The Sea Hunters II: More True Adventures with Famous Shipwrecks

by Clive Cussler

  * * *

  August 2 was less than an hour old as Lieutenant Kennedy adjusted the wheel of PT-109 to port. The boat was off Kolombangara, following PT-162 and PT-169. Heading west at a slow speed, the trio were seeking a target. Slowly, the three boats crossed Blackett Strait and headed in the direction of Gizo Island. Since the actions of a few hours earlier, when PT-159 and PT-157 had fired torpedoes at the Japanese flotilla, the night had been quiet. Kennedy accelerated PT-109 close to the other two boats, then broke radio silence to request the trio head south to attempt to intercept the rest of the Rendova fleet. The other two skippers agreed. PT-109 made a wide, sweeping turn in Blackett Strait and steamed slowly toward Ferguson Passage.

  * * *

  Aboard Amagiri, Commander Hanami stared into the blackness. He was always uncomfortable when his ship was in Blackett Strait. The close quarters spelled danger if the American PT boats ever launched a coordinated attack. He turned toward the helm.

  “What’s our current speed?” he asked Coxswain Kazuto Doi.

  Doi stared at the gauge. “Thirty knots, sir,” he answered.

  “The other ships are pulling away,” Hanami said. “Increase speed to thirty-five knots.”

  Doi gave the order and Amagiri slowly began to gain speed.

  Captain Yamashira, Amagiri’s second in command, made a notation on the chart. “We will be in Vella Gulf in approximately ten minutes.”

  Like Hanami, Yamashira preferred the safety of open water.

  In the black night, tall wakes lit by the phosphorescence in the water streamed from Amagiri’s bow.

  * * *

  Directly ahead, PT-109 was idling on a single engine. Lieutenant Kennedy strained to listen for the sound of the other PT boats. He thought he heard a throbbing sound from the south, but he was unable to pin down the exact location. The noise was reverberating between the mountain on Kolombangara and the islands to the west. Kennedy stared around his boat as he listened.

  Ensign Ross was on the bow near the thirty-seven-millimeter gun. Ahead of Ross in the forward gun turret was nineteen-year-old Harold Marney. By training, Marney was a motor machinist, but tonight he had been assigned deck duty. The rear gun turret was manned by a twenty-nine-year-old Californian, Raymond Starkey.

  Maguire was to Kennedy’s right; to his left was Thom, who was lying on the deck. Directly behind the cockpit, Edgar Mauer peered into the night. Mauer, who also functioned as the cook, had been a seaman aboard the tender Niagara when she had been torpedoed and sunk. He had no desire to repeat the experience, so he watched the water carefully.

  Two of the crew, Andrew Jackson Kirksey and Charles Harris, were off-duty and slept a fitful sleep on deck. Raymond Albert, a seaman second class, was on watch amidships, while Scottish-born motor machinist William Johnston slept near the stem engine hatch. Gerald Zinser kept watch nearby.

  Belowdecks was the oldest man on the crew, thirty-seven-year-old Patrick “Pappy” McMahon, tending the engines. At this instant, Pappy was adjusting the flow of raw seawater into the engines to regulate the temperatures. Touching a manifold, he liked what he felt. Wiping his hand on a rag, he listened carefully to the engine-room noises. Something was amiss, but he could not pin down what it was. He climbed over an auxiliary generator to stare at a gauge.

  The stray sound would save his life.

  * * *

  Like the edge of a knife, glistening wakes flowed from the bow of Amagiri as the ship hurtled north through the blackness. Commander Hanami paced the deck in the pilothouse. He knew the enemy was nearby — he could sense it — but so far at least, nothing had attacked.

  “Ship to starboard,” the lookout suddenly shouted.

  “Deck guns fire,” Hanami ordered.

  As soon as he looked out the window, he could see the PT boat coming into view. Amagiri was right on top of the vessel, and Hanami knew the guns were too close to find their mark.

  “Hard to port,” he ordered.

  Hanami knew that if it got away, the PT boat stood a chance of lining up for a shot. He needed to sink the vessel or his crew would suffer the consequences.

