His successful leap gave the others confidence, and a second man climbed over the rail, preparing to jump. The ships were now several feet apart, and Mihlbauer put his hand forward, screaming, “No, not yet! Wait a second. Okay, now get ready. Jump!” The survivor did as he was told and made it with inches to spare, just missing being crushed to death between the ships.
Captain Joseph described what happened when the third man leaped. “He poised at the rail and then jumped. But he had waited too long. He leaped as we were falling. His feet hit our rail, and he fell backward, toward the narrowing space between the hulls of the ships. I watched, horrified, as a scream started from his lips.” Two coasties lunged toward the man and grabbed him by the coat, but their momentum and the weight of the survivor began to pull them over the rail. Then three more coasties grabbed at the sliding men, and all were pulled onto the deck.
The remaining survivors were now more reluctant than ever to make the leap. Two coast guardsmen, however, acted on their own, and when the cutter rose on a swell almost level with the tanker, they simply reached out and each yanked a survivor off the Mercer and onto the cutter’s deck. The coasties were preparing to make another grab when an especially large wave lifted the back end of the Mercer so high it looked like it would drop straight down on the cutter. Men scattered off the deck, fearing they’d be squashed, as Joseph screamed into the power-phone, “Full speed ahead!”
Sid Morris remembered what happened next: “The engines groaned and strained, the bulkheads and decks shivered with the sudden tearing vibration, the double screws churned furiously, and, after what seemed an eternity, our ship strained and lurched forward, away from the plunging, knifelike edges of the tanker’s propeller.”
The propeller came so close it actually nicked the rail. Captain Joseph, allowing himself to breathe again, decided luck was with them and ordered the helmsman to go for another try. When they were back in position, again they had to coax the survivors. Sid Morris remembers how one heavyset sailor made the leap, skidded wildly—in a standing position—across the deck, and slammed into the rail, saved only by a fast-acting coastie who grabbed him before he plunged off the ship. The survivor later told Sid the reason he slid so fast was that he had put on new shoes he wanted to save.
A total of 18 men made the leap from the tanker to the cutter, without a single casualty. Thirteen crewmembers, however, decided it was safer to stay with the tanker. Joseph had a quick message sent to headquarters:
SURVIVORS TAKEN ON BOARD BY MANEUVERING ACUSHNET STERN ALONGSIDE TANKER. MADE TWO PASSES. RECEIVED FIVE MEN ON FIRST PASS AND THIRTEEN ON SECOND.
Captain Joseph asked for and received permission to take the survivors to Boston, as two of them needed hospitalization. The ones who escaped without a scratch were ecstatic to be safely aboard a coast guard vessel where they could enjoy hot coffee, food, and dry clothing. “The happiest moment of my life,” said quartermaster Hurley Newman, “was when I jumped onto the aft deck of the Acushnet.”
The Acushnet left the accident scene at nightfall and steamed toward Boston. When Captain Joseph, his crew, and the survivors arrived in Boston at eight A.M. on Wednesday, they were all taken aback by the huge crowd gathered by the docks. A loud cheer went up from the bystanders, and car horns blared. The press was out in force, snapping pictures of survivors coming down the gangplank and shouting questions. When Captain Joseph emerged, another cheer went up, and two survivors, Massie Hunt and Alanson Winn, got on either side of the captain, draped their arms around his shoulders, and smiled broadly as the Associated Press snapped a picture that appeared on the front page of several newspapers around the country.
Later, when Captain Joseph and the Acushnet arrived in Portland, another swarm of people awaited, including the captain’s family. Joseph later wrote, “I came out on the wing of the bridge to receive the congratulations. As I looked down on the assembled throng and waved to my wife, my youngest son, in a loud voice, yelled, ‘What’s the matter, Dad? Why didn’t you take them all off? Did you get chicken?’” Joseph could only smile ruefully and shake his head.
The fractured half of the Fort Mercer was eventually towed to New York City with the 13 crewmembers still on board. One man had to be treated for broken ribs. The ship was repaired and fitted for a new bow section and renamed the San Jacinto. It would remain in operation for a dozen more years before splitting in half once again and sinking during a storm off Virginia. Fortunately no lives were lost in that wreck.
