pain. McCoy searched around the pitch-dark interior, found a big nine-volt-cell battle light, and played it over the gray metal walls of the compartment.
About thirty enlisted men had been thrown from their bunks into a tangle on the deck. In the pale beam of his light, McCoy could see the fall had knocked a few of them out. He knelt and felt for pulses, and tried shaking them back to consciousness. It was no good—they were out cold. There would be time to move them later; McCoy guessed that damage control crews on the main deck were busy fighting fires and, he hoped, winning the battle while the hatches were closed and flooding compartments contained.
But it was the closing of the hatches that worried McCoy. He didn’t want to be in this compartment if an order was given to dog them. He knew he had to move fast.
Behind him, the two prisoners yelled to be let out of their cells, and McCoy quickly fumbled for the key and released them. All three turned their attention to the wounded. Some had broken legs, arms, and ribs. About twenty of the thirty boys were now stirring, writhing, and begging McCoy to move the bunks off of them.
McCoy and the cooks, breathing heavily in the foul heat, began untangling their crewmen and escorting them up the steep, metal ladder through the hatch—the only way out. It was hard work, and they were frantic to keep moving as quickly as possible. About eight minutes after the explosion, a chief petty officer appeared in the black square of night filling the open hatch. McCoy could see he was agitated.
“We’re gonna have to dog this hatch, Private!”
“But there’s men still down here!”
“Well, get ’em out!”
This was what every sailor feared: that the boys who couldn’t be moved would be entombed forever within the ship.
They upped their pace, but by the time the chief petty officer reappeared McCoy guessed that there were nine boys still in the compartment. The cooks dashed up the ladder and disappeared into the night. Looking up the rungs leading to the hatch, McCoy could see the night sky pinned with clouds. He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving the compartment. Sensing that their fate was being settled, the boys left behind cried: “Don’t leave us. Don’t leave us.”
McCoy barked, “I’m coming!” at the chief petty officer and, with a sick feeling, ran up the ladder without looking back. A few seconds later, he heard the clang of the hatch closing and the metallic whir of wheels spinning shut. Then came the rasp of the pin as it was inserted into the locked position.
The men trapped inside were screaming, but the sound was tinny and faint. McCoy knew the night was just beginning.
Reaching the main deck, he steadied himself on the high port rail, then he started to the bow, intent on reaching his gun mount on the starboard side near the hangar deck. He saw boys scrambling across the pitched deck, faces burned and blackened, wailing. They seemed out of their minds. This is my home, he thought.
But the damn thing was falling apart right under his feet. He wondered what had happened to Captain Parke and the other marines.14 McCoy could hear the ship hiss as it sank; it was a terrible, high-pitched sound.
Looking down, he realized he was wearing only one shoe—he was holding the other. He quickly jammed it on his foot and inched along the rail, found a life vest, and snatched it up without stopping. He could feel the ship shaking beneath him as explosions sounded throughout her interior. It was like riding a thunderhead. Ahead, he could see that the bow was completely under water. The ship’s rails were driving through the sea. It was then that he realized that the Indy was really going to sink. The deck gave one final turn, and the port rail pointed directly at the sky. Slipping, McCoy grabbed the loose ends of some wiring, wrapped it around his fists, and began climbing up a tilted gun mount.
He pulled himself over the splinter shield, a large square plate of steel that protected the gunners, and stood on top of it. It’s now or ne
ver, he thought, and he stepped off onto the side of the ship and began walking down the metal hull, converging with a swarm of about thirty boys, all headed for the sea. McCoy dropped into a crouch, sat down, lifted his feet, and slid across the keel. With a splash, he hit the water and was smothered in the blanket of leaking fuel oil.
He surfaced, gagging, shook his head, then tried wiping his eyes, but this only smeared more oil into them. And then he began to swim. Looking over his shoulder, he could see one of the ship’s inboard propellers still spinning. Men were jumping off the stern, screaming as they dropped. They hit the blades and were thrown into the air. One minute they were dropping straight for the sea; the next, they were flying sideways, wailing as they flew out into the darkness.
Asleep in his private berth in the forward part of the ship, Dr. Lewis Haynes had been knocked high into the air when the first torpedo hit, landing on the edge of his small Formica desk. He’d just managed to stand up on wobbly legs when the second explosion knocked him down again. This time, he heard his hands sizzling on the hot metal deck. Christ, I better get the shit out of here, he thought as he grabbed his life jacket from its hook by the door. Then he took one last look at the framed picture of his wife and hurried through the curtain into the passageway, where he was greeted by the sound of tortured screaming.
Haynes paused to try to locate the source: it was Lieutenant Commander Henry, the dentist, next door. Haynes was paralyzed by the sounds of mortal agony; it was clear that the man was burning up in his room. He started in Henry’s direction but stopped. He knew there was nothing he could do. Haynes guessed that Henry’s berth had taken the brunt of whatever had struck the ship. With the dentist’s screams still in his ears, he pushed on down the passage.
There he met Lieutenant Commander Ken Stout, who emerged from smoke gathering in thick plumes along the ceiling of the hall. “Look out, Lew!” Stout yelled, and Haynes lifted his hands to his face just before the tremendous burst of a flash fire—fwoom!—scoured the hall. Haynes heard the snap and fizzle of wires shorting out; farther away, near the bow, there were more explosions. For a moment, Haynes believed he was on fire himself, so intense was the heat and pain.