  * * *

  The moment before, the horizon had been clear; now, as if by magic, a massive vessel had appeared in the blackness. It was all too much to comprehend. For a second, like a man staring at an avalanche unable to move, the crew stood mute as the mysterious leviathan approached.

  There was only one chance to save the crew of PT-109. They needed to get out of the way — and fast. Kennedy rammed the throttle forward.

  Belowdecks in the overheated engine room, Pappy McMahon heard one of the engines race. Unfortunately, the drive was not engaged, and now that the engine rpm had increased, there was no way for McMahon to slam her into forward without stripping the gears off the shaft.

  For the next few seconds, PT-109 was a sitting duck.

  * * *

  On the bow of Amagiri, the gunners could not depress the guns low enough to take a shot.

  “Steer straight at the ship,” Hanami ordered the helmsman.

  Hanami stared out the starboard window at the men on the deck of the PT boat. Two blond-haired men were behind the helm; on the foredeck a man struggled with an artillery piece.

  * * *

  Ross tried to fire the thirty-seven-millimeter gun, but he simply did not have enough time. Kennedy, who by now realized he had throttled up the wrong engine, pulled back on the throttle, but it was too late. The Japanese destroyer was now only feet away.

  And then it happened.

  Metal met wood like a machete hacking off a tree branch.

  In the forward gun turret, Marney saw Amagiri approach only seconds before he was crushed by the bow. The teenager, who had been with the crew only a few weeks, died in the warm water of Blackett Strait thousands of miles from his home in Chicopee.

  Andrew Jackson Kirksey, sleeping on the aft starboard deck, managed to rise to his elbows before Amagiri slammed into PT-109. He left behind a wife and young son. Neither his nor Marney’s body was ever found.

  One second Pappy McMahon was staring at a racing engine; the next found him on the deck of the engine room of PT-109. As if in a dream, a line of fire came into his view. This was followed by a black shape scraping through the engine room. A few seconds later, McMahon felt water, and when he struggled to regain his footing, he was, strangely enough, looking out the stem of the ship at the sea. He could smell the fire before he felt the pain.

  * * *

  On Amagiri, Commander Hanami felt his ship pass through the PT boat with barely a shudder.

  “Damage report!” he shouted to his second in command, who raced from the pilothouse.

  “How’s she feel?” he asked Coxswain Doi.

  “There is a slight vibration, sir,” Doi answered.

  “Reduce speed to thirty knots,” Hanami ordered, “and see if it smoothes out.”

  Then he began to write notes in the ship’s log about the encounter.

  * * *

  The stern of PT-109, burdened with an engine, plunged down into the black water.

  Pappy McMahon, burned by a sudden fire, was plunging down through the water, spinning like a top from the turbulence caused by Amagiri’s propeller wake. Heavily weighted and with a rotting life vest, he struggled to swim toward the light on the surface. He popped to the surface, surrounded by a sea of burning gasoline.

  Ensign Thorn had been hurtled into the water at the moment of impact, as were Albert, Zinser, Harris, Starkey, and Johnston. Miraculously, the bow of PT-I09 remained afloat and Kennedy, Maguire, and Mauer remained aboard. Henry Ross had first ridden out the collision on deck but then decided it was safer in the water. As soon as he slipped into the wetness, he realized his mistake. The heavy layer of gasoline on the water caused fumes that quickly sickened him. Struggling to breathe, he fainted and floated on the water in his orange kapok life vest.

  “Into the water,” Kennedy ordered Maguire and Mauer. “The boat might explode.”

>   The three men entered the water, then swam a short distance away. They waited until Amagiri’s wake and the strong currents in Blackett Strait carried away the burning slick of gasoline.

  “Back to the boat,” Kennedy said a few minutes later.

  The men swam back to PT-109 and climbed onto what was left of the wreckage. The boat was riding in the water, bow in the air, with the shattered stern lapping at the edge of the water. She was afloat, but there was no way to know for how long.

  “Mauer,” Kennedy ordered, “see if you can find the blinker.”

  Mauer scrambled into the battered hull and searched until he found the metal tube that encased a battery-operated light used for signaling. “Found it, sir,” he said.

