He was really no more than a boy grown tall when he left school to join the Navy, a broad-shouldered redheaded farm boy with a wide grin and the accent of one born and bred in the red clay knobs. Before he left he married his school sweetheart.
Now, on this day of joy for a world so long at war, his family had received one of the dreaded telegrams edged in black:
Regretfully we inform you. . .
He had been assigned to INDIANAPOLIS.
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INDIANAPOLIS was not reported as overdue to her destination following the disaster. The men who had abandoned ship were left adrift for eighty-four hours before Navy pilots on routine patrol spotted them from the air.
In those eighty-four hours some of them died of wounds and burns sustained when the ship exploded in mighty fireballs. Others succumbed to exhaustion, dehydration and sunburn. They were the lucky ones.
Blood in the water attracted predators more deadly than the Japanese: sharks.
Sharks took many.
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In his later years, the grownup nine-year-old could not recall whether the family ever knew the circumstances of their sailor’s death: if he died as the ship died, if he died of shock and wounds, if the merciless sun and lack of drinkable water dried his insides out beyond endurance, or if he was taken by a cold-eyed killer who spotted an easy meal in the water.
The tombstone bearing his name in the family plot is a cenotaph. It marks no actual grave.
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A disaster like INDIANAPOLIS, coming at the very end of the war, with more men lost in a single incident than in any other involving an American warship, requires explanation. She was no ordinary ship, having once been the flagship of one of the Pacific theater’s legendary naval commanders, Admiral Raymond Spruance. Not to mention the role she had played in ending the war, with that top secret dangerous dash for Tinian with the components of the Hiroshima bomb.
As it transpired, there was more than enough blame to go around. To begin with, there were the three SOS signals sent out in the two minutes before the “abandon ship” order was given. One was ignored by a drunken commander ashore; a second by an officer who had, for whatever reason, given orders that he was not to be disturbed, for any reason short of the Apocalypse, during the crucial period; the third was dismissed as a Japanese prank.
On August 2nd, a pair of Navy pilots spotted the survivors of INDIANAPOLIS below them while on routine patrol. Most were kept afloat by lifejackets (the so-called “Mae Wests” of the era), although some were aboard the few life rafts that had been able to launch in the precious seconds after the explosion. The Navy pilots immediately summoned help from surface craft and air units alike, and over the next five days three hundred sixteen men were located and rescued, some having floated quite a distance from the wreck site.
As it happened, among the survivors was the man who would bear the blame for failures all up and down the chain of command: Captain Charles Butler McVay III, Annapolis graduate (class of 1920) and decorated naval hero. Wounded himself, McVay nevertheless raised hell over why it took so many days for rescue operations to commence for his men.
His answer came in the form of a court-martial, in November 1945. The Navy command, quite simply, lied about many things. They found McVay guilty of what amounted to dereliction of duty: he had failed to move his ship in the zigzag pattern designed to confound attempts by submarines to launch torpedoes. That he had never been notified of Japanese submarine activity in the area and in fact had orders to take evasive action at his discretion based on observation was waved aside. Moreover, the survivors and other personnel testified that visibility on July 30 was not good, poor conditions for spotting subs; yet the Navy claimed the exact opposite. The ship itself, with no anti-sub equipment, was denied the customary destroyer escort. Even the commander of the sub whose torpedoes sank INDIANAPOLIS testified on McVay’s behalf, giving the lie to the Navy’s contentions.
For the sins of others, McVay was convicted and reprimanded. Although he would eventually be promoted to rear admiral, his career was effectively ruined.
And worse was to come.
to be continued