Indianapolis

by Lynn Vincent

  Ryan jabbed back. First, it was not necessary that the charge meet the technical precision of a common-law indictment. It need only show the court’s jurisdiction over the accused and the alleged offense. Second, the charge aligned with similar charges made in courts-martial past. Third, McVay had been “fairly apprised” of the offense with which he was being charged.

  Cady fine-tuned his objection: The negligence charge set out as a fact what was a mere conclusion of the government—that Captain McVay was making passage to an area in which enemy submarines might be encountered. “There is no proof that the accused had knowledge of this alleged fact,” Cady said. “To charge Captain McVay with negligence of duty, it is necessary to set up the essential elements upon which his duty can be judged.”

  “It will be necessary to bring into evidence,” Ryan replied, “whether or not the accused had, or should have had, knowledge that he was proceeding through such an area. In my opinion, it is not necessary to allege that fact in the specification now before the court.”

  The lawyers battled to a draw, and Rear Admiral Baker ordered the courtroom cleared. Louise McVay willed her features to remain composed and pleasant, but her eyes betrayed her anxiety as she exited the courtroom with the rest of the banished.

  After a brief discussion, of which no record was made, the court reconvened. Louise filed in and resumed her seat in the gallery. Baker delivered the court’s ruling: “Captain Cady’s objection is not sustained. The charges and specifications are in due form and technically correct.”

  Ryan had scored his first victory. He addressed Cady again, “Is the accused ready for trial?”

  “No, the accused does not feel he was provided sufficient time in which to properly prepare a defense, having only received the charges and specifications on November 29.”

  Cady requested an adjournment of—inexplicably—only one day, and it was granted. The court adjourned, and reporters flocked around McVay like pigeons. He neither preened nor objected, but accommodated them patiently, turning his head as photographers shouted his name.

  9

  * * *

  THE FIRST THING MCVAY did on Tuesday, December 4, was answer the two charges against him: “Not guilty.”

  The court had reconvened on the top floor of Building 57, this time with all seven members present. Louise sat again in the gallery. Journalists crowded the press area, notepads and pens at the ready. The court reporter, a yeoman first class, placed his fingers on the stenotype and keyed three words: “The prosecution began.”

  Ryan called as his first witness Lieutenant Joseph J. Waldron, who had been the routing officer at Guam. Waldron told the court that the routing instructions furnished McVay by his office included a list of recent enemy contacts. He also testified that the number of contacts was “about normal” and did not indicate excessive submarine activity. Waldron seemed to be telling the truth as he understood it. But at a secret proceeding taking place on the other side of Washington Navy Yard, another witness seemed determined to tell the whole truth only when pinned to a wall.

  Captain Oliver F. Naquin was under interrogation in Admiral Snyder’s office, where the supplemental investigation was still under way. By the time Ryan called Waldron to the stand in Building 57, Naquin had been dodging and weaving for an hour. The survivor of two sunken vessels, he was being questioned by Captain Coney, the former skipper of MacArthur’s flagship. It was a clash of iron-willed men.

  Coney first established that Naquin had responsibility at Guam for safe passage of combat vessels, as well as for diverting ships in peril. He then asked Naquin what intelligence information he received as surface operations officer. Naquin first hedged, saying he had access to the “normal” contact reports and “general intelligence information.”

  Coney: Were you given all information available in this regard . . . regardless of its classification . . . Secret, Confidential, Top Secret, ULTRA Secret, as well as just ordinary information?

  Naquin: Yes.

  Coney: What use did you make of this information?

  Naquin: As I have just stated, it was placed on my board to keep me apprised of the situation, except ULTRA information, which I kept in the highest of confidence.

  Coney: To whom did you disseminate this information?

  Naquin: I didn’t disseminate it to anyone.

  He didn’t see any need to pass this information along since others were also receiving it, he said.

  Coney: Did you know that the USS Underhill was sunk by an enemy submarine?

  Naquin: I believe she was presumed to have been—I don’t know how she was sunk.

  Coney: Did you see a dispatch which indicated the Underhill had been sunk by a submarine and possibly special equipment had been used in the sinking?

  Naquin: I don’t recall that dispatch.

  Coney: I show you CincPac Advanced Headquarters Blue Summary 260451, of July 1945, which is a detailed account of the sinking of the Underhill, and her operations at that time. . . . Have you seen that dispatch?

  Naquin: Yes, I have seen this one.

  Coney: From these dispatches, then, were you cognizant that there was an enemy submarine operating in the Western Pacific, also, though it may not have been on Route Peddie?

  Naquin: Yes, this sinking, however, was not in the Marianas.

  Coney: When you received this information of the sinking of Underhill, did you pass it on to anyone?

  Naquin: I do not recall.

  Coney: Were you informed that four enemy submarines were, during the month of July, operating on offensive missions in the general area of the Western Pacific, bounded by Guam, Palau, the Philippines, and the Southern islands of the Japanese group?

  Naquin: Yes, I had such information. . . .

  Coney: One of these submarines was operating in the near vicinity of Route Peddie. Did you know anything about that?