  “Climb as high up onto the bow as you feel safe and start signaling for the others,” Kennedy said. “There must be others from the crew in the water.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Maguire asked.

  “Help Mauer, and keep watch for anyone who is out there,” Kennedy said, as he began to remove his shoes and shirt. “I’m going into the water to see who I can find.”

  * * *

  High on a peak on Kolombangara Island, Reg Evans scanned the night water with his binoculars.

  Just north of Plum Pudding Island, past the halfway point west in Blackett Strait, was a section of water aflame. Evans recorded the position. Then he lay on his cot for a few hours of rest.

  * * *

  As soon as Kennedy swam into the blackness, Mauer and Maguire began to hear the faint sound of voices from across the water.

  “Help, help,” Zinser screamed. “It’s Ensign Thom — I think he’s drowning.”

  Maguire had no desire to climb back into the gasoline-saturated water, but he knew he needed to. Grabbing a rope from the locker, he secured it to the hulk of PT-109 and slid into Blackett Strait.

  Ensign Ross awoke from his faint, floating in the black water. For a few moments, he had no idea what had happened and how he had ended up in his situation. A few minutes passed before his head began to clear enough to assess the situation. He could just see the outline of a pair of men floating in the water nearby, and he swam over to them.

  “Thom’s delirious,” Zinser said, as Ross came into sight.

  Thorn was fighting an invisible opponent. Ross reached behind him and took him in his arms.

  “Lenny,” he said, “it’s Barney.”

  A short distance away, Maguire swam toward the three men, the lifeline from PT-109 giving him his only sense of security. Fumes rose from the water, and Maguire’s head was spinning.

  “I have a line to the boat,” he said.

  With the blinker as their guide, the men slowly began to make their way back to the floating hulk.

  A short distance away, Charles Harris bobbed on the water with an injured leg. Seeing another body floating on the water, he swam closer. The body was the badly burned Pappy McMahon, who was drifting in and out of consciousness. He held on to McMahon.

  Yards away, Kennedy swam through the water. Harris heard him shouting for the crewmen.

  “Lieutenant Kennedy,” Harris screamed, “over here.”

  Kennedy followed the voice, and soon the pair of men materialized out of the gloom.

  “McMahon is hurt,” Harris said, as Kennedy came alongside.

  “How are you?”

  “My leg is injured but I think I can swim,” Harris said.

  “I’ll tow Pappy,” Kennedy said. “You just follow behind.”

  Kennedy grabbed McMahon’s life vest and began to pull him back toward the floating wreck of PT-109. Harris was having trouble keeping up — his leg was numb, and he was in shock. After Kennedy and McMahon disappeared from view, Harris began to wonder if he was going to die in the water. His will was fading, and the water was warm and comforting. Just when he had resigned himself to death or capture, Kennedy reappeared out of the blackness and grabbed hold. Harris tried kicking, but only one leg was working.

  Thorn had made it back to the boat and regained some strength. As soon as he felt strong enough, he took the line and slipped back into the water to search for other survivors. He was not a strong swimmer, but any fears or exhaustion gave way to duty.

  Alone in the water, William Johnston had swallowed a lot of gasoline. He had vomited until his stomach quivered, and he was shivering like a dog climbing from freezing water. He heard Thom yelling at him to swim for the boat, but he had little energy. A few kicks and he would rest. And then the idea of death began to comfort him. He passed out.

  “Come on, Bill,” Thom said, upon reaching him, “we’re going back to the boat.”

  “Boat?” Johnston said weakly.

  Thorn grabbed his life vest and started to drag him back to safety.

  Raymond Starkey was alone.

  His hands and arms were burned, and he could feel the heat through the water. Minutes later, the current carried him close to a dark outline in the water. He listened and could hear voices.

  “Ahoy,” he yelled.

  “Over here,” voices answered.

  Paddling closer, he could see Kennedy in the water near the wreckage.

  “Climb onto the wreck,” Kennedy said.

  Starkey managed to slip up onto what remained of the stem, then collapsed.

  Just then, Kennedy began to call out the names of the crew. Kirksey and Marney did not answer.

  Hours passed while the sky began to lighten. As the sun rose, the situation was grim.

