by John Hersey
Our estimated time of arrival was nine-thirty, and at that time we had not yet sighted the home island. We had about two hours’ gas left, so we asked for bearing signals and turned on our radio compass; but its generator went out on us. We circled the vicinity of the home island for a long time, hoping to see a light. It soon became imperative that we land somewhere, as we had barely twenty minutes’ gas supply left.
The crew was told to prepare for a water landing. We settled through the overcast, down, down; the overcast seemed never to end. We burst through at an altitude of only about one hundred feet, and we saw the waves, which were running uncomfortably high. We hit with a rending crash. It seemed as though the whole world was exploding around us.
I could look out the co-pilot’s window and see the water rushing by. It occurred to me that I had neglected to open my escape window. With a sickening sensation I tugged at it, and by some miracle it hadn’t jammed, so I made hasty use of it.
The one thing we had been told about going into the drink was that a B-17 would float only about thirty seconds, so we got out as fast as we could. Our plane floated all of two and a half minutes. We wish we had known she was going to, because we could have taken more things out of her than we did.
We attempted to free the life rafts that we were carrying—two four-man rafts and one two-man raft. One four-man raft jammed and couldn’t be removed from its compartment in the fuselage. The other came out with only one side inflated, and the two-man raft was in the same condition. Someone swam over and got the emergency rations. We lashed the rafts together and put the rations in the big raft. It was too dark then to do anything further, so we simply hung on for dear life till morning.
FIRST DAY: This morning at sunup we surveyed our predicament. The men, on the whole, were in good condition—some nasty cuts and bruises but no broken bones. The enlisted men were in worse shape than the pilots, because they had been knocked around more severely when we landed. A couple of them had lost a lot of blood, so started with quite a handicap. However, our spirits were high because we fully expected to be picked up that day.
The large raft had a three-cornered rip in its bottom fabric, through which most of the rations had fallen. We still had one gallon of water, a few crackers, and ten candy bars, 1937 vintage, so ancient and stale they made one sick to look at them. The water hadn’t been changed for so long that it had rotted the cork inside the canteen cap and had rusted the cap, and when we opened the container the stench nearly knocked us over. We weren’t even sure it was water; we thought it might be kerosene or hydraulic fluid, because it was brown and smelled so strong. It was like something out of the radiator of a car after a long winter. Little did we know how good it would taste later on. We had a can of grape juice, but it was lost when the raft capsized later. We also had a can of tomato juice, but after we opened it and drank half, the other half spoiled. We also had one automatic pistol, a few flares, and two cans of aluminum slick.
We located a pump, fully inflated the two rafts, and put two men in the small one and seven in the larger. The water came up to our knees through the hole in the bottom of the larger raft; there was no way of patching the tear. About eleven-thirty we spotted a Navy PBY, a large search plane, coming over close. We fired four flares but received no response, and some of our high spirits faded as the plane disappeared over the horizon. However, we all cursed the pilot heartily and then felt better prepared to wait for the next one.
The seas grew higher toward nightfall. The small raft couldn’t be kept afloat in them, so we deflated it, pushed it under the seats of the larger raft, and inflated it again. This increased our buoyancy, but we had nine men in a four-man boat, and this made it necessary for all hands to sit around the edges quietly, our feet in the center, like a flock of ducks on an inner tube. We couldn’t sleep because if one man, falling asleep, should begin to topple, it would rock the raft badly. The waves swept over us all night, soaking every man and chilling him to the bone. The night wore on and on. After ages of cold and pain the sun rose to warm our bodies.
SECOND DAY: We cautiously stretched ourselves, relieving some of our cramps, and looked out over the horizon. Nothing was to be seen on any side but water and sky.
A curious sea gull slowly flew over the raft, pausing, as if in amazement at the sight we made, a few feet overhead. Sergeant R. P. Anderson, the radioman (no relation of mine), took careful aim with the pistol, but just as he fired the boat rocked. A clean miss. There were no condemnations; we were getting used to bad breaks.