  Naquin: As a result of these reports, we had assigned to us a hunter-killer carrier and four destroyers, but whether or not it was assigned prior to this sinking, I do not recall.

  Was one of these vessels USS Harris? Coney wanted to know.

  “I do not recall,” Naquin said.

  Coney then asked whether he had passed the ULTRA information about the four enemy subs to any ship leaving Guam.

  “I don’t recall that I had any occasion to pass that particular information.”

  What about USS Harris “hunting down a submarine” near Route Peddie? Did Naquin know anything about that?

  Naquin: I don’t recall that incident.

  Coney: I have here CincPac Advance Headquarters Blue Summary of the 28th of July, which is addressed to all commands . . . [which] reported that antisubmarine operations are in progress at 10-26 North, 131-10 East, after sighting and sonar contact. Would you have seen this?

  Naquin: Yes, I would have seen this.

  Coney: Would you have plotted this position on your chart?

  Naquin: Yes, I would have done so.

  Here, Coney began a merciless sifting of Naquin’s inaction. If he knew Harris was hunting a submarine—a sub that had been both seen and heard along Route Peddie just ninety miles ahead of Indianapolis’s route extended—would this not have prompted him to consider diverting her?

  Naquin: No, I think not, as long as there was an ASW vessel working on it at the time—in contact with it.

  Coney: Did you pass this information on to the Indianapolis on one of her intercept schedules?

  Naquin: No, I did not.

  Naquin argued that Indianapolis would normally receive such information, and because of that, he had no responsibility to pass it along.

  Coney: Was this enemy activity during the month of July increasing or on the decline from normal enemy activity in that area?

  Naquin: I don’t know that you can classify one sinking as increasing or decreasing. It was an isolated incident.

  It is unclear whether Coney viewed this answer as
genuine, cagey, or obtuse. In any case, Coney spelled it out for him as though rehearsing the alphabet for a child:

  Coney: While there was only one sinking, you knew there were four submarines operating in the area. Is that more submarines than are normally operating there, or less, or approximately the same number?

  Naquin: I would say that that would be more than average.

  Coney: Did you give that fact any special consideration in connection with the sailing of the Indianapolis?

  Naquin: I did not, as I did not sail the Indianapolis.

  Coney: But immediately upon her sailing, she was then your responsibility. Did you give that fact any consideration, in so far as your responsibility for her was concerned?

  Naquin’s answer seemed cavalier. “I did not feel that the reported activity jeopardized the safety of her sailing. . . . A great deal of stuff reported never materialized.”

  10

  * * *

  BACK AT BUILDING 57, the first survivor to testify was Lieutenant Charles Brite McKissick, who had been in the water with Ed Harrell. McKissick had first reunited with his wife back home in McKinney, Texas, and now was stationed at Washington Navy Yard. To testify, he’d only had to walk across the base.

  McKissick told the court how, as officer of the deck on watch from 6 to 8 p.m., he had ceased zigzagging at the end of evening twilight per instructions from Captain McVay. He then gave a dramatic account of being thrown from his bunk by a violent explosion, escaping from belowdecks, and as the ship keeled over, ordering all men in his vicinity to abandon ship.

  Ryan asked, “During the time you were on watch that day . . . did you know that the ship was pursuing a course that would pass through an area in which enemy submarines might be encountered?”

  “Objection!” Cady said from the defense table. “Calls for a conclusion on the part of the witness.”

  Ryan rephrased his question, and Cady withdrew his objection.

  “Yes, sir,” McKissick said, “I knew that the ship eventually would pass through an area in which the ship might encounter submarines. I would like to clarify that statement by saying that it was—I had seen a dispatch which indicated that there was a possible enemy submarine contact somewhere in the radius of five hundred miles of our position.”

  “Where did you see that dispatch?” Ryan asked.

  “The dispatch was on a communications board that was kept on the bridge for the officer of the deck to review before going on watch. It was kept in a metal folder there. It was kept on the bridge at all times.”

  The lieutenant continued, saying the position of the possible submarine was seventy-five to one hundred miles south and two hundred miles ahead. It was the approximate position of the Harris chase. On further questioning, McKissick revealed that when he stopped by CIC, the combat information center, before taking the OOD watch, the plotting chart contained no indication of enemy subs. This meant that though someone had posted the hunter-killer message in the metal folder on the bridge, either it had not been routed through the Indy’s combat information center, which tracked enemy contacts, or personnel there had failed to plot the location of the submarine chase.

  McKissick also testified about the visibility on his watch: “At times I could see fairly well on deck and other times it was almost totally black.”

  Ryan then asked again about the sub contact on the dispatch board. What was its distance from the ship’s approximate location during the time McKissick was on watch?

  McKissick: The closest the ship would come to that contact would be . . . seventy to one hundred miles.

  Ryan: And having made that estimate, did you take into consideration a submarine on the surface at night proceeding on an opposite course from that steered by Indianapolis?

  McKissick said he and the off-going officer of the deck did one better: They assumed that the sub mentioned in the dispatch might actually target their ship and calculated how close it could get.

