The Finest Hours

by Michael J. Tougias

  The survivors were now being crammed into automobiles for the ride to the Chatham Lifeboat Station. Thirty-four-year-old Joe Nickerson, a lifelong Chatham resident, drove two of the men in his Ford sedan. “I drove one fella,” Nickerson remembered. “He told me that he was on the forward section of the ship when it split in two. He said that he saved himself by jumping over a huge crack back to the stern. If he hadn’t done that, he’d have been swept away with the bow.” However, the Pendleton survivors refused to call their skipper and eight others missing. The men were still holding on to the belief that their comrades would be found alive.

  The survivors were whisked to the station, where they were met by local physician Dr. Carroll Keene. He knew right away that many of the men were in a state of shock. “One of the fellows I drove down simply collapsed once we got inside the station,” Joe Nickerson recalled. “Then it was like dominoes, another guy fell, and then another. We had eight guys laid out on the floor completely unconscious.” Red Cross leader Leroy Anderson and his unit assisted Dr. Keene. Tailor Ben Shufro, manager of Puritan Clothing on Main Street in Chatham, had a tape measure around his neck and was fitting those survivors who remained on their feet for new clothes that he had donated. Reverend Steve Smith of the United Methodist Church was also on hand to offer prayers for the survivors. The reverend’s presence was especially comforting to Wallace Quirey. The seaman approached the minister and told him that he had lost his Bible during the mad scramble on board the ship. Reverend Smith nodded and gave Quirey his own copy of the Holy Book.

  John Stello, Bernie Webber’s friend and neighbor, called Webber’s home and broke the news to Miriam, who was still in bed with the flu. Her husband was being hailed as a hero, and Stello told her why.

  * * *

  Bushy-browed WOCB newsman Ed Semprini had survived the grueling drive down snow-covered Route 28. The bad weather had not let up during the 21-mile trek from Hyannis to Chatham. Semprini arrived at the Chatham Lifeboat Station, where he met up with his engineer Wes Stidstone. Both men were wired for sound when the Pendleton survivors came dragging in. Semprini knew that he didn’t have much time. He had to get the interviews done quickly so that they could drive back to the radio station in Yarmouth and broadcast live. He put his microphone in nearly every tired man’s face as they warmed up on coffee and doughnuts. The accents befuddled the veteran newsman, who was himself still learning to understand how Cape Codders spoke. “One survivor from Louisiana asked me if his family could hear him speaking live.” Semprini explained that the interviews would later be aired coast-to-coast on the Mutual News Network. Every survivor Semprini interviewed that night could not say enough about Bernie Webber and his crew. “They called it a miracle,” Semprini remembered with a smile.

  Webber, meanwhile, had gone upstairs to his bunk at the Chatham Lifeboat Station, still shaken by the long hours spent riding the biggest waves in the worst storm of his life. He bent down and kicked off his overshoes. He then called Miriam. “I’m fine, and I’ll be in touch with you tomorrow,” he said. A cup of mud and a doughnut wouldn’t feel half bad right now, he thought. Webber made his way down to the galley, where he met Andy, Richard, and Ervin. They all nodded toward one another. No one had to say a word. They would leave that to Daniel Cluff, who offered words of congratulations and admitted that he doubted he’d see any of them alive again. Ed Semprini had been searching for Bernie and finally spotted him coming out of the galley. Webber had been called the true hero of the rescue, and the newsman understood why. Bernie answered a few questions as coherently as possible. He had finished his cup of coffee and devoured his doughnut, and now all he wanted was sleep. He returned to his bunk and collapsed. Webber was safe now, but as he drifted off to sleep, he thought only about those still fighting the storm at sea.

  PART II

  13

  THE MERCER’S BOW CAPSIZES

  As Chatham celebrated the rescue of the sailors from the Pendleton’s stern, the survivors still on board the Fort Mercer’s drifting bow huddled together for warmth. They had watched several of their crewmates fall to their deaths, and now, in the darkness, all they could do was wait for dawn and hope that the cutter Yakutat, which was standing by, would somehow get them off before they went down with the ship.

