Indianapolis

by Lynn Vincent

  The rescuers shoved off again and soon the coxswain had motored to an area adrift in blackened faces. Van Wilpe quickly saw why it was taking so long to pick up survivors. Half the boat crew had to sprawl spread-eagle over the stern while the other half of the crew held on to their legs. The stern men dangled their torsos and arms from the boat, and tried to snatch oil-slicked survivors from the treacherous, tossing sea. Van Wilpe assessed the futility of the situation. He didn’t ask Broser, but simply leapt into the foaming sea.

  Broser, who had been in the water and knew full well the danger, went wild. “Van Wilpe! What the hell are you doing? Get back aboard this boat right now!”

  Broser didn’t know it, but Van Wilpe could swim like a water rat. Within moments, he had wrapped his fire-hose arms around half a dozen men and hauled them to the boat as easily as Gulliver dragging Lilliputians.

  Broser was still yelling. “Dammit, Van Wilpe, get back aboard, now! That’s an order!”

  Van Wilpe and his charges roller-coastered in the massive swells. “Sir!” he shouted up, “It would be a lot easier if you’d come down here and help me!”

  Broser stopped yelling. In the light of the battle lamp, he glared down at this big, insubordinate lug hugging six soot-faced, emaciated men. Then, for the second time, Broser took off his gunbelt, stepped up to the port side, and dove in.

  Tossed in the oily sea, Van Wilpe and Broser swam through a mix of torn and blackened men, many of whom were corpses. Sometimes it was difficult to tell the difference. Van Wilpe prodded and poked, looking for signs of life. When it seemed a man was dead, he pushed the body away and moved on, heartsick. What if he was wrong? Some of the living men, crazed and fearful, fought him savagely. Others were convinced they needed no help at all. All Van Wilpe could do was drag them, sputtering and fighting, back to the boat. Broser had already climbed back aboard when Van Wilpe brought another group to the stern.

  The ensign yelled down, “Okay, Van Wilpe, climb aboard.”

  Treading water, Van Wilpe craned his neck and looked the situation over. There was no more room for survivors aboard the LCVP, but he didn’t want to abandon the ones in the water.

  “No, sir! You take those men back to the ship!” he called up to Broser. “I’ll stay here until you get back!”

  Angry when Van Wilpe first leapt into the water, Broser was now apoplectic. Feet planted wide in the stern, he unleashed a torrent of orders and threats. Van Wilpe argued his case: These men were so close to rescue that he didn’t want them to lose hope. Since there was no way to force the big man back into the boat, Broser again conceded. He ordered the coxswain to pull away slowly so as not to fling too much wake on Van Wilpe and his flock.

  The survivors did not wait quietly. One man yelled that he was going below for food and plunged under the surface. Another said he was going down to berthing to write a letter home. Each time, Van Wilpe surface-dived and had to swim down five feet in the dark to haul the man back up. Soon he began to throw up the oil-laced salt water, and this retching was sapping his strength. It seemed forever before Broser motored up again, and Van Wilpe was glad to see him.

  When all the survivors were loaded into the LCVP, Van Wilpe climbed aboard, too, and the coxswain steered for Bassett. Curtains of rain swept in, lashing the boat in torrents. As it neared Bassett, a giant swell tipped the boat nearly on her side. Three survivors fell back into the sea and vanished. Aboard Bassett, the crew gasped at the cruel twist of fate visited upon these men, so close to survival and now lost again. And they were astonished when they saw a huge form fight his way to the edge of the LCVP and leap overboard.

  It was Van Wilpe again. He dove beneath the mountainous swells and disappeared. The Bassett crew scoured the surface with binoculars. Then Van Wilpe broke the surface, gasping for air, all three survivors wrapped in his enormous arms, all three alive.

  19

  * * *

  DURING THE EARLY MORNING hours of August 3, Bassett rescued 151 men, the most of any rescue ship. Harold Bray was hanging on a floater net outside the Redmayne group with another new sailor, Fireman Apprentice Second Class Dale Krueger, when he heard an LCVP motor up. He squinted up into the glare of a bright light as a voice behind it called to him like an apparition: “Hey, sailor! Can you climb aboard?”