The fire had, in fact, singed Haynes’s hair, forehead, and hands, giving him what he knew from experience were third-degree burns. When he was able to open his eyes, Stout had disappeared. All that remained was the harsh scent of burned skin.
The explosion had blown open the hatch to the powder magazine for the 8-inch guns on the main deck. (An elevator in the magazine was used to lift shells and powder up to the turret.) Haynes stared at the shells, transfixed. Their thin coating of protective oil was burning, and the casings were flickering like candles.
Stepping through the smoke, he headed toward the officers’ wardroom. He was trying to reach the quarterdeck, his battle station, anxious to get to work and do what he could for the injured. Stumbling into the wardroom, he was overcome by the noxious smoke of the gray paint burning off the bulkheads. The room was filled with a red haze. In one corner, a man was trying to beat out a fire burning in a pile of rags on the floor. Barely able to see, Haynes felt his way along the hot bulkheads with his burned hands, trying to find a way out toward the stern. Then he tripped over a chair, grabbed at the air, and collapsed into a sitting position.
He looked around the room. He was dying now, and he knew it. In spite of his fear, he had no desire to move farther, to safety. He slumped over, feeling nothing.
Looming over him suddenly was a person—another officer, equally dazed, who screamed, “My God, I’m fainting,” then tripped over the chair that had waylaid Haynes. The officer—Haynes couldn’t identify him—fell across his legs and came to rest in his lap.
Instantly Haynes stood up, as if waking from a bad dream. He had no idea where he was. The unconscious officer tumbled to the floor, and Haynes stepped over him, hearing a voice in a corner of the room calling out, “Open a porthole! For crissakes, somebody open a porthole!”
A porthole? Yes! That might be a good idea. The notion wormed its way into the doctor’s consciousness as he lurched across the room, bumping into furniture. Finding one open, Haynes jammed his head through. The relief was instant; he drew in the humid night air with deep, invigorating breaths. Then, looking down, he saw the gaping hole in the ship’s side, and a steady stream of debris exiting it.
Something wet slapped him in the face. It was a rope. It occurred to him that he might be able to wiggle out the porthole and climb the line up the side of the ship to safety. It was not an easy move, especially given his shoulder, which was killing him, and his aching hands. But it was the only way out. He would have to try.
The doctor grabbed the rim of the porthole. First he stuck his right arm and shoulder through and kicked with his feet, like a man swimming in air. This eased him through the opening enough so that he could then squeeze his left arm through. He could now see the sea roaring below. Salt spray mixed with oil splashed up onto his face, and he tasted the putrid tang. Carefully, he twisted around so that he was lying on his back in the porthole, then eased himself into a seated position.
He gripped the line. The pain in his hands was excruciating. Looking up, he could see a climb of about five feet to the deck above. He gritted his teeth and began pulling, rising hand over hand. As he neared the top, the screaming from the quarterdeck grew louder. He hoisted himself to the lifelines and stepped through them.
The scene was horrifying: spread before him were several dozen wounded boys in various stages of delirium, some burned beyond recognition. Several were walking about in a daze, clothes scorched from their bodies, hair smoking. One man held up his arms, and Haynes saw the burned flesh hanging down in ghostly streamers. Walking closer, he saw that this was the very same officer who earlier had asked him to play a hand of bridge. A light breeze picked up the streamers of flesh, and they fluttered behind the man like wings. “Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me!” he was yelling.
Do something—do anything, Haynes thought. But what? These men needed a hospital—many of them, he saw, would shortly die from their wounds. During abandon ship drills, the wounded had been instructed to gather on the quarterdeck, and Haynes saw that his pharmacist’s mate, John Schmueck, had pulled some cots from one of the hangars and was lifting those who could be moved onto them. He’d also found a first aid box. When Haynes joined him, Schmueck handed over a stethoscope and a packet of morphine Syrettes. The boys were in such bad shape that Haynes quickly began shooting them up with the painkiller without asking questions or performing even cursory examinations.
When he started to run out of morphine and then gauze bandages, he ordered a sailor to retrieve some supplies from the sick bay. The sailor ran to the ladder at the end of the quarterdeck, took one look down, and sprinted back to Haynes. “There ain’t no sick bay,” he shouted. Water was rising up the passage. An officer rushed up to Haynes’s side. “You better get some life vests on these men, Doc!” he screamed through the smoke.
Dropping their syringes and rolls of bandages, Haynes and Schmueck ran across the deck and up a ladder to the next deck, which led to the number-one smokestack and several gun mounts. Here, boys were cutting down life vests and passing them out to a constant flow of men. Haynes grabbed as many as he could, and then he and Schmueck ran back down the ladder to their writhing patients.
Haynes approached the burned man with the wings for skin. As he loosely tied the canvas straps around the man, he kept telling him, “I have to do this. I have to do this. Oh Christ, I have to do this.” The man screamed as Haynes pulled the vest snug. And then Haynes turned his attention to the next wounded man. Working steadily by the weak light of an intermittent moon, he tried his best as his heart broke.
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 grou
ps. 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.
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.
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.