  Captain Naab had spent a sleepless night on the Yakutat, staring at the huge black hulk of the Mercer and praying it would stay afloat until dawn. And so when the captain saw the first hint of light to the east, he was relieved. He was also thankful that the snow and sleet had let up. The wind was still howling, but the seas seemed to have eased a bit, dropping from the 50- and 60-foot range to about 40 feet. Now Naab went over his options. After what had transpired the preceding night, he did not want to send over more life rafts. He was afraid that if the survivors fell into the frigid ocean, they simply would not have the strength or the dexterity to stay afloat or climb into the rafts. Naab knew that the only way the men could be saved was if some of his own crewmen were waiting for them. He then made a fateful decision. The cutter’s 26-foot lifeboat would be launched with a crew of five. It was a gamble to be sure; now Naab had to worry not only about the survival of the tanker’s crewmen but about his own men who might be lost as well.

  The skipper also feared that the men left on the Mercer’s bow might, upon seeing a lifeboat coming their way, jump too soon. He picked up a loudspeaker and shouted to the survivors that he was sending over a lifeboat and that the lifeboat crew would signal to them when it was time to jump. He told the survivors that when the time came, they should jump into the ocean next to the lifeboat, and his men would pull them up. Naab knew that if this rescue failed, he would be second-guessed and the deaths of the men would forever haunt him. But, looking out at the bow, he thought the half ship was in danger of capsizing at any time. He could not afford to wait a moment longer.

  The lifeboat was referred to as a “Monomoy surfboat” because it was designed with a high bow for the big surf that crashed into Monomoy Island, just off Chatham. But the 40-foot seas swirling around the Yakutat might be more than the wooden lifeboat was capable of handling. If the lifeboat capsized, the crew on board would have fewer than ten minutes of consciousness before hypothermia snuffed them out.

  Ensign William Kiely, of Long Branch, New Jersey, was selected to lead the daring rescue, and he would be joined by Gil Carmichael, Paul Black, Edward Mason Jr., and Walter Terwilliger. One of the most dangerous parts of the mission would be at the very beginning: the lifeboat had to clear away from the Yakutat before waves slammed her back into the cutter and swamped her.

  Carmichael later remembered how he and his fellow crewmen nervously boarded the lifeboat, and the men on board the cutter began lowering them with block, tackle, and winch. “The seas were so rough that the launch swung away from the ship and then slammed back into it. We didn’t realize it at the time, but I think that cracked the wooden side of the boat. When we set down on the water, that’s when I fully realized how small our launch was compared to the seas, and I had my doubts whether or not I’d ever get on the cutter alive again.”

  The four coasties navigated the lifeboat through the giant swells and pulled up alongside the massive steel hull of the Mercer, careful not to get too close.

  Inside the broken bow of the Mercer, an argument broke out about who would jump first. Captain Paetzel said he wanted to be the last to leave, but his men felt that because of the deteriorating condition of his feet and the weakness he was showing from hypothermia, he should be the first to go. None of the men knew if the tiny lifeboat would be able to handle all four of them, nor did they know if the men in the launch were really going to be able to pluck them out of the seas. But they all felt it was a chance they’d have to take: if they stayed on board and the ship capsized, that would be the end. The crewmen told Captain Paetzel that if he didn’t jump first, they’d throw him over.

  The Mercer men—Paetzel, Turner, Guldin, and Fahrner—now moved out on the heaving deck, peering dow
n at the lifeboat bobbing wildly in the waves below. It would be a long drop to the water. If they jumped into the trough of a wave, it would be approximately a 60-foot free fall, but if they sprang into a wave top, it would be only about 20 feet.

  Ensign Kiely looked up at Captain Paetzel and signaled him to jump. Paetzel had reluctantly agreed to go first, but now he must have wondered if he was jumping to his death. The lifeboat below looked like a child’s toy, insignificant against the towering seas.

  Paetzel waited for a wave crest to rise up toward him. Then he jumped. He hit the water several feet from the lifeboat, first plunging completely underwater before the buoyancy of his lifejacket brought him back to the surface. The shock took his breath away and sent pain screaming through his body. He bobbed in the life-robbing seas, his arms already weak and growing numb. Precious seconds went by as he watched the lifeboat crew struggle to turn the boat toward him.