  “Hell, yes!” Bray called back.

  He didn’t care whose voice it was—he was getting on that boat. But when he tried to clamber up, his strength failed him, and a Bassett sailor had to pull him over the gunwale. The boat seemed like heaven to Bray, as dry and clean as anything he had ever laid eyes on.

  Bassett also pulled twenty-five-year-old Jimmy O’Donnell aboard. A third-class watertender who’d been aboard Indy for five major battles, O’Donnell had stayed alive in the water by sticking close to his group of fifteen men and refusing to give up—no matter what. Aboard Bassett, some sailors offered to help O’Donnell walk to the head. “No, I’m okay,” he said. Then he took two steps and hit the deck.

  The men of Bassett also rescued Santos Pena, as well as Harpo Celaya, plucking the latter out of the water with a giant hook. When Celaya got aboard the ship, he’d hoped for a gallon of ice water, followed by a feast. Instead, he got a lukewarm ounce every few minutes, followed by small helpings of chicken broth, all administered as carefully as medicine. Finally, sleep drew Harpo down like a magnet.

  Bassett also collected Lebow, Hershberger, and Lebow’s buddy Paul Murphy, as well as Don McCall, L. D. Cox, and the radioman Jack Miner, the last man to see the heroic Chief Warrant Officer Woods standing fast at the key, tapping out the SOS. Men from the main body of the Redmayne group also wound up on Bassett, including Chief Benton, who would be awarded the Navy and Marine Corps Medal for his leadership in the water. Ensign Donald Blum, who secured a provisioned raft and sailed it a mile from the Redmayne group, was taken to the bridge. He told officers there that the survivors were from Indianapolis.

  As the early morning hours wore on, many men remained in the water. More rescue ships arrived, including the high-speed transports Ringness and Register, bringing the total number of surface vessels on-scene to seven. Since Madison’s skipper, Commander Donald Todd, was the senior officer present afloat, he took charge of the scene. As the morning unfolded, a phalanx of search planes appeared. Todd assigned each a sprawling slab of ocean, and the pilots buzzed off to commence box-pattern searches.

  With both passenger capacity and medical resources stretched beyond limits, Bassett requested permission to depart the scene then headed west to the new hospital facility at Samar. The remaining rescue ships would transport the rest of the survivors south to Peleliu.

  • • •

  Just after sunrise, the McVay group spotted a plane to the north,I and the men were so excited they refused the skipper’s daily offering of rations. Instead, they locked their eyes on the aircraft as the pilot carved a giant airborne square. The easterly leg brought the plane closest to the group, filling each man’s chest with hope. McVay had just decided that the aircrew would surely spot them on the next sweep when George Kurlich, the sailor who had abandoned ship naked, piped up.

  “Fellas, do I see a ship bearing down on us, or am I hallucinating?”

  As one, the flotilla crew whirled to see what was behind them. It was, in fact, two ships, both steaming up from the south at high speed and nearly on top of the rafts.

  “Well, to hell with planes!” someone said. “These people will pick us up!”

  One vessel, USS Ringness, already had a cargo net hanging from its starboard side. Yeoman Havins, the barbershop quartet singer, had promised God that if he were rescued, he would become a minister. Now he was so overcome with joy that he was ready to try walking on water to reach the ship.

  When Ringness pulled alongside the rafts, the other vessel, USS Register, continued north in search of more survivors. Each man in the McVay group climbed the Ringness cargo net under his own power. Once aboard, a sailor met them and offered cigarettes. Another man na
med John Jarman helped McVay shuck his oil-slicked life jacket, which Jarman tossed onto the pile of others heaped on the deck. Seamean Al Lederer and Bill Fouts attended to the survivors as they were brought aboard, one by one. McVay remained on the fantail until all his men were aboard, while a hospital corpsman named Goodfriend collected vital statistics on the survivors. Jarman then escorted McVay into the interior of the ship to meet the skipper, Lieutenant Commander William Meyer, who offered McVay his sea cabin as a place to rest.

  Three hours later, his assigned search area thoroughly scoured, Meyer felt he could leave the bridge long enough to look in on his guest. McVay was dismayed to learn that Ringness had found only thirty-nine survivors.

