by Lynn Vincent
DeBernardi then complied with an odd request: He directed two of his sailors to shoulder each end of a metal pole. Suspended from the pole were a pair of shiny metal canisters. Whatever was in them seemed heavy because the men struggled to carry it up the brow. The two Army officers followed, carrying their luggage.
• • •
McVay greeted Furman and Nolan, then ushered them directly to their quarters, a cabin occupied by Spruance’s flag secretary when the admiral’s staff was aboard. After pleasantries, McVay suggested a number of places aboard his vessel where the Army’s cargo could be stored en route to Tinian. Furman considered the alternatives and quickly arrived at a decision. The canisters would remain in the flag secretary’s cabin with him and Nolan.
Furman told McVay he would like to have the shipment bolted into place and that he would like locks with which to secure it. McVay summoned Moore, who soon had the cabin fitted with a pair of eyebolts screwed into the deck. Furman chained the containers down and locked them in place. With this arrangement, the major felt that he and Nolan could quickly remove the locks and free the containers in an emergency. Meanwhile, they would be safe, immobile, and always in view.
• • •
With this unexpected zag in Indy’s schedule, Marine Corporal Ed Harrell sensed a new mood in the air, the buzz of tension. First, the canceling of all leave, then the sudden steam across the bay, followed by all kinds of strange people coming aboard. Now Harrell’s commander, Captain Edward Parke, had ordered him to station guards around some mysterious cargo that had just been brought aboard.
Trailed by a small contingent of Marines, Harrell stepped into the port hangar to see what all the fuss was about. It was a crate, about five feet high and five feet wide, maybe fifteen feet long. The box had been lashed to the deck with cargo straps threaded through the pad eyes that would normally hold Indy’s observation planes in place. Harrell wondered briefly what was in the box, but he didn’t have time to stand around and contemplate it. He posted a private, nineteen-year-old Melvin Jacob, by the hangar with explicit instructions to make men go around to the starboard side. Harrell told the other Marines to keep everyone away, by which he especially meant curious sailors. He then left immediately to carry out the second half of Captain Parke’s orders. With a single Marine in tow, he crossed the quarterdeck and climbed back up to the flag secretary’s quarters, where he posted another guard.
• • •
At 8 a.m. on July 16, Indianapolis cast off from Hunter’s Point and began the short promenade up the bay. Buck Gibson, the gunner who’d been first to fire at the kamikaze, stood topside with a group of sailors. Visibility was good in the bay, but out past Farallon Light, rough weather threatened.
As the ship made her westward turn toward the Golden Gate, Gibson looked up at the bright bridge that linked the northern and southern peninsulas like the clasp on a necklace. Gibson, who hailed from Mart, Texas, had just turned twenty-three and was war weary. He’d served on Indy since 1942, since the Aleutians, near as long as anybody aboard. He had hoped the trip back to Mare Island after the suicider would be the last time he’d pass under this bridge.
But no, he thought, here we go again.
Soon the red-orange span loomed directly overhead. As Indy slid into its shadow, a second-class gunner’s mate standing beside Gibson spoke up.
“You boys take a good look at that bridge,” he said, “ ’cause some of you ain’t ever gonna see it again.”
AUGUST 1997
U.S. FLEET ACTIVITIES
SASEBO, JAPAN
ONE HUNDRED FIFTY FEET below the surface of the East China Sea, Commander William Toti issued an order to his officer of the deck: “Proceed to periscope depth.” Toti, the captain of the Los Angeles–class nuclear submarine USS Indianapolis, stood in the sub’s darkened control room as the men around him began to carry out his command. Within minutes, the deck under Toti’s feet canted skyward, and he listened intently to the sounds of his boat: the diving officer’s quiet depth reports. The soft whir of ventilation fans. The familiar pops and creaks as Indy’s hull expanded, the boat actually growing larger in response to decreasing water pressure. Toti knew her every hum and whisper.
It was August 1997 and Bill Toti, a forty-one-year-old commander from Youngstown, Ohio, was driving his boat to the American sub base at Sasebo, Japan. He and his crew of 135 had just completed Operation Keynote, a joint exercise.
