In Harm's Way: The Sinking of the U.S.S. Indianapolis and the Extraordinary Story of Its Survivors

by Doug Stanton

  But as a result of these security measures, McVay was left in the dark about what lay ahead of him down the Peddie route.

  Lieutenant Waldron, the convoy and routing officer who had given McVay his routing orders and intelligence report, did not have access to such intelligence; culpability for the lapse in communication rested with the office Waldron called during his meeting with McVay—the headquarters of the Marianas command, and with Captain Naquin. Naquin was privy to the intelligence gathered by the ULTRA operation, but not to the existence of the operation itself. That is, he received his intelligence reports without knowing how they had been formed. He knew that Japanese submarines were operating along the Peddie route. He was also aware of the July 24 sinking of the Underhill in proximity to this route.

  Naquin’s job was to reformulate sensitive intelligence so it could be used by officers without arousing suspicions among the enemy that it had been intercepted. Because the integrity of ULTRA was so highly guarded, access to it in its raw data form was restricted to officers higher in rank than captain; McVay was therefore not eligible. But if Admiral Spruance had been aboard the Indy, the ULTRA intelligence would have been included in the routing orders issued to her.8

  McVay was simply, irrevocably, out of the loop.

  Sixty feet below the swirling ink of the Pacific’s surface, in a state-of-the-art Japanese submarine, Lieutenant Commander Mochitsura Hashimoto fretted. During his four years at sea, the thirty-six-year-old submarine captain had yet to sink even one enemy ship. Now, Hashimoto knew, the war effort was verging on defeat, and he feared he might return home without a single kill. He had erected a Shinto shrine aboard the sub, and he prayed to it daily so that his luck might soon change.

  The 1-58 was one of six Japanese submarines still operational in the nation’s collapsing navy, part of the renowned Tamon group of subs. It had launched from a naval base on the coast of Japan near Kure, on the same day Captain McVay set sail from San Francisco.

  Hashimoto’s sub carried the latest in torpedo technology. (In this area of naval warfare, the Japanese had exceeded the American effort until the last months of the war.) The 1-58 was 356 feet long and carried a seaplane as well as a deck-mounted machine gun for, among other things, sweeping the water clear of the torpedoed enemy’s survivors. Run by two 4,700-horsepower diesel engines, she could cruise 21,000 miles without refueling, pushing fifteen knots on the surface. Submerged, the sub moved at a fast clip of seven knots. Her sausage shape was coated in a rubber girdle that distorted her echo pattern and tended to confuse American navy sonar listeners. They sometimes mistook her for a submerged whale.

  On board were nineteen oxygen-powered magnetic torpedoes, and six kaitens—kamikaze-like torpedoes piloted by crewmen grateful for the honor. These sacrificial warriors would climb into the forty-eight-foot metal tubes, seat themselves in canvas chairs before a steering wheel and guidance instruments—a compass, Swiss clock, and radio—and wait to hear the fatal word: Fire! Released from the metal bands clamping it to the sub, the kaiten began rocketing toward eternity. With a top speed of twenty knots and a range of twenty-seven miles, it was quite a sight, although it regularly missed its target as the pilot struggled to keep the speeding missile on course.

  When he was successful—the kaiten was tipped with a magnetic warhead designed to explode within twenty-five feet of any metal hull—the pilot was vaporized upon impact, often in midprayer. (It was impossible for a submerged “mother” sub to retrieve a kaiten, and if the pilot missed his target, he eventually ran out of fuel, and, gliding to the ocean bottom, was fatally crushed by the immense pressure.)

  On the night of Saturday, July 28, the kaiten pilots were anxious for their moment of glory. But Hashimoto, peering through the periscope, scanned the night horizon of a choppy Pacific and found it blank.

  For the past ten days he’d been cruising steadily south from Kure, on the Japanese mainland, without sighting a target. He had spent today on the surface in hot and squally weather, rocking in the swell, considering his next move. Stationed at the critical crossroads of the Peddie-Leyte route, he was sure a ship would pass.

  Six hundred and fifty miles away, at 9 A.M. the USS Indianapolis had pulled away from the harbor at Apra, headed for Leyte.

