The Kid from Hoboken

by Bill Bailey

  I was learning something new every day from working with this guy. When he was unsure of something he got out the ship's plans to go over them. The captain and officers developed a healthy respect for Sid and that in turn made it a good ship.

  I had had the good fortune of meeting Sid at a cooperative run by a number of young progressive people. It was a place frequented by young people hell-bent on doing everything possible to win the war. One of its women members worked as a machinist in a shipyard. Another worked in a warehouse. The doors were always open, and in the evenings debates and discussions on the war and its aftermath were the topics most discussed. It was a nice place to meet people with the same views and aims, and the atmosphere was always friendly and helpful.

  For the next ten days the Laredo Victory zigzagged alone across the Pacific Ocean. When our workday was over, we found time to play cribbage or a new game Sid taught me called acey-deucy, a seagoing version of backgammon. There were lots of happy moments on that voyage. In addition to making repairs and enjoying our crib games, we devoted time to a lot of young people on the ship who required special attention. It fell on our shoulders as two political, responsible people to see that they became educated about the trade union movement and the political life of our country.

  Many would be casting their ballots in the next election for the first time. They had to understand their responsibility. Discussions and debates filled many hours, but time was on our side as we plowed our way across the Pacific Ocean to drop anchor at a safe refuge, Eniwetok Island in the Marshall Islands. We had seen no other vessel since San Francisco. Now, safely at anchor, we were sharing the same refuge with seven other ships, all loaded down and waiting for orders. Two destroyers nearby gave us the assurance of some protection. It was the 16th day of July, 1945, and while we lay at anchor and watched the blue sea gently roll over the white sands of this atoll, we let our thoughts wander into the fantasy of a world at peace. But other things were happening elsewhere that would forever leave their mark on the changing world.

  On that day the American naval cruiser Indianapolis had docked in San Francisco and loaded on all the parts for an atomic bomb. Having done so, her captain, C. B. McVay, learned that his mission was to "proceed at once at maximum speed without escort to Tinian Island in the Marianas."

  On that same day in the port of Kure, Japan, the Japanese Submarine 128, skippered by Lt. Iko Hashimoto, was given orders to "proceed to the islands of the Marianas for patrol duty and action."

  On July 26th, after ten days of basking in the sun, our captain received his orders for the Laredo Victory to proceed to the Ryuku Islands, Naha, Okinawa. At that moment the Indianapolis was discharging the parts of the atomic bomb at Tinian. She then received orders to proceed to Guam. After stopping at Guam on July 27th, the Indianapolis was asked to proceed to Leyte Gulf in the Philippines. There she would be used for special training before rejoining Admiral Olendorf's Pacific armada. She was to make this leg of her journey unescorted and without the use of her unrepaired sonar equipment. The Indianapolis was now cruising in an area assigned to the Japanese Submarine 128. Prior to the Indianapolis' departure from Guam, American intelligence had become aware that two Japanese submarines were operating in the same area as the ship, but Captain McVay was not alerted.

  On July 30th, the Indianapolis steamed ahead at full speed. The crew had been told now that what they delivered at Tinian might very well be the one instrument that could end the war. The crew was jubilant. Lookouts were posted, but there was nothing special to report; no one saw anything but a calm sea. In a few hours the sky would break with the dawn of a new day. They were nearing the Palau Islands.

  At 12:05 a.m., as most of the crew slept, a torpedo fired from the 128 ripped into the side of the Indianapolis. The blast was so powerful that it threw men out of their bunks and hammocks, knocked out the lighting and set fires in the ammo lockers--which set off additional explosions that rocked the ship from stem to stern. The scramble to reach the main deck became desperate as men fell over one another in the darkness. Those on watch were wearing life jackets; those off duty searched frantically for theirs. The ship had listed quickly. In 15 minutes what had been home and a refuge for 1,200 crewmen began to slowly sink to the ocean floor. Trapped in her labyrinth steel structure were 400 men, many killed instantly by the explosions, others consumed by the flames.