En route to Keynote, Toti and his crew had paused to honor their namesake vessel, USS Indianapolis, the cruiser. On July 30, with the full endorsement of the Secretary of the Navy, Toti had surfaced his boat in the center of the Philippine Sea to lay a wreath in honor of the lost ship and her crew. After decades of studying the cruiser’s story, he knew the official sinking coordinates by heart.
Wearing full dress whites, with a ceremonial sword hanging from his hip, Toti had climbed topside and scanned the sea. The horizon surrounded the sub in a perfect circle. Nothing now but peace and tranquility under a perfect blue sky, and yet in that terrible predawn hour in 1945, a scene of terror. Flame. Agony. In the cosmos of a tragedy, even one or two mitigating moments can turn aside unqualified disaster. But sometimes disaster is without defect, and every one of the thousand instants on which destinies turn goes terribly and perfectly wrong.
Toti first learned of the cruiser disaster at the Naval Academy in 1975. Then just eighteen years old, he was a freshman that year—a “plebe.” The movie Jaws was a monster hit, and after Plebe Summer ended, that was the film he wanted to see. In a darkened theater in downtown Annapolis, Maryland, Toti watched, riveted, as a great white shark terrorized Amity Island. But the scene that struck him most was when Quint, the vinegar-tongued fishing boat captain, sits belowdecks with Hooper, the shark expert, and the island’s police chief, Brody.
Quint and Hooper are drinking and comparing scars, their mutual disdain dissolving in a haze of booze and sea stories. Brody asks Quint about a scar on his arm. Quint’s smile fades, and he places a hand on Hooper’s arm. “Mr. Hooper, that’s the USS Indianapolis.”
Hooper’s laughter stops like a valve wrenching shut. He stares at Quint in disbelief. “You were on the Indianapolis?”
Then Quint, played by actor Robert Shaw, launches into one of the most famous monologues in film history.
“Japanese submarine slammed two torpedoes into our side, Chief. We was comin’ back from the island of Tinian . . . just delivered the bomb, the Hiroshima bomb. Eleven hundred men went into the water. Vessel went down in twelve minutes . . . Very first light, Chief, the sharks come cruisin’. So we formed ourselves into tight groups . . . And the idea was, the shark goes to the nearest man, and then he’d start poundin’ and hollerin’ and screamin’ and sometimes the shark would go away . . . Sometimes he wouldn’t go away. Sometimes that shark, he looks right into you. Right into your eyes. You know the thing about a shark, he’s got lifeless eyes, black eyes, like a doll’s eyes. When he comes at ya, he doesn’t seem to be livin’. Until he bites ya and those black eyes roll over white. And then . . . ah, then you hear that terrible high-pitch screamin’, and the ocean turns red, and in spite of all the poundin’ and the hollerin’ they all come in and . . . rip you to pieces.”
Steven Spielberg’s landmark thriller was the first time many Americans heard of Indianapolis. It was certainly Toti’s first time. He had no idea then that the famous cruiser would become intricately intertwined with his life.
In preparation for the memorial ceremony, Toti’s chief of the boat mustered a small detachment of sailors topside, one man bearing a wreath the crew had procured in Okinawa. The official party—the chief, Toti, and the executive officer—stood in formation at right angles to an honor guard holding rifles at parade rest.
Toti held a single sheet of paper, prepared remarks, and his face was solemn as he spoke aloud the cruiser’s history—her ten World War II battle stars, her world-changing final mission—over the exact place on earth where she was thought
to have disappeared.
The honor guard snapped to attention for the rifle salute.
“Aim . . . fire!”
“Aim . . . fire!”
“Aim . . . fire!”
Gunshots cracked over the sea mist, echoes rolling out across the deep.
Toti’s heart had been heavy then and it was heavy now, as he pulled into Sasebo. When his crew embarked on this deployment, it would mark the last time Indianapolis sailed. In less than a year, the submarine he now commanded would be decommissioned. It was scandalous, really. Heartbreaking. She was in prime condition, only eighteen years old, designed to last thirty. Despite a groundbreaking and highly classified final mission, this Indianapolis, too, was headed for the grave.