15
TUESDAY AT CHATHAM STATION
Bernie Webber rubbed the sleep out of his tired eyes and felt a dull pain in every joint of his body. Despite his exhaustion, he had not slept well. Bernie lifted his beaten body off his bunk and looked around the room. The aches and pains reminded him what had happened. He and his brave crew had indeed saved the lives of 32 seamen in a tiny lifeboat. Bernie looked to the floor and thought he was dreaming. Dollar bills were scattered about the floor, and his dresser drawer was overflowing with cash. Not knowing what this meant, he quickly got dressed, scooped up all the money, and went downstairs. The survivors appeared to be everywhere, lying on cots and on the floor. Bernie took the money to commander Cluff.
“Where did all this cash come from?” he asked. Cluff told him that the money was a gift collected by the Pendleton survivors who had managed to retrieve some of their belongings before abandoning ship. The monetary gift eventually went to buy a television set for the Chatham Station, a rare luxury in 1952.
But some others felt differently about Bernie. Higher-ups were angry about Webber’s breach of protocol during the rescue—he had turned off his radio and ignored authority on the return trip to Old Harbor. Cluff told Webber that some ranking officers were even grumbling about a court-martial. But Bernie’s superiors had all been shouting over one another as they attempted to give him advice. The noise had been a distraction. Bernie knew what he was doing and where he was going on that night. Cluff promised Webber that he’d handle the fallout and told him not to worry. As it happened, Cluff did not need to run interference for Bernie or anyone else. Later that day, Rear Admiral H. G. Bradbury, commander of the U.S. Coast Guard First District, sent out this priority wire:
HEARTY WELL DONE TO ALL CONCERNED WITH RESCUE OPERATIONS SS PENDLETON. TO BERNARD C. WEBBER BMI IN CHARGE OF CG 36500 AND CREW MEMBERS ANDREW J. FITZGERALD EN2, RICHARD P. LIVESEY SN, AND ERVIN E. MASKE SN. QUOTE: “YOUR OUTSTANDING SEAMANSHIP AND UTTER DISREGARD FOR YOUR SAFETY IN CROSSING THE HAZARDOUS WATERS OF CHATHAM BAR IN MOUNTAINOUS SEAS, EXTREME DARKNESS AND FALLING SNOW DURING VIOLENT WINTER GALE TO RESCUE FROM IMMINENT DEATH THIRTY TWO OF THE THIRTY THREE CREW MEMBERS ON THE STRANDED STERN SECTION OF THE ILL FATED TANKER MINUTES BEFORE IT CAPSIZED … REFLECT GREAT CREDIT ON YOU AND THROUGH YOU THE ENTIRE SERVICE.”
Richard Livesey woke up that morning with a sore throat and throbbing head. He feared that he was coming down with pneumonia. He had a week of liberty coming to him and wanted to get home as quickly as possible. But Livesey and the rest of the crew were told to stay put and wait to be examined by a doctor. Richard was relieved when the doctor informed him that he was not seriously ill. That relief quickly turned to frustration when the physician said that he still wanted to monitor Livesey and the other crewmembers for a week, which meant that his time off would be delayed.
The Pendleton survivors did not remain at the Chatham Lifeboat Station for very long, but they did get the opportunity to express their feelings to Webber and the crew. “I’ll never forget you fellows,” survivor Frank Fauteux said, shaking their hands. “God bless you, I mean it.” Wiper Fred Brown nodded in agreement. Later that morning, they piled onto a bus bound for the Essex Hotel in Boston. Along the way, they had to pick up two crewmembers, 51-year-old Aaron Posvell of Jacksonville, Florida, and Tiny Myers’s close friend Rollo Kennison, both of whom had been treated for shock and immersion at Cape Cod Hospital in Hyannis. The storm had blown farther out to sea before dawn. As the bus left the Chatham Station, t
he seamen drove past the wreckage of their ship glistening in the morning sun. “There she is,” young Carroll Kilgore said, with sadness in his voice.
One of Boston’s major newspapers, the Daily Record, ran the bold headline 32 RESCUED, 50 CLING TO SPLIT SHIPS OFF CAPE. The Cape Cod Standard-Times ran the headline announcing FOUR CHATHAM COAST GUARDS RESCUE 32 AS TWO TANKERS BREAK OFF CAPE. The front page of the Boston Daily Globe reported 32 SAVED OFF TANKERS. The newspaper also ran a photo of skipper John J. Fitzgerald with the subhead “Boston Captain Dies on Pendleton Bow.” This declaration was a bit premature, since the Fitzgerald family was still under the impression he might be alive.