  Captain McVay had ordered radio silence broken just in time to get off the message that his ship was under attack and to plead for help. He never knew if anyone heard his message as he scrambled into the sea to join some 800 of his fellow officers and crewmen now floundering in the sea.

  Lieutenant Hashimoto moved away jubilantly, telling his crew that there was one less American warship to threaten Japan.

  Eight hundred men were left struggling in the open sea, some with open flesh wounds, others with skin burned away. The pain and horror of it all was now settling in. Many were in a state of shock. Some had never learned to swim and kept screaming for help. In the blackness, countless episodes of heroism took place among men thrashing in the water as all struggled to stay alive. One survivor said, "I saw a head within inches of me. Before I could blink an eye, he sank below the waves." In the midst of the disaster, some men remained calm and were able to direct others. Men with life jackets positioned themselves between those who had none. Within an hour a large circle had formed. It would eventually stretch to the size of a football field. Grasping each other, the men comforted one another with words of compassion and comradeship. "Hold on, buddy. Have faith. We're gonna make it." Blood was everywhere, and it would soon attract the most feared predator of the sea, the shark.

  At the naval base in Leyte Gulf, no one had heard from the Indianapolis, but the Navy brass interpreted this as nothing serious. They reasoned that the Indianapolis was maintaining radio silence and slowing down, but she would arrive in due time. Back in the circle of men, however, the sharks had moved in. Protruding fins thrashed the bloodied water and disappeared. Every hour that went by screams were heard as a victim slipped from the grasp of his fellow seamen and was dragged below the surface. More terror, more blood, more sharks. Who would be next? Delirium and exhaustion took its toll, and no rescue was in sight.

  It was purely by chance that a twin-engine Ventura bomber piloted by Lt. Wilbur C. Gwinn, flying a reconnaissance mission, sighted an oil slick that ran for miles across the horizon. He then spotted a handful of survivors who had drifted away from the body of men. His excitement and curiosity grew as he sped toward the source of the slick. He could not believe his eyes when he came across the main body of men. He quickly radioed his findings and pleaded for immediate rescue operations. But even with this sighting, the Navy brass refused to believe the Indianapolis was lost.

  On August 3rd a destroyer, the Cecil J. Doyle, picked up the plane's call for help and raced at full throttle to get to the scene. The Doyle was the first rescue vessel to arrive. It was followed shortly by four others. The survivors had been in the water for five days without food, drink or sleep. Of the 800 men who had been dumped into the sea, only 316 would live. Many of the bodies pulled aboard the rescue vessels were so mangled by sharks that they could not be identified, but the men had been determined to hold onto their dead shipmates no matter what the price. Before the Cecil J. Doyle left the area, she reported that the survivors were members of the sunken Indianapolis.

  On August 6th we continued to zigzag our way toward Okinawa. We did our ship's maintenance work, stood our watches, played cards and discussed the war. Up to now our ship's radio operator had maintained radio silence as per instructions from the Navy. While we were going through the ritual of changing the morning watch, the Enola Gay was flying over the city of Hiroshima. It dropped the first atomic bomb. One hundred thirty thousand were killed out of a population of 350,000. The blast of the bomb left few buildings untouched, and the pain and suffering caused by radiation would affect the population for years to come. Our radio operator
picked up some garbled message. He couldn't restrain himself. He came rushing down to us with the news that a guy named Adam had invented some bomb which was just dropped on Hiroshima, wiping out the city and all its people. There was jubilation among the crew as we heard this news. After all, Japan was the enemy. Why should we feel any sympathy toward them? Yet, the thing that bugged me at that moment was, who the hell was this guy Adam who had invented such a bomb?

  By evening the news was revised. It was not a bomb named Adam, but an atomic bomb. More news came in, describing its enormous destructive power and the fireball it had created. The toll of the dead and mangled bodies in Hiroshima hung like a dark cloud over our ship. We found ourselves talking in whispers. The gaiety had left us as we visualized the havoc and suffering that the population of Hiroshima had gone through. Just before sundown we pulled into Naha and dropped anchor. We counted 15 to 18 ships riding anchor ahead of us. We weren't pleased because it meant a long wait to be discharged. We would have to get into line.