• • •
At the Sasebo officers club, Toti’s reflective mood yielded to celebration as Commander Katsushi Ogawa raised a mallet and brought it down on the lid of a wooden cask of sake. The lid splintered with a loud crack and a crowd of Japanese and American submariners sent up a cheer.
Ogawa, captain of the Japanese coastal defense sub Narushio, used a ladle to fill each man’s square ceremonial wooden cup. He then raised his own cup to Toti. “American submarines best in the world!”
Toti bowed his head. “Arigato, Ogawa-san.”
A large group of officers, American and Japanese, threw back their sake and cups were refilled. Toti raised his cup and offered a toast in return. “Here’s to the cooperation of the Japanese and American submarine fleets, once enemies, now the best of friends!”
Ogawa broke into a broad smile and tipped back another go of sake. “Domo arigato, Toti-san.”
The officers had gathered to commemorate the success of Keynote, which all agreed had been a smashing success. The mood around the table was ebullient, a situation the sake only improved. There were more congratulations and a review of Keynote’s high points, as well as the requisite helping of sea stories. The officers roared with laughter, and there was more sake. The conversation then turned to their nations’ shared past.
“Do you know much about World War II operations?” Toti asked Ogawa.
The Japanese skipper made big eyes and puffed out his cheeks as if Toti had asked whether he knew the ocean was blue. “Yes, we study this much in naval academy.”
“Are you familiar with Hashimoto? Mochitsura Hashimoto, the captain of I-58?”
Ogawa nodded. “Yes, this very famous name. Everybody know Hashimoto.”
“I understand he’s a Shinto priest down in Kyoto now,” Toti said.
In the 1970s, Hashimoto had taken over care of Umenomiya Taishya Shrine. Immediately after the war, Hashimoto worked at several Japanese businesses, including a long stint with Kawasaki Juukuo, a heavy equipment firm with a defense contract to build submarines. He also wrote a book on World War II Japanese submarine operations. It was translated into English and published in 1954 by New York publisher Henry Holt & Co. under the title Sunk. Commander Edward L. Beach, an American submariner who fought at the Battle of Midway, contributed an introduction. Beach, who would go on to write the bestselling submarine thriller Run Silent, Run Deep, noted that Hashimoto’s account included withering criticism of Japan’s failed submarine strategy.
What Sunk did not include, however, was any word on a singular event that occurred in December 1945, four months after the end of the war—an event that involved Hashimoto traveling to Washington, D.C., in connection with the sinking of Indianapolis.
“Do you know how I could contact Hashimoto?” Toti asked Ogawa. “I would love to talk with him about USS Indianapolis, the cruiser.”
“I think we can learn this for you,” Ogawa said.
Toti felt a tingle of excitement. Hashimoto was legendary in the submarine community. Meeting him would be like reaching back and touching history. What could he give to Ogawa to convince the old sub skipper to see him? Quickly, Toti searched his pockets for a scrap of paper, found a pen, and scribbled out a note.
Dear Commander Hashimoto,
I’m Commander William Toti, the captain of USS Indianapolis, an American nuclear submarine. I have your book and read it with great interest. I know the last time you encountered a captain of the USS Indianapolis, it did not go well. But I am interested in hearing your side of the story about the 1945 court martial. I would like to know if the prosecutors spoke with you before your testimony, and tried to tell you what to say. I would be very honored to meet you and get your thoughts on why you weren’t believed.
Toti slid the note across the table to Ogawa, who promised to see what he could do.
• • •
A few weeks later, the submarine Indianapolis entered the harbor at Yokosuka, Japan. As she made way on the surface, she looked for all the world like a half-submerged jetliner. Toti stood atop the sail and surveyed the harbor. Below him, a linehandling crew stood topside and prepared to moor the boat. He thought about the Narushio skipper, Ogawa, and hoped he had been able to track down Hashimoto. Toti had set aside some time to take a train down to Kyoto to meet him. He could hardly wait to get ashore.