  The USS Indianapolis cruised briskly at seventeen knots through a rough sea, under a scattering of bleached clouds. Eight hours after leaving Guam, she sailed beyond the reach of any immediate help she might need. By nightfall, she was beyond a point of no return. Whatever happened next, she would have to fend for herself.

  As he stood on the bridge, his feet spread wide as the ship rolled beneath him, Captain McVay’s sole concern was to stay the course. He would deliver his crew and ship safely to Leyte, report to Admiral McCormick for gunnery practice, and then get back into the war with Admiral Oldendorf.

  McVay lived in a world of absolutes. At the end of the day, at the end of the voyage, and at the end of the war, it was all about life or death. Ships were sinking constantly in battle, and the possibility haunted McVay. One well-known disaster involved the torpedoing of the escort carrier Liscombe Bay by the Japanese in 1943. The ship sank in twenty minutes, and the attack had killed 644 men. The carriers Yorktown and Wasp had been torpedoed in June and September 1942, respectively, and were total losses. These were the kinds of stories a captain did not enjoy thinking about.

  McVay had spent most of the day in the cramped space suspended high above the ship, monitoring the navigation and communications equipment. Per orders, he followed a strict zigzag course. In the “sky aft” and “sky forward” watch towers, boys were posted on the lookout for any sign of enemy planes or submarines. Nothing was in sight.

  Shortly before the Indy’s departure from Guam, news of her passage down the Peddie route once again had been transmitted to interested parties, notifying them of her expected arrival in Leyte. It was a repetition of the process that had taken place on July 26 when she left Tinian. This time, however, Rear Admiral McCormick, whom McVay was to meet in Leyte for gunnery practice, did receive and correctly decode the message alerting him to the Indy’s arrival.

  But since McCormick hadn’t received the first message, sent two days earlier, he was confused. In the first place, he was uncertain as to why the Indianapolis was reporting to him. Further, because she was the flagship of the Fifth Fleet, he assumed she would be diverted north to replace another cruiser, the USS Portland, that had recently been taken out of service. McCormick doubted the Indy would ever make landfall at Leyte. Her arrival, from his point of view, was a nonissue.

  Elsewhere, there were problems with the second message. Admiral Oldendorf, aboard the Omaha, did not receive it. The message made it as far as a dispatch station on Okinawa and then disappeared. Oldendorf had received the first bulletin concerning the Indy’s itinerary, but that bulletin had not included the date of her anticipated arrival. Oldendorf knew that Captain McVay would be reporting to him, but he didn’t know when to expect him.

  The effect of this double error in communication was simple: the two people to whom McVay was to report did not possess enough information to determine if he was late. As he sailed to Leyte, Captain McVay was, essentially, a man headed nowhere.

  The voyage was going well and the spirits of the crew were high as lines and matériel were made shipshape and remaining provisions were stored. Coxswain Mike Kuryla liked watching the crew chiefs as they stood on the fantail in the morning, drinking coffee from their huge bowls, thumbs tucked inside the rim. Life at sea seemed lively, delightful even. Down in one of the mess halls, McCoy listened to records played by the ship’s onboard disc jockey, a boy from Chicago whose mother always sent him the newest records from the States. Playing lately was Benny Goodman’s “Let’s Dance.” Sometimes, McCoy listened as Tokyo Rose butted in over the mess hall’s speakers, her mysterious voice spooking him all the way from Japan, saying, “We know you’re out there, sailor boy. We know where you are. Don’t you wish you could go home?�
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  On Sunday morning, July 29, the crew labored through church services in the open air of the main deck, squinting in the glare. The bitter equatorial sun soared straight up from the sea each dawn and dove into the western horizon promptly at six. The neighborly feeling among the boys was strong: first to attend were the Catholics, who then relieved the Protestants from work details so they could attend their service. Father Conway’s gentle voice led the Catholic services, and his trusted friend Dr. Haynes directed the Protestant members through old hymns like “The Old Rugged Cross” and “Amazing Grace.” McCoy attended the Catholic mass and then spent part of the day chipping old paint from the ship’s ladders.