  During discussions that night we all concluded that within our heart of hearts we felt that no nation could withstand this kind of death and destruction without pleading for peace. A few days later, America quickly followed the first bombing with another dropping of an atomic bomb, this time on Nagasaki. The cry for surrender came loud and clear.

  Our captain was a decent fellow as captains go. He believed in a neat and tight ship and a disciplined crew. He was also aware that 85 percent of the crew were young men, some making their first trips to sea. He felt that such young men abruptly taken away from their families and neighborhoods and thrust into this new way of life fraught with danger could feel catastrophic effects. What they needed, he surmised, was a pleasant diversion. He called me to his office one day and told me his fears for the young people and asked my advice.

  Of course, it would have been nice if we had a moving picture aboard with lots of movies to show, but we didn't. So what else? Why not some classes? Maybe the boatswain, with the help of the deck officers, could hold a weekly class in seamanship. The engine room gang could hold classes in engineering, electrical and refrigeration. Maybe we could have a lecture on what the damn war was all about, or how we came about getting the eight-hour day. "Hey," he said, "that's a good one. Education we never get enough of."

  Before I left his office I found myself committed to getting the program started. I asked the boatswain about the classes in seamanship. He turned me down. No, he was not a teacher, he told me. Let them learn the hard way, by their everyday work. None of the engineers felt like they wanted to put extra time into teaching. So it ended up that I would give a lecture. After talking it over with Sid, I lectured on the history of the eight-hour day in America. This was a subject that was wide open and enabled me to bring into the picture class differences and the struggle of the working class to advance. It was an ideal subject for a Communist. I wrote a notice up on the crew's messroom blackboard and pinned one on the bulletin board in the officer's salon.

  While the world was bleeding from its wounds, I was lecturing on the eight-hour day. Most of the ship's officers followed the captain's lead and showed up at the lecture. The captain loved it. He spent most of the lecture watching the faces of the young crew members as I outlined the countless struggles of workers to advance their cause, of the Haymarket struggle, and of the hangings and the imprisonment of countless martyrs who sacrificed their lives.

  There were lots of questions from the crew, and while the large messroom was hot and uncomfortable, most stayed till the end. We announced that, barring any emergencies, we would hold a lecture every week.

  On August 12th there was a roar of airplane engines over our heads. It was a beautiful, sunny day. We rushed out on deck to see what all the noise was about. Overhead we witnessed a big plane painted white flying over our ship on its way to Japan. We were told it was carrying a delegation to arrange the surrender terms. We all shared the happiness that the war was over. That same day, the Navy announced that the cruiser Indianapolis had been lost in the Philippine Sea.

  Sid and I talked a lot. We talked about what life ahead could be like. We wondered what was going to happen to all these youngsters when they returned home. We talked about the way one's life could be enriched. There was an organization called American Youth for Democracy, the AYD. Why not set up a branch of the AYD aboard this ship? We could call it the Laredo Victory Branch. We talked this up among the young crew members. They liked the idea. We had our first meeting. Officers were elected and the branch was established. A letter with all members' names was sent off to the main office in San Francisco for charter and membership books.

  Another lecture was organized. This one was called "How the Maritime Unions Came About and What They Accomplished." Of course, the lecture gave me the opportunity to talk about the early days on the waterfront and aboard ship, and the role of the Marine Worker's Industrial Union, the Communist Party, the 1934 San Francisco General Strike. The lecture was well-received. Several more ships arrived in Naha. We all sat and waited.

  By August 20th we were still at anchor. No one seemed to give a hoot about us or our cargo. We were allowed to leave our lights on at night. As far as we could ascertain the war was over. But if the war was over, why weren't our troops being sent home? We called a ship's meeting and made a proposal. Let the crew discharge the cargo and prepare the holds to house the troops to take home. An amendment was made to contact all the ships in Naha and involve them in our proposal. After all, wasn't this the true union spirit, the patriotic thing to do?