  * * *

  That morning, Reg Evans built a small fire, warmed some water for tea, and then began to scan the water of Blackett Strait with his binoculars. Noticing wreckage on the water, he concentrated his telescope on the area. It looked like a Japanese barge, and he reported it to his base in New Georgia as such. Three hours would pass before Evans was notified that PT- 109 had been lost the night before.

  * * *

  For the men on PT-109, at first the rising sun brought a sense of relief. The warm glow on the main mountain of Kolombangara Island allowed the men to see one another and their surroundings, and that brought a sense of reality back to an otherwise unreal situation. They were alive, at least most of them, and they were glad.

  But these feelings were quickly replaced by a different reality.

  The men of PT-109 were floating smack dab in the middle of enemy territory.

  “If the Japs come,” Kennedy asked, “what weapons do we have to fight with?”

  After a count, the crew found they had six .45-caliber side arms as well as Kennedy’s .38. This was augmented with two knives and a pocketknife — hardly an arsenal.

  * * *

  Just before lunch, Reg Evans radioed that the hulk was still on the water and floating off Gizo in Blackett Strait. He was now aware that an American PT boat had been lost the night before, and he carefully watched the wreckage to see if he could make out what it was. It might be a PT boat, he thought to himself. But his telescope and binoculars were not strong enough to allow him a defined image. He continued to scan the water and report the movement of the wreckage.

  * * *

  Just past lunchtime, the wreckage of PT-109, which had been riding bow-down, turned turtle. The hull was filling with water, and it seemed that the boat might sink at any moment. Kennedy had been studying the nearby islands all morning. The wreckage had drifted closer to Gizo Island, making Kolombangara Island a distant swim. There were more Japanese on Gizo, but there were also a few small islands and coral atolls that might be uninhabited. Kennedy made his choice.

  “Men,” he said, “we’re going to swim for that small island over there.”

  He pointed to a small sand-ringed island sprouting coconut palms a few miles distant.

  “Thom,” he ordered, “you and Ross remove the plank we lashed to the thirty-seven-millimeter gun.”

  Now that the bow was upside down, the gun had broken the lashings and dropped to the ocean floor two thousand feet below — but the plank used to wedge her in
place still remained. Thom cut it loose, and he and Ross floated it over to Kennedy.

  Pappy McMahon stared at the blistered skin on his floating arms. He was in shock from the bums and weak from exposure.

  “Lieutenant,” McMahon said to Kennedy, “you’d better leave me here — I think I’m done for.”

  “No, Pappy,” Kennedy said forcefully, “you’re going to make it.”

  The crew assembled on each side of the plank and awaited the order to begin kicking.

  “Thom,” Kennedy said, “you and Ross keep the men together. I’m going to tow Pappy.”

  And with that, the crew of PT-109 began to paddle slowly toward the distant island.

  Hours passed as they painstakingly made their way. Kennedy had cut one of the straps of McMahon’s life vest and clutched the canvas strap in his mouth. Slowly, using a breast-stroke, he towed the delirious man to safety.

  Four men were on each side of the plank, with Ensign Thom rotating back and forth to even the paddling. Kennedy was towing McMahon. Eleven men in total — deep in enemy territory.

  * * *

  Lieutenant John F. Kennedy was feeling an exhaustion that ran through his entire body.

  To the west the sun was just dipping below the top of Gizo Island, as he slowly paddled the last few feet into shallow water alongside Plum Pudding Island. He was barely able to rise to his feet Once standing, he teetered unsteadily for a few seconds until he got his land legs, then whispered down to McMahon, who was floating lightly on his back.

  “Pappy, I’m going to check for the enemy,” he said quietly. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Be careful, Skipper,” McMahon said weakly.

  Kennedy walked through the coral rocks and sand onto shore, then entered the foliage and disappeared. With his .38 revolver in his hand, he crept through the bush and trees. The island was about the length of a football field and half again as wide. Palm trees were scattered about, but the primary fauna seemed to be some form of long-needled, pinelike tree, along with bushes dotted with bird droppings. There was no sign of habitation save for the thousands of land crabs that scurried about, and a single bat that Kennedy flushed from sleep.