Margaret Fitzgerald had first received word that her husband was in trouble on the evening of February 18. The tanker captain’s 11-year-old son, John J. Fitzgerald III, heard the telephone ring while he and his brother were watching The Adventures of Kit Carson on television. His mother took the call and then listened silently as the disturbing news was relayed.
“My God,” Margaret screamed. “Did my husband die?”
The person on the other end of the call told her that it was still a fluid and confusing situation. He told her about the four simultaneous rescue operations and that at this point, her husband’s fate was not known. Margaret Fitzgerald hung up the telephone, tried to regain her composure, and gathered her four children to break the news. Like his siblings, young John had a difficult time understanding what his mother was trying to say. It was inconceivable that his father would not come home. Although the boy had grown accustomed to prolonged absences—the tanker captain was home only 45 days out of the year—he expected his dad to walk through their front door eventually, his arms full of presents. His mother, meanwhile, made arrangements for her children and then headed down to Chatham.
Millie Oliviera was the only wife waiting inside the Hotel Essex lobby when the tired survivors came pouring out of the bus after their two-and-a-half-hour ride to Boston. Flanked by two of her three children, she embraced her husband, Aquinol, as he stepped out of the cold and into the warm lobby. During those long hours stranded on the stern, the thin, bespectacled cook feared that he’d never see his family again. Aquinol Oliviera and his 31 crewmates were given free accommodations at the Hotel Essex while they waited to give their statements during the coast guard’s impending inquiry. Before that, however, the survivors also had to describe their harrowing ordeal to eager Boston-area reporters. During an interview with the Boston Post, Aquinol said he was baking at the moment the ship split and that his face was covered with flour when he ran topside to see what had happened. He also said the storm was worse than anything the Germans had dropped on his ship during the invasion of Sicily nine years before. Rollo Kennison carried a triangular paper parcel when he spoke with reporters. Asked what it was, Kennison reached in and pulled out the flare gun Tiny Myers had given him before his death. “He was too good to die,” a still-shaken Kennison told members of the press.
* * *
Margaret Fitzgerald walked the beach the next morning with her arms folded to fight off the cold. She stared out at the whipping waves, heartbroken that her husband was missing and presumed dead. She was not alone. Hundreds of people had driven down to the bluff at Chatham that day to see the Pendleton wreckage. The crowd was so large that special police patrols had to be called in to direct traffic. For many onlookers, the image of the shredded stern provided an ominous reminder of the power of the sea. There were others, though, who gazed at the wreckage and saw opportunity.
Rumors sprouted up that a small fortune had been left behind on one of the tables inside the stern. The story was that a group of seamen were engaged in a heated game of cards when they were notified that a lifeboat was approaching the ship. As crewmembers began to gather up their money, one player reminded the others of the sailors’ superstition that says a man who picks up the stakes while abandoning ship will one day fall victim to the sea himself. The rumor might have started because the survivors later had enough cash with them to stuff Bernie Webber’s sock drawer and cover the floor around his bunk. Nonetheless, the story had many true believers among the Chatham fishermen, who were also tempted by the ship’s fully equipped machine shop, expensive navigational equipment, and large clothing supply. The coast guard said it would not patrol the two sections of the Pendleton unless ordered to do so. Such orders never came, so in keeping with the scavenger tradition of the outer Cape, David Ryder and others ventured out into the rough waters in search of treasure. Ryder used his own 38-foot-long liner, the Alice & Nancy, to get up close to the stern while a couple of friends climbed aboard and picked at its carcass. Ryder refused to go on board and watched as the other men slipped along the oily deck. Among the items liberated from the wreckage was the Pendleton’s red jib, a triangular sail located in front of the mast, which remains in the Ryder family to this day.