  Kiely and crew did their best to maneuver the pitching lifeboat alongside the captain without hitting him. A minute had passed since the captain landed in the ocean, and they could see he was coughing up seawater. When they were an arm’s length away, one of the coasties grabbed Paetzel’s lifejacket, pulling him toward the boat. The waterlogged clothing on the captain doubled his weight, and at least three of the coast guardsmen used their combined strength to yank him on board.

  During this time, Kiely did his best to keep the lifeboat clear of the ship’s steel hull. Now that the captain was safely on board, he turned the boat and came around again to a position below the three remaining crewmembers. It was Turner’s time to leap, and the purser waited on the sloping ship’s deck for Kiely’s signal. He had seen the difficulty the coasties had maneuvering to the captain, and he hoped they would be able to get to him without incident. Watching the little Monomoy surfboat below, he must have wondered how the men on board were managing to keep it upright in such large seas.

  Kiely motioned for him to jump, and Turner did, trying to time his leap with the upward advance of a wave and clear the Mercer’s hull with room to spare. As Turner plunged into the seas, a wave lifted the lifeboat high in the air, and a following wave sent it flying toward him. There was only an instant to make a lunge for Turner, but the young coasties grabbed the purser as they swept by. As the men were trying to drag Turner aboard, the lifeboat slammed into the hull of the half tanker.

  The jolt almost knocked the coast guardsmen out of the boat, but they kept their grip on Turner and hauled him up. The lifeboat, however, did not fare as well. Its wooden side was crushed, and water came cascading in over the broken gunnel, or rim. The added weight of the water, along with that of Paetzel and Turner, made the boat ride low, and Kiely had trouble controlling the vessel.

  The lifeboat was sinking!

  Kiely knew he’d have to abort the rescue or risk losing all six men on board the lifeboat. Captain Naab realized the same, and over the loudspeaker, he ordered Kiely to return. The young ensign, overwhelmed at having to leave men still on the hulk, had tears in his eyes, but he turned the tiny craft back toward the Yakutat and ever so slowly began navigating through the seas toward safety.

  “I kept expecting our boat to capsize,” said Carmichael. “We were very low in the water, and the seas were coming in the boat, entering over the sides and through cracks in the hull. The survivors lay on the bottom of the boat in the sloshing water, where they had collapsed.”

  When the lifeboat reached the cutter, hooks were lowered to secure the bow and stern. “We got the bow hook on without a problem,” continued Carmichael. “But as I turned to get the swinging hook for the stern, it slammed into the side of my head, stunning me. Somehow we got that hook on our stern, and we were raised to the cutter’s deck. That’s when I fell unconscious. The next thing I remember, I woke up in my bunk.”

  Back on the Mercer’s bow, Guldin and Fahrner stood outside on the deck, relieved to see the lifeboat safely hoisted on board the cutter. But they also knew they had just lost their best chance of being rescued. The crushed lifeboat could not be used again, nor would Captain Naab risk another boat and crew, and these last two survivors wondered if the floating steel hulk they were standing on would be their coffin. There was nothing they could do now but wait.

  * * *

  On board the Yakutat, at approximately ten A.M., the radioman sent the following message to the Coast Guard Communications Center in Marshfield, Massachusetts:

  TWO SURVIVORS, FREDERICK C. PAETZEL (MASTER) AND EDWARD E. TURNER (PURSER), RESCUED BY BOAT. WEATHER CONDITIONS WORSENING. NOT ABLE TO USE BOAT FOR REMAINING TWO MEN. WILL ATTEMPT RESCUE BY SHOT LINE AND RUBBER RAFT.

  Captain Naab, realizing the wind had eased a bit from the prior day, reconsidered the option of sending over a life raft. He thought a messenger line could be successfully shot to the Mercer’s bow. The plan was to have a rubber life raft tied to the end of the messenger line and another line that would extend from the life raft back to the Yakutat. If all went well, the two remaining survivors would pull their end of the line and bring the raft toward them, securing their end to the tanker to keep the raft in place. Eyewitnesses differ in their accounts regarding what was supposed to transpire next. One scenario was to have a survivor jump off the tanker and swim to the raft, and once he got himself safely on board, the next man was to untie the messenger line from the tanker and fasten it around his waist. Then he too would leap off the tanker, and the first man would haul him to the life raft and help him aboard.