  Following church services, the Sunday morning ban on smoking was lifted, and men dispersed to their various divisions to perform deck duties. After a chicken dinner—the best meal of the week, complete with strawberry shortcake—some gathered on the quarterdeck and threw around a medicine ball for exercise. Others jumped rope or sparred at boxing, refereed by Father Conway. Some sat around the quarterdeck splicing decorative lengths of rope as souvenirs, while a few of the boys learned how to crochet pillowcases.

  At some point during the early evening, after a brilliant sunset, they passed over the deepest spot in the earth, a place called the Challenger Deep. Mount Everest could be set here with a mile of water still remaining atop it. They were some 300 miles from the nearest landfall, and a gray scrim of clouds draped the horizon. To navigate, the ship’s crew was using a series of position fixes made by an ancient method called dead reckoning. This involved tracking a course by multiplying the time spent traveling by speed. Essentially, it was a way of getting where you needed to go by knowing where you had been. Astro-fixes were made by shooting Venus, Saturn, and Mars, which were visible just before sunrise, with a sextant and finding the set of corresponding codes in a book kept on the navigator’s bridge. In many ways, the dark night the Indy was traveling through could have been any night in the nineteenth century. The Indy’s surface radar, nicknamed “Sugar George,” was only good for twelve- to fourteen-mile distances, and her air radar, called “Sky Search,” was generally undependable. Sometimes it could pick out a bogey (an unidentified aircraft) 100 miles distant; at other times it didn’t screen anything until the object was within shouting distance.9

  After dark, the boys watched a movie on the starboard hangar deck (the components of Little Boy had occupied the port side hangar). At 9 P.M., “Taps” was sounded by bugle, some boys humming the words:

  Day is done

  Gone the sun

  From the hills

  From the lake

  From the skies

  All is well

  Safely rest

  God is nigh.

  The chief petty officer patrolled the decks looking for opened portholes leaking light into the night, and the announcement came over the PA that the “smoking lamp is now out topside.” The red glow of cigarettes showed up too clearly at night; submarines could spot them.

  And subs were on everyone’s minds. Down in the officers’ wardroom, the navigator had announced earlier that a merchant ship called Wild Hunter had spotted on July 28 what she thought was a periscope. A destroyer escort had been launched from Guam to investigate the report, but found nothing. The navigator also remarked that the Indy would be passing the spot of the sighting late in the night. The men joked that surely the Indy’s destroyer escort would sink the sub. They laughed and finished their game of bridge.

  Sometime between 7:30 and 8 P.M., Captain McVay had given the command to cease zigzagging. His orders explicitly stated that he could do this at his discretion during times of poor visibility. The sea was running rough, with a long ground swell, and the sky was hung with low, heavy clouds, which smothered a thin strip of pale moon. At times, it was so dark that men on the bridge had to announce themselves by name.

  McVay’s decision was also supported by the intelligence report, which reassured him that his route along the Peddie corridor was clear of enemy traffic.

  Shortly after 10:30 P.M. McVay stepped off the bridge into the humid night air along its walkway. Belowdecks, the ship was an inferno, radiating the heat it had absorbed throughout the day, as the temperature soared well above 95 degrees. In the engine room alone, temperatures regularly exceeded 120 degrees; all hatches and doors had been opened to draw the precious salt breezes inside.

  In the crew’s quarters, temperatures were barely more comfortable, and many of the men chose to sleep topside, where the night air hovered in the mid-eighties. They traipsed across the deck with blanket and shoes in hand in search of relief from the humidity and heat. Some of the boys crawled underneath the massive gun turrets, where they curled up against the cool steel sides of the makeshift caves. Trailing behind them was a phosphorescent wake, faintly flickering against the ship’s hull as it sailed through the dark.

  The Indianapolis was traveling in what was called “yoke-modified” position. The most secure position was known as Zed, which meant that all hatches and doors had been dogged—sealed off—making the compartments impermeable. “Yoke modified” described a more relaxed state of sailing and was acceptable in waters where there was little perceived threat of enemy attack. It left the ship’s interior spaces dangerously vulnerable. With the hatches opened, the otherwise watertight compartments could be breached in seconds.