The next one, though, was hard to take. Another plane flew up, seemingly straight toward us. It passed not more than a mile away. We could practically see the pilot’s eyes. But it went on by.
We took our first bite of candy, one quarter of a bar, and washed it down with one sip of water. Even then the stuff tasted awful.
I rigged up a fishline with a piece of tinfoil as spinner. Late in the afternoon we had one strike, but we lost the fish at the boat’s edge. We were beginning to find some hope in all the bad luck, because we were confident it had to improve sooner or later: the law of averages had to be on our side.
Night closed down again on nine weary, sleepless men, who endured cold and discomfort tenfold that of the preceding night. Corporal D’Amour became delirious, perhaps as a result of a blow on the head in our landing. Always a taciturn, conscientious man, he was now a big problem. We quieted him as much as possible.
THIRD DAY: D’Amour grew steadily worse today-physical condition apparently good but delirium mounting. He thought he was still flying, and he tried to stand up to climb into his turret and fix his gun, and we had to hold him so he wouldn’t upset the boat. He would see whole droves of tanks and jeeps down there under the raft, and once he said, “Look at the B-17’s!”
We all said, “Where? Where?”
He pointed down under the raft, and said, “Down there—don’t you see them?”
The remainder of the crew were in fair shape. Everyone’s feet had swollen to nearly twice normal size, with large salt-water sores beginning to show, but no one complained.
For want of something else to do, we sorted out our gear and cleaned it as well as we could. Then Sergeant Gagnon set to work fashioning a sail by fastening a shirt over two paddles. It wasn’t too practical, but we had a stiff southwest wind, and Lieutenant Darden, our navigator, believed we could reach New Caledonia if we ran before it. We were ready to take any likely chance, so we acted on his suggestion.
Later Lieutenant Van Hour, the pilot, contrived a spinner from his expensive new wrist watch. We trolled with this all day but had no luck.
Toward noon Private Murray looked over the side and saw a shark that he claimed looked like the fuselage of a fighter plane, a P-40. It came closer, later on, and we could see it was an enormous tiger shark. We watched it nervously for some time, but apparently it was more curious than hungry. We took care not to tempt it too far. It edged over closer and closer, eventually coming within a few feet, then it rolled over slowly and with a thud hit the bottom of the boat, raking its huge body its full length. I grabbed the pistol and waited for the next pass, which wasn’t long in coming. As he reached the boat, I put the gun about two feet from his head and fired. The water boiled for a minute as he took off for parts unknown. Later we saw him floating lifelessly away, but we couldn’t reach him. A twenty-foot shark would have increased our rations considerably.
D’Amour failed even more toward evening; kept asking for food and water. In his delirium he couldn’t grasp our predicament. It was then that Corporal Jim Hosegood’s true courage and worth began to show. Jim was a little fellow. He had to be, for he was our tail gunner—and a dam good one, too. Jim’s legs were bad, probably worse than any of the rest of ours, but not according to Jim. D’Amour was Jim’s best friend. They had crossed the States together on the way out to the Pacific, and now Jim began talking about the places where they had stayed—how good the beer had been at one joint, the taste of the steaks
at another. He cuddled D’Amour in his arms from then on, trying to warm him, talking to him quietly. Jim was the only one who could calm D’Amour. They spent the night that way, with only an occasional soothing word from Jim necessary to keep his friend from raving.
Sharks, real and imaginary, followed us all night—vicious fins cutting streaks in the phosphorescent water.
FOURTH DAY: As yet no boats, no islands, no airplanes. The rations became soaked during the night and were ruined, but we still kept them in hopes of drying them out. Another tiger shark attacked in the morning but was dispatched quickly. The men were all nearing collapse from exposure and lack of sleep.
We spent the morning sorting our few belongings and cleaning the automatic. We trolled all day as usual but caught no fish.