  At that, Cady rose to cross-examine McKissick. He zeroed right in on the charge that his client, McVay, had hazarded his vessel by failing to zigzag.

  Cady: Did you question the orders from the captain to stop zigzagging at the time they were given to you?

  McKissick: No, sir . . . I did not question the orders of the captain . . . I didn’t feel like it was anything unusual.

  Cady: What was the visibility at that time?

  McKissick: Well, the visibility at that time—of course, there were heavy clouds ahead, and it was partly cloudy overhead. At the time I . . . came off watch, there was no moon. The visibility was very poor. It was a very dark night.

  Cady: Was it customary on the ship to cease zigzagging after evening twilight?

  McKissick: Yes, sir, it was customary as I recall. We did it all during the war at the end of evening twilight and if the visibility was poor. It was customary, as I recall, to cease zigzagging and resume base course.

  Cady then sought to establish that McVay had clear rules by which his OODs should operate.

  Cady: Can you testify to whether or not the standing orders contained any instructions to the officer of the deck to notify the captain in case of any change in weather conditions, visibility, or so on?

  McKissick: I can testify definitely that those instructions were in the standing night orders, that if there was any change in the condition of the sea or the weather or any tactical change, it must be reported to the captain immediately.

  Cady: Was it your habit to do so?

  McKissick: I hadn’t been standing watches for too long—about six to nine months—consequently, I did my best to abide by every rule, and I had no hesitation, of course, in notifying the captain of such events, even in daylight, during rain squalls or anything. It was my practice to notify the captain of such occurrences.

  Cady returned to the subject of the message-board submarine.

  Cady: At the time when you saw this dispatch that you spoke of, did it cause you any concern as to the safety of the ship?

  McKissick: No, sir, I considered the position of the submarine and the position of the ship to be a great enough distance at which—as to cause no alarm. . . . [W]e received dispatches all through the war much to the same effect. When any of them were that far away, we didn’t feel unduly alarmed at such a report.

  Other survivors, including Lieutenant Richard Redmayne, the engineering officer, gave the court similar assessments: The night was dark, visibility poor, information about submarine contacts routine, and zigzagging did not seem necessary.

  Then Dr. Lewis Haynes was called to the stand. When the torpedoes hit, Haynes said, he was blown out of his bunk and onto his desk. The second explosion filled his room with flame. “I turned to leave my room and got started toward the passageway when there was a large blast down the passageway. I ducked back into my room and felt the flames swish around me. I held my life jacket in front of my face.”

  The room was on fire, Haynes said, and his forehead was burned. He knew he had to get out. But when he looked for escape—via a ladder, a passageway, and other rooms—there was fire everywhere he turned.

  “I got in the wardroom. It was filled with a red haze and the heat was intense. I could feel myself being overcome, probably from the gases, and about halfway across the wardroom, I did fall to the deck. I fell on my outstretched hands, and the deck at that point was very hot, and my hand sizzled, and it was very severely burned. The pain shocked me to my feet.”

  In the press area, reporters scribbled furiously. This was the most dramatic testimony of the trial so far.

  Haynes told the court that he crossed the wardroom, feeling his way along the bulkhead, then collapsed into an easy chair and relaxed. “I thought that that was the end, and it was going to be easy, and then someone who was standing over me said, ‘My God, I am fainting!’ and fell on me.”

  That scared Haynes to his feet again. He found an open porthole, poked his head through, and vacuumed fresh air into his l
ungs. When his head cleared, Haynes was able to climb to the battle-dressing station in the port hangar, where rows of wounded men had already collected. That was when he joined the chief pharmacist’s mate and began administering morphine.

  When the time came to abandon ship, Haynes said the water below him was “black with men.”

  Ryan: About how many men were . . . originally in the group of survivors of which you were a part?

  Haynes: I would say that the group of swimmers was made up of between three and four hundred men.

  Ryan: About how many of that group were rescued?

  Haynes: I believe the Cecil Doyle picked up ninety-three out of that group.

  Ryan: What happened to the remainder?

  Haynes: Well, more than twenty died the first night from burns and injuries—

  “Objection!” It was Cady. “This line of questioning and this testimony is not connected with the issues in the case.”

  An argument ensued and Rear Admiral Baker again cleared the court. When the court reconvened, Baker announced that any testimony regarding deaths in the water following “abandon ship” should be avoided unless it was directly connected with any possible inefficiency of the accused.

  The ruling would prove ironic. Cady feared testimony about the gruesome days in the water would work against McVay. He had won the point, but at a cost he had perhaps not fully calculated. Haynes, having survived in one of the largest swimmer groups, could’ve testified to the horrors suffered by the crew after McVay’s alleged hazarding of the ship—tragedy and drama that would have been of keen interest to newspaper editors, whose columnists had already assigned the blame for the epic death toll to the Navy and not to McVay. Instead, newspapers the following day ran headlines about Haynes’s conversation with Commander Janney in the wardroom, as well as Redmayne’s testimony that Janney had briefed the watch officers about an enemy submarine ahead.