  Our signal corpsman sent a message to all ships, asking them to hold a ship's meeting to discuss our proposal, and to send us their answer the following day. The next day, with a notepad in hand, we received the answers to our proposal. Of the seventeen ships contacted, fifteen said yes, one said no, and the other one refused to even discuss the matter. We relayed the proposal to the military brass at Naha. We had expected the brass to jump on the offer and thank us for being so thoughtful and self-sacrificing. Were we wrong! The message came back loud and clear: "Mind your own goddamned business. You take care of your ships and leave military matters to those who understand them best.

  A special part was needed for our generator. There was a naval supply tender at anchor. It was a vessel that followed the fleet around. It had many machine shops on board and could make most ship's parts. I got permission to go aboard and get the part. As I prepared to leave the vessel with the part, I ran into a big hunk of Navy brass at the gangway. "Hey, sailor," he shouted to me with a big smile, "how's it feel to be the winner? Great, eh?"

  "Yes, great," I replied, trying to look happy.

  "The way I look at it, sailor," he continued, "we knocked the hell out of those krauts and spaghetti-benders and we cut those squinty-eyed gooks down to size, so let's finish the job and go after those Russian bastards! Then we can all sit back and enjoy our victory. Right, sailor?"

  I got off that ship as fast as I could. I was sick just being near this character. He was advocating doublecrossing an allied partner, one which had lost 20 million people in the war. When would all this mental illness of wanting to kill come to an end?

  On August 30th we heard that a typhoon was coming toward us. Orders were to weigh anchor and ride out the storm at sea. We could feel the strong gust of wind and the angry, choppy seas that are the forerunners of a typhoon. At sea we spaced ourselves and ran with our lights on. There was no way we could outrun this typhoon; we didn't have the speed to do it. Scanning the horizon, we could see the rest of the ships that left Naha with us. Directly ahead of us was a Navy freighter. We stayed astern of her and followed in her wake. Our captain was on the bridge most of the time. He was nervous and jumpy. He knew our ship was loaded with a special type of bomb. We got a Naval message to be alert for break-away mines that had been spotted since the start of the typhoon. The sky darkened. The wind became stronger as the sea lashed against our ship's side as if in revenge. We rolled and dipped, yet
we felt safe and secure, knowing that our captain had posted lookouts fore and aft. At ten that night the silence of the vessel was broken by the ringing of the general alarm. Sid and I were locked in combat, playing our never-ending game of acey-deucy, when we heard the alarm. We did what everyone else did and headed for the deck. Our gun crew raced to their gun positions. We heard the captain explain that the Navy ship ahead had hit a mine and one man was killed and one injured. Outside of that, the mine explosion did only a small amount of damage. They were not calling for assistance at this time but would appreciate other vessels knowing their situation and being within reach should they warrant physical assistance. Across the horizon, ships using their blinker systems responded, as did our captain. The captain canceled the emergency and Sid and I went back to our game.

  We were awakened the next morning by the shuddering of the ship. The winds had become fiercer during the night. Waves broke over the bow. The horizon was still dotted with ships. A mile dead ahead and slightly on our port bow we came upon a Liberty ship fighting her way through the choppy seas. She had no smokestack. Her two starboard lifeboats hung on their davits, all smashed up. Her wheelhouse was smashed beyond recognition. She had been loaded down to the height of the wheel house with lumber. All our crew came on deck to view this ship. We were saddened by what we saw. What the hell could have happened? There was lumber sticking out in all shapes and forms, and broken lashing chains dangling off the side of the ship. Our captain made communication with the vessel and learned that during the night when the winds grew fiercer, a forward lashing chain broke under stress. When one set of lashing chains broke this increased the pressure on several other sets of chains and they too broke. The winds then picked up and carried the lumber through the air like matchsticks, smashing it into the wheelhouse. This forced the captain, as well as the mate and sailor on watch, to get out of the wheelhouse. As they got out on deck another pile of lumber smashed into them and knocked the captain and mate into the sea. The sailor was not seriously hurt. More lumber smashed away the smokestack and lifeboats. At this moment the vessel was being steered and navigated with emergency gear back aft. She did not request any assistance, but asked us to keep an eye open for the two men lost over the side. There but for the grace of God could have been the Laredo Victory.