The men tried to talk cheerfully, but voices were growing hoarse and conversations rambling. Mostly they centered on home and family. The officers promised a big party if we got through O.K., and much time was spent planning this. It was going to be at Suva. Boy, that was going to be a party. We were going to drink every drop of beer on the island, and we said we’d even drink champagne if we couldn’t get any beer. We all talked about what we wanted most to eat. One of us just said soup and a glass of cold milk. But another would go into the minutest details in describing how his mother used to cook chicken, how thick the gravy was, the exact color of the giblets—until our dry mouths watered.
In the afternoon the raft capsized, and it took us nearly one half hour to right it. We thrashed around to scare the sharks while Jim kept D’Amour afloat even though it was a struggle. Finally we were able to right the raft and to reassemble on it. On taking inventory we found that we had half a gallon of so-called water, a few salty candy bars, and two cans of aluminum slick. The flares had been lost.
Night closed down again. By now our feet were so swollen we couldn’t crowd them all into the small center of the raft. We piled them up as well as possible, crooked our arms around each other, and sat silently waiting for the sun once again.
Corporal D’Amour became much worse that night, possessed of a feverish strength. Jim held him all night again, calmly shouldering all responsibility for his friend.
FIFTH DAY: Still nothing but blank horizon on all sides. The boat turned over again, but we righted it quickly. Luckily there were no sharks following us now.
Jim Hosegood was getting weak fast but wouldn’t give up his duty to his friend D’Amour, who would tolerate no one but Jim. They slumped silent all day till night began to darken. We noticed then that Jim’s eyes were looking glassy, and his lips white. We gave him a small sip of water and extricated D’Amour from his arms. He protested feebly at being babied, but his strength was spent.
Sergeant Rusesky and Sergeant Gagnon made a bed of their sore bruised legs across the raft and laid him on that. He talked of his many friends and planned enthusiastically the big party we were to have, but he seemed to sense that his time was up, and soon he fell into a kind of daze.
After nightfall Corporal D’Amour leaped off the raft in his delirium and disappeared in the darkness. We paddled around a long time searching and calling for him, but the only reply was the splash of waves and the singing of the wind.
We didn’t tell Jim his friend had gone, but he sensed something was wrong. He lay there worrying in his semi-consciousness until nearly midnight, then suddenly said, “Good luck, fellows,” and quickly passed away. Everyone wept silently for a time, then Sergeant Gagnon said, “Lieutenant Anderson, could you say a prayer for Jim?”
Could I say a prayer for Jim? Certainly I could, but to say one worthy of his devotion and friendship was hard.
“Dear Lord,” I said, “You are taking Jim from us now. We know You appreciated his true worth before we did. You knew his devotion to duty, his loyalty to friends, even better than we did. Take him, now, Lord, into the high position he so much deserves. Amen.”
After these words Jim was let slowly over the side. As he disappeared from sight each man said, one by one, “Good-by, Jim.”
SIXTH DAY: Daylight again, the men all weak but still hopeful. Nothing sighted all day and all the following night. We drank the last of the water. Barely enough to wet our mouths. Everyone was slightly delirious; evidently I was the worst. That night Lieutenant Darden covered my body with his as much as possible and, I have no doubt, saved my life by his own sacrifice.
SEVENTH DAY: Another day, and I felt much better. Sergeant Anderson was slipping fast. He knew as well as we that he couldn’t last another night. As it happily turned out, we had spent our last night on the open sea.
That morning we had our first break—we caught a flying fish. We cut him up in little pieces, and he was still wriggling when he went down the hatch. We drew lots for delicacies, such as the eyes and the liver. It wasn’t much nourishment, and we can still taste the dam thing, but you’d be surprised how much stronger it made us feel.
About noon we began to hear the roar of motors but could see no planes. By that time our eyes were so sunburned that it was nearly impossible to keep them open. After midday a Navy scout plane came over, close. We waved shirts and flashed signals with can tops and spread so much of the aluminum slick that we were all covered with the stuff. The pilot eventually spotted us, circled for a while, then flew away. He soon came back and landed near us, a beautiful landing in rough water. He hollered across that help was coming, and we all sat up, shook hands, slapped each other on the back, threw things overboard and at each other, and cried for joy.