  Meyer said that a report of Ringness’s rescue efforts was due to Madison’s skipper, Commander Todd. Would McVay like to include any details of the sinking in Meyer’s report?

  Meyer reminded McVay that a court of inquiry would certainly be held, and that details of the moments before the sinking were bound to come out.

  McVay hesitated. When Indy was hit, had she been zigzagging? Under the standing orders, it was possible that Lieutenant Orr, Indianapolis’s OOD, had recommenced zigzagging. But McVay couldn’t be sure—he had been asleep. If conditions necessitated zigzagging, McVay was sure Orr would have ordered it done without hesitation. But there were some officers who would initiate zigzagging then go inform the captain, and others who would inform the captain first. McVay could not be sure which kind Orr was—or had been, if he was among the dead. In any case, he felt the responsibility lay with himself.

  The two men discussed it at length. Finally, McVay agreed to Meyer’s draft message. It included the lat/long where McVay’s group was rescued, the number of total survivors aboard Ringness, the suspected cause of the sinking, and the fact that Indianapolis had not been steering a zigzag course.

  • • •

  Through the long watches of the night, Doyle rescued a total of ninety-three men, including those from the two Dumbos, as well as the doctors, Modisher and Haynes; McVay’s yeomen, Paroubek and Buckett; and Keyes, the brave coxswain who had gone belowdecks after the torpedoes hit to order all hands topside. Doyle also rescued Jim Jarvis, Dick Thelen, and Bill Akines, a seaman second class. Akines would later say that if Commander Claytor had not aimed his searchlight at the sky, he would not have lived.

  USS Register picked up twelve survivors, including Troy Nunley, who had been floating alone with watertender Joseph Van Meter, riding a rolled-up floater net, cowboy style, for four days. USS Dufilho spotted and rescued a lone survivor, Seaman Second Class Francis H. Rineay, and transferred him to Register before continuing search efforts. Also transferred to Register were the twenty-four men picked up by USS Ralph Talbot, including Clarence Hupka and Cozell Smith, as well as Curtis Pace, who had linked arms with his buddies the previous night, hoping only to die together. All three men lived.

  On Friday, August 3, sunrise lit the pair of floating Dumbos, their pilots having spent the night aboard their planes. Alcorn was able to take off from the water. But between the open-sea landing and bashing hulls with Doyle’s whaleboat, the damage to Marks’s aircraft was substantial. Marks considered it too hazardous to attempt a takeoff. He radioed Claytor, who sent the whaleboat to retrieve the Dumbo crew and any salvageable gear.

  At 8 a.m., Marks stood aboard Doyle and watched as his plane—just hours ago a precious sanctuary for fifty-three men—was first burned, then sunk with 40 mm gunfire.

  • • •

  Ringness scooped Glenn Morgan’s group from the water. Almost as soon as Morgan climbed aboard, he heard a familiar voice shouting his name. It was Vince Allard, the quartermaster he had worked with so closely on the bridge of Indianapolis. Morgan’s heart warmed to see that his friend had made it, too. Their spirits soared further when Ringness storekeeper Roy McLendon handed each of them new clothes and a shaving kit.

  After a shower and a breakfast in bed of two sunny-side eggs, Morgan was ordered to rest, but he couldn’t. Once he realized that there were dozens more survivors, he bounded up and down the rows of bunks looking for Ralph Guye. Still tortured that he’d abandoned Ralph after promising to stick with him, Morgan’s chest swelled with hope that each face he saw would belong to his friend. But none did.

  Soon, Morgan got word that Captain McVay wanted to see him, and he reported to Meyer’s quarters. Happy to see each other, Morgan and McVay chatted briefly about the sinking, then the captain asked Morgan to get a list of all survivors aboard Ringness.

  “Aye aye, sir,” Morgan said, and left.

  Morgan grabbed a pen and paper and jotted down the names of all the men in his own survivor group. He knew he’d just survived an epic disaster and would want to remember his mates. Then he tracked down the running list of all survivors that Ringness personnel had prepared and returned it to McVay. It was the last time he would see his captain for fifteen years.