16
THE SEARCH OF THE PENDLETON BOW
In the days following the disaster, crews from the Chatham Lifeboat Station made several attempts to board the bow section of the Pendleton, which was now grounded in 54 feet of water near the Pollock Rip Lightship, almost seven miles off the Chatham coast. “It looks a little choppy out there,” commander Daniel Cluff told reporters two days after the rescue. “But I think we’ll make a try at boarding her anyway.” However, sea conditions remained rough and prevented crewmembers from climbing aboard the unsteady vessel. In the meantime, crews carried out beach patrols searching for bodies that might have washed up onshore. None were found.
The weather finally broke on Sunday, February 24, almost a full week after the ship had split in two. Richard Livesey, Mel Gouthro, coxswain Chick Chase, and two other coasties from the Chatham Lifeboat Station joined seamen from the salvage tug Curb as they pulled up alongside the bow section of the Pendleton. The hulk had drifted to almost the exact spot where the Pollock Rip Lightship was anchored, and the lightship had been moved a couple days earlier for fear the bow would collide with it. The Pendleton bow floated more or less upright, with the tip rising from the water at a 45-degree angle. The seas were calm now, and the men managed to get aboard the vessel with relative ease. Richard Livesey remained on the lifeboat, however; he could still see the face of Tiny Myers in his mind’s eye. The image haunted him in his sleep and nearly every waking moment.
Livesey did not know what horror awaited the lifeboat men as they searched the bow of the Pendleton, but he did know that it was something he could not witness again. Mel Gouthro wasn’t wild about climbing on the hulk either: “We were a little afraid to go on that hunk of steel, not knowing when it might shift.”
Nevertheless, he and the others climbed aboard, coming from the broken end and climbing hand over hand up the steep-angled deck. They moved gingerly along the railing because one false step would surely mean an unexpected trip into the icy water below. The temperature was still in the 20s, but the sun was bright, and that offered them much-needed light as they began their search. Then they used flashlights as they entered the bowels of the ship. “It was eerie,” recalls Gouthro, “because the ship was making all kinds of rumbling noises, perhaps from where the seas were hitting the area where the boat had split.”
The men scoured the broken vessel and found no bodies above the ship’s waterline. It appeared that Captain John Fitzgerald and his seven-member crew had all been washed away. This thought vanished quickly when Mel Gouthro and crew approached the forecastle, where they made a sad discovery.
They entered the compartment slowly, their flashlights drawn to the figure of a man stretched out on a paint locker shelf. It was clear he was dead. He was covered in newspaper, in an apparent attempt to ward off hypothermia. Each of his feet was stuck inside sawdust bags, and his shoes and socks were found on the floor. The man had had no access to blankets, because all the crew’s quarters, bunks, and galley were in the stern. It seemed the crewmember had barricaded himself in the forward locker room and had not been able to hear or see the rescue boats
that had come to save him six days earlier.
“He had a frozen look on his face,” Gouthro recalls. “That young man was scared to death. What a lonely way to die.” Gouthro surmised that the sailor might have been the lookout before the split, stationed at the very front of the ship with a foghorn ready to sound if he saw another vessel.
A search of the dead seaman’s body yielded a driver’s license identifying him as 25-year-old Herman G. Gatlin of Greenville, Mississippi. Positive identification came later by comparing fingerprints of the dead man’s left thumb with that found on the back of the man’s identification card.
Gatlin was brought back to Chatham Station and placed in an outbuilding until the coroner arrived. The doctor concluded that the cause of death was exposure and shock and, surprisingly, that the time of death was during the first day of the shipwreck: “Died before 2400 [midnight] 2/18/52.”
What happened to Captain Fitzgerald and the other men on the bow will remain a mystery. Were they swept off the ship shortly after it split in two? Did they fall off the catwalk trying to reach the forwardmost part of the ship, as radioman John O’Reilly had on the Mercer bow? Or were they killed at the moment of the accident, as one surviving seaman, Oliver Gendron, surmised? When the ship first cracked in half, Gendron said, “a 70-foot wave lifted us till the bow pointed straight up. Then we came down, and there was a grinding, tearing crash. As we hit the trough of the wave, the mast came down. It crashed into the midship house. I should have been there, but I was aft at a pinochle game.” Gendron added that he believed the mast stunned, injured, or killed the men in the midship house, including Captain Fitzgerald.
Gendron could be right, but the only person who might have seen what happened to Captain Fitzgerald and the rest of the men was Herman Gatlin, whose lifeless body now lay in the Chatham Station.
The Finest Hours Page 9