Shortly afterward a destroyer pulled up alongside and took us aboard. We all collapsed altogether. We stayed on the destroyer that night, and the next day we were transferred to a carrier. We’re still on her now, eating, sleeping, and getting our strength back.
We haven’t learned the pilot’s name who discovered us. When we do, about all we can say is, “Thank you.” It seems a small reward for seven lives, but perhaps he will understand, being a pilot too.
“BORIE’S” LAST BATTLE
In a safe, warm, weather-tight house in the nation’s capital, one evening in the autumn of 1943, I heard from a handful of its protagonists the bleak tale that follows—an account of what was surely one of the strangest ship-to-ship contests in all the long history of man’s fighting at sea. It is a wild story, in which two vessels seem to become animated and possessed, like breathing animals. It is also a sad story, in which two ships and many men are lost, and in which, though there is victory for one side, it turns out to be a cold, cold win.
ON A BLACK, WINDY NIGHT of October, 1943, the U.S.S. Borie, an old destroyer numbered 215, was making a speed of seventeen and a half uncomfortable knots through Atlantic seas. She had just sunk one submarine and was looking for another.
At 1:53 A.M., a kind of electric shock hit the Borie’s blacked-out bridge as a voice announced contact with an unidentified craft on the surface, bearing 190 degrees, just west of south.
The commanding officer of the Borie, Lieutenant Charles H. Hutchins, at thirty one of the youngest destroyer captains in the U.S. Navy, was standing to the right of the helmsman in the wheelhouse, and when he learned of the contact, he lowered his head and raised his arms in a characteristic gesture—like that of a man with a club in his hand about to strike an adversary—and he shouted, “Flank speed!”
As the Borie gained speed, she began to pitch and pound. Destroyers are wet ships, and they are wettest at high speed. The waves that night ran fifteen and twenty feet high, and by the time the Borie reached twenty-seven knots, black water was knocking at the highest towers of the ship. So heavy was the sea’s impact that four of the portholes on the bridge—thirty feet above water level, and made of three-quarter-inch glass—were smashed, and after that, water only a few degrees above freezing began splashing into the wheelhouse through the broken ports.
In a short time the Borie lost surface contact with the target. Lieutenant Hutchins at once assumed that the enemy had submerged, and he ordered the sound apparatu
s—the device that hunts for underwater objects by means of echoing sound waves—turned on. Soundman Second Class Lerten V. Kent had only sent out a few impulses when everyone on the bridge, listening to the sound machine’s slow ping-ping, heard a clear and solid echo. Soundman Kent waited for a second echo before he roared: “Sound contact! Bearing one nine oh.”
The Borie moved in slowly. Soundman Kent reported every twist in the submarine’s bearing. The “talkers” on the bridge—men with power telephones to guns and engine rooms—quietly told the crew what was happening. All through the ship the men were excited. They had gone through dull months. After the first eventless cruise escorting the converted merchantman carrier U.S.S. Card, some of the Borie’s crew had hung a service flag for men transferred to other ships—to indicate that those transfers had finally gone off to war.
As the old destroyer closed the range on her quarry, Chief Torpedoman Frank G. Cronin got the “ash cans” of TNT set on their racks aft. When the Borie had moved directly over her target, Hutchins gave the order to drop an orthodox deep pattern. Instead of the usual small number for a pattern, however, depth charges began flying off the stem one after another in an almost endless procession; something had gone wrong with the depth-charge-releasing mechanism. Soon Soundman Kent could hear the rumble of many underwater explosions in the sensitive sound stack. To mark the point of attack, Hutchins ordered a floating flare to be dropped.
The depth-charge attack forced the submarine to the surface. Hutchins thought the adversary might come up on its right and behind him, so he ordered his four-inch guns trained over the starboard quarter. But the wily German turned around under water before surfacing. This was the beginning of a series of tricks on both sides which gave this duel its weird quality.