  • • •

  As August 3 unfolded, more search planes streamed into the area and commenced a series of expanding- and moving-square searches. As aircraft scoured the seas to the north, west, and south, rescue ships sped to additional survivor groups pinpointed by pilots.

  Late on Friday afternoon, Felton Outland, Giles McCoy, and four raftmates were sitting quietly, sifting their thoughts. Theirs was the group that had begun with four rafts and nineteen men, but cast off the lines and went their separate ways. Since then, Outland’s and McCoy’s raft had drifted well south of the massive rescue operations that were now taking place, and they could see none of it. As far as they knew, they were alone.

  It had become hard to hold on. The day before, one of the men succumbed to delirium and leapt overboard. He tried to swim away but was rescued by a member of the group. Another man urinated into an empty Spam can, then drank the contents. Meanwhile, their raft had been sinking an inch each day.

  Evening came. Outland was dreading another cold night adrift when an intruder suddenly pushed into their midst. A plane, flying low and fast, thrummed over the group and dropped dye markers. Not long after, Ringness’s huge bow appeared above them.

  Almost before Outland’s bleary mind could comprehend what this meant, the after-part of the ship was slipping past. A heaving line flew out over the gunwale but fell short of Outland’s raft. Terrified that he would miss rescue by mere feet, Outland lunged for the tail end of the line, latched on, and held tight. He would not let this ship escape his grasp. The men of Ringness dragged Outland’s half-dead company aboard on the evening of August 3, the fifth full day after Indianapolis sank.

  On August 4, Lieutenant Chuck Gwinn, the Ventura pilot who first spotted the survivors, took off from Peleliu to rejoin the search. That afternoon, Lieutenant Commander George Atteberry, the Ventura squadron skipper who had first received Gwinn’s message and dispatched Marks to the scene, received by hand a dispatch from the commander of the Western Carolines Sub Area. At dawn on August 5, the dispatch said, the rescue ships were to form a scouting line on a bearing of 108 degrees and steam north-northeast from a specific point of origin at a speed of fourteen knots. The planes were to fly overhead to assist and search out to a radius of one hundred miles.

  The mission had changed from search and rescue to the recovery and identification of bodies. The five men on Felton Outland’s raft were not only the last Indianapolis survivors pulled from the water, but also the last Americans of World War II to be rescued at sea after enemy action.

  * * *

  I. Because McVay first sighted rescue planes to his south, he believed his survivor group was the farthest north. But, though planes were searching to his south, rescue ships’ logs and the testimony of Ringness skipper William Meyer show that at rescue McVay’s group was at the leading westerly edge of all the survivor groups and also the farthest south.

  JANUARY 1999

  SPRINGFIELD, VIRGINIA

  COMMANDER WILLIAM TOTI TURNED a page and cursed his choice of late-night reading. He sat in his study,
a fat Navy report open on his desk—a report that inferred that Captain Charles McVay was a coward and a liar.

  It was well past midnight. Toti’s Springfield, Virginia, home was dark and quiet. Karen and the kids were asleep upstairs. He would’ve liked to get some sleep, too, but the thick sheaf before him, spotlighted in the glow of a brass banker’s lamp, made that impossible for the moment.

  Since his conversation with survivors Paul Murphy and Glenn Morgan at the deactivation ceremony at Pearl Harbor, Toti had been keeping the promise he made that day.

  “We want you to help exonerate our captain,” Murphy had said at the reception.

  In 1945, Fleet Admiral Ernest J. King ordered that Charles B. McVay III stand trial for the loss of Indianapolis. In the half-century since, an army of supporters—journalists, survivors, and, lately, even a sixth-grade kid—had been trying to prove the Navy wrong.

  No one had yet succeeded.

  Toti understood why the survivors wanted him on the team. As a sub skipper, he was uniquely positioned to analyze Hashimoto’s attack and evaluate whether McVay’s actions had been appropriate. It all made sense, but Toti dreaded it just the same. Not because he feared controversy or the work entailed, but because over the years he had read virtually every book, article, and document ever written on the cruiser’s sinking. He worried that everything that could be said had already been said. And he was fairly certain that in the end, the survivors weren’t going to like what he had to say.