  The second scenario was that the two survivors would slide down the secured messenger line, and once safely aboard the life raft, they would use a jackknife and cut the line between them and the wallowing hulk. Either plan would allow the coasties on the Yakutat to quickly haul in the other line, pulling the survivors and raft back to the cutter before hypothermia killed them.

  Both plans also depended on the successful firing of a line from the Yakutat to the Mercer, a strategy that had ended in failure the previous night. On the one hand, Naab needed the Yakutat to be as close to the hulk as possible for the line not to fall short; on the other hand, the Mercer was swinging and pitching so wildly, he dared not get too close.

  Naab brought the Yakutat upwind of the tanker, maneuvering as close as he dared, and shouted over the bullhorn to the survivors, “Stand by to receive a shot line—we’ll secure a raft to it.”

  By this time, the Mercer’s bow was jutting out of the ocean at a 45-degree angle, with the front end completely out of the water and the broken end entirely submerged. Guldin and Fahrner had to hang on to the outside rail tightly to keep from sliding down the sloping deck and into the foam that churned around the jagged pieces of steel where the tanker had split.

  Naab positioned the Yakutat so that its bow was pointing directly toward the port side of the tanker. The men on board the cutter watched silently as the shooter, Wayne Higgins, prepared to fire the line. The messenger line gun was a modified Springfield rifle with a grenade charge that would fire the projectile, an 18-inch steel rod inserted in the gun’s barrel. On the end of the rod, protruding from the rifle barrel, was a 13-ounce brass weight with a small circular eye attached to it, and tied to the eye was a thin messenger line. This extended back into a canister about eight inches long, mounted on the gun’s barrel. The line was coiled inside the canister, ready to be taken across the seas when the projectile was fired.

  “I was in the very tip of the bow,” recalled Wayne later, “and I was concerned about sliding on the ice, especially because I couldn’t use my hands to grip the rail, as both were needed on the rifle. I knew we had to get this line over immediately, because it looked like the broken hulk of the ship was going to sink. When I fired the gun, the recoil was tremendous, and my left hand slipped and my index finger was slashed open on the line canister. But the shot looked good.”

  On that first try, the line went arcing through the air, landing almost directly on top of Guldin and Fahrner. Naab motioned for the survivors to begin hauling the line
in, and the raft at the other end was tossed from the cutter into the sea.

  When the raft was near the Mercer’s bow, Fahrner and Guldin secured their end of the line, then hesitated before climbing over the rail, perhaps mustering their courage. One of the men—it’s not known which—slid down the line to the water. He landed about 50 yards from the raft and clawed his way through the icy seas toward salvation. Then, when he tried to hoist himself into the raft, it capsized. Immediately, the second man, perhaps in an effort to help his shipmate, slid down the messenger line and into the ocean.

  The Yakutat crewmen, helpless to assist the men in the water, watched as Fahrner and Guldin struggled in the breaking seas, desperately trying to get a firm grip on the raft before hypothermia made their limbs useless. For a moment, it looked like the ocean would claim two more victims, but the men fought valiantly, and both managed to grab hold of the raft, flip it right side up, and crawl aboard, collapsing on the bottom.

  They were far from saved, however. The second man who jumped had not untied the line from the tanker before leaping, and now both were too frozen to open a jackknife to sever the line. This meant the raft could not be pulled to the cutter.

  Communications officer Bill Bleakley, staring out a window of the Yakutat’s bridge at the drama unfolding, worried that the scene he had witnessed the previous night—of survivors perishing before his eyes—was going to happen again. Bleakley had not been able to forget the vision of men jumping off the tanker, and he was particularly upset when he saw one man jump and get slammed back into the hull of the tanker before crashing into the water.

  Naab, who was standing next to Bleakley, said, “Now what do I do? If I back down and the line between us and the raft breaks, we’ve lost them.” (Backing down means to reverse the engines.) “If the line between the raft and the hulk breaks, we’ve got them.”