  At least 300 boys were scattered across the deck in the dark, turning restlessly, searching for sleep. McVay could hear them talking softly, or snoring, or dreaming aloud, set against the steady shoosh of the enormous steel bow parting the black sea. He stayed on deck for about fifteen minutes.

  By 11 P.M., the ship was buttoned up for the night, cruising in Condition Able. Shortly thereafter, Captain McVay retired to his battle cabin, where he slept during times of combat vigilance. The size of a large garden shed, it was located immediately behind the charthouse on the navigation bridge. If he was needed, he could be summoned either by a quick knock at his door or through what was called a “talking tube.” The tube, which connected him to the bridge, pointed directly toward his ear.

  The officer of the deck, in charge of the eight-to-midnight watch, was to respond to any change in their situation. If the weather and visibility improved, he was to resume zigzagging and notify the captain immediately.

  In his hot, cramped cabin, McVay stripped naked and climbed into his bed. Beneath him, the ship hummed and throbbed, beating its way west through the murky dark, and soon he was fast asleep.

  PART TWO

  SUNK

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Burning Sea

  Buddy, you could hear it—it was just a rumble, you [could] just

  hear everything blasting. Underneath this deck, it was just like

  fireworks. You ever hear fireworks when they posh … posh … and

  then all of a sudden: pa, pa, pa! Everything was exploding.

  That concussion just ripped that ship from one end to the other.

  Those were armor-piercing shells that were going off in there.

  Well, how in the world could that ship survive?

  —RICHARD STEPHENS, seaman second-class, USS Indianapolis

  SUNDAY, JULY 29—MONDAY, JULY 30, 1945

  The Philippine Sea

  About twelve miles from where the USS Indianapolis cruised, Lieutenant Commander Hashimoto had been awakened by a subordinate officer, per orders. It was time to begin night maneuvers.

  Hashimoto put on his soiled, damp uniform, laced his boots, and walked through the narrow passage of his sub, anxious about what the night might bring. At 11 P.M., he ordered the men to their night-action stations, then raised the night periscope—built specifically to magnify targets in low light—and swung the serpentlike head of the instrument in a sweeping arc. Earlier, the I-58’s sonar man had picked up something, which he had finally identified as the sound of rattling dishes. And this rattling was increasing, coming closer.10

  On the surface of the sea, the
metal periscope poked through; painted gray, it blended perfectly with the murkiness of the night and choppy dishwater sea. Yet the horizon was empty. Not a ship in sight. Hashimoto ordered the I-58 topside for a more thorough look. The boat jumped to life.

  The crew blew the main ballast, releasing forced air into the tanks and jettisoning the water she had drawn upon diving three and a half hours earlier. The sub drifted silently to the surface and broke through, tons of water streaming from her gray, bulbous shape.

  The crew screwed open the conning tower hatch, and the submarine’s navigator climbed topside to survey the nightscape. Fresh air poured down the opening into the sub, relieving the stifling onboard conditions. The sub’s bridge was built forward on the ship, near the bow. It served as a lookout point whenever she cruised the surface. The crew stood on its metal platform, surrounded by a chest-high shield that protected them from enemy fire. The navigator scoped the horizon silently through binoculars.

  Suddenly he yelled, “Bearing red, nine-zero degrees. A possible enemy ship!”

  The announcement was a shock. Hashimoto had studied the same horizon but had missed the ship shrouded in darkness. The excited sub captain sprinted up the ladder onto the bridge. But he couldn’t tell what he was looking at. The target was some six miles away. It was just a smudge atop the water. Hashimoto ordered the sub into a dive. The hatch was sealed, the ballast vents were opened, and the tanks began sucking in several tons of water. The sub slipped beneath the surface.

  The hunt was on.

  Down below, at his periscope, Hashimoto set about the task of working up his firing solution. This involved figuring his distance from the target, its speed, and direction. It was tense, complicated business; each minute that elapsed gave the target more time to escape. The lieutenant commander was looking for an intercept point at which he could aim his torpedoes. As he tracked the target, he kept his eye to the periscope, determined not to lose sight of it. He had no idea if the target was also being followed by a destroyer escort.