As the time ticked down to decommission Indianapolis, Toti felt that a visit with Hashimoto would be a fitting bookend to history and to him personally. He had grown up with this vessel and now knew her so well that he could sense her moods. An unusual shudder. A random vibration. The slight tilt of the deck as her bow sought a new course. He first reported to Indy as a lieutenant junior grade, having volunteered because of her legacy. The boat had lost several officers to transfers, and Toti volunteered to “cross-deck,” transferring from the submarine USS Omaha midtour. During that first assignment to Indianapolis, he married his wife, Karen, whom he met in Hawaii while stationed at Pearl. In 1989, he cross-decked to Indy a second time, this time because the submarine force wanted him to “split tour” as navigator in Indy after a successful tour as chief engineer in USS Buffalo. In 1995, Toti was serving at the Pentagon when he received new orders: he was returning to Indy again, this time to take command.
The first time Toti crossed Indy’s brow as skipper, a sailor sounded two bells and announced over the 1MC: “Indianapolis, arriving.” This was the customary way that a ship’s crew acknowledged the arrival of its captain on board, and the moment produced in Toti a deep sense of reverence, one that never went away no matter how many times he heard it. He felt a profound sense of lineage and stewardship, knowing the same words had been spoken whenever Captain Charles McVay had walked up the cruiser’s brow, and the skippers before him. The commanding officer of a ship carries with him not only his own crew, but all crews—not just his history aboard the vessel, but all the history that came before. Ronald Reagan used to say he never took his suit jacket off in the Oval Office out of reverence for the office of president. Toti understood that feeling completely.
The job of sub skipper came with a nearly incomprehensible level of responsibility. Infantry soldiers have significant influence on their own survival, as do sailors on a surface ship. But on a submarine, the individual sailor has no control over how effectively his vessel will fight. If the skipper screws up, there’s nothing the sailor can do about it. Everyone is in the same boat, literally and figuratively. Toti contemplated that responsibility regularly, felt the weight of it every day. Commanding Indianapolis was the hardest and best job he’d ever had.
Now it was almost over. As the decommissioning neared, he contacted cruiser survivor Paul Murphy for the names and addresses of all the living survivors, and he wrote them each a letter:
Since you were never able to decommission your ship, I would be honored if you would attend the decommissioning of mine. But I have one request: that you would stand in formation during the ceremony and be a part of my crew, as one crew, the combined crew of Indianapolis.
Responses had been trickling in, some written by family members and some in the spidery script of the survivors themselves. The ceremony would take place after the new year, in February 1998.
In the harbor at Yokosuka, To
ti watched the gentle approach of a tug, dark-bottomed with a white wheelhouse. The little boat closed with Indy, and linehandlers flung up a line, secured it, and nestled close to the submarine. A few minutes later, the tug nosed the sub up to the pier, where the linehandlers tied her up and Toti went ashore.
After dispensing with a few items of official business, he set off across the base and tracked down Ogawa, who immediately began flapping his arms as if waving off a landing jet.
“No, no, no!” he was saying, smiling and ducking his head deferentially. “You cannot see Hashimoto-san! He is old man, now. Too many requests.”
Sensing that he was not getting the whole story, Toti waited.
“We give him your message,” Ogawa said. “He know there is American submarine named for ship he sank. But he say he does not want to talk about it anymore.”
Toti was taken aback, and a litany of possible explanations ticker-taped through his mind. Was Hashimoto worried that Toti might read between the lines since he was a sub captain, too? Or was his memory fading and he was afraid he would lose face if he misspoke? He was eighty-seven years old, after all. Hashimoto had visited with the survivors, Captain McVay’s sons, and others involved with the cruiser’s history. But maybe this was the first time since 1945 that a representative of the American Navy had asked to speak with him.
Toti peered keenly at Ogawa. “Are you sure he won’t meet with me?”
Ogawa shook his head with vigor. “No! No meeting! Commander Hashimoto say, ‘If the Navy don’t believe me in 1945, why they believe me today?’ ”
BOOK 2
THE MISSION
PACIFIC THEATER OF OPERATIONS AND WASHINGTON, D.C.
JULY 1945
1
* * *
JULY 1945
Combat Intelligence Office
Office of the Chief of Naval Operations
