One by one the others followed the injured men into the hard-shell raft, designed to hold eight men. In a “shaky condition” to start with, the raft filled with water as “waves were breaking over [it]…continuously.” Afraid that the bottom might fall out from all the weight, the able-bodied men tried to float so that their life jackets would take some of the weight.
Water Tender Joe McCrane, the senior enlisted man present—not one of the ship’s eighteen officers had survived—was in charge. Already affectionately known as “Mother McCrane” for the concern he showed others, McCrane was a man in the right place at the right time. Once all were inside the raft, McCrane “started to organize” by first finding out “who was hurt and how badly.” Gunner’s Mate Joe Guio and Ship’s Cook 1st Class Will Ben Holland, of McMinnville, Tennessee, were the most seriously injured. Guio had “a large piece of the bottom of his foot hanging off” and Holland had “a big hole in the top of his head.”
Checking the supplies in the raft, McCrane found two kegs of water, assorted canned rations, and a tin filled with medical supplies. They had no flares and only one oar—everything else had broken loose in the storm. Trying to get water from a keg turned into a difficult job, as the spigot was stuck. When they got it open, everyone took a few sips. The water tasted stagnant, as though it hadn’t been changed for some time, and men complained of being sickened by it.
As darkness settled over them the rain had stopped and the wind had died down considerably. Large waves continued to break over the raft, providing “force-feedings of seawater” and leaving everyone “very cold and very miserable.” They decided they might as well try to settle down for the night and “pray to be picked up” in the morning.
Guio, who had had most of his clothing torn off, was shivering uncontrollably. “I don’t think I’m going to make it,” he said softly.
McCrane pulled the injured man close and wrapped his arms around him to keep him as warm as possible.
Guio, having lost a lot of blood, kept drifting in and out. At one point he awoke groggily and asked McCrane if he could see anything.
“The stars,” McCrane answered.
“I can’t see a thing,” Guio said. He thanked McCrane for trying to keep him warm, and others for helping him, too. Guio then laid his head back on McCrane’s shoulder and “went to sleep.” About half an hour later, McCrane tried to awaken Guio, only to find that he was dead. McCrane told the others, then decided to “hold for a little longer” the man who had rescued from the sinking ship so many others, McCrane included, and who freed from Monaghan’s deck—an effort that caused his own serious injury—the raft upon which their lives depended.
Twenty minutes later, the men on the raft held their first burial at sea. They recited the Lord’s Prayer as the popular and heroic Joe Guio was lowered over the side. The rest of the night was “spent very quietly” with everyone “just absorbed in their own thoughts.”
At daybreak, McCrane gave each man a small ration of food and a cup of water. The malted milk tablets were “very good tasting,” but the biscuits were so hard they had to be soaked in water before they could be eaten. When McCrane opened a can of Spam to divvy up, they were suddenly surrounded by sharks, which made the men “plenty scared.” While the sharks disappeared for long stretches of time, they would quickly reappear whenever a new can was opened. At one point, seven sharks were counted, “just circling, and waiting.” The men talked nervously about how sharks must have a strong sense of smell to find food, and all agreed they would never again let anyone tell them that “sharks go after you only if you are bleeding.”
McCrane and the group’s next most senior man, Machinist’s Mate 2nd Class Robert J. Darden, twenty-eight, of Jacksonville, North Carolina, busied themselves treating the injured—applying sulfa powder and ointment to wounds and bandaging them. Their efforts seemed “fruitless,” for as fast as a wound was treated “it had to be put back into salt water.”
That morning they sighted several planes, which “seemed to be going everywhere” but over the raft. Everyone was “on edge” and so sore from cuts, bruises, burns (from the sun and salt water) and other injuries that “even if we brushed against each other it was painful.”
One of the water kegs was lost that day when the lashing failed to hold it to the raft and it drifted away without anyone noticing. Not knowing how much longer it would be before they were rescued, McCrane reduced the daily water rations. Thirst became a major problem. McCrane and Darden had a “difficult time” with Seaman 1st Class Bruce Campbell, of Texas, who insisted on drinking salt water. They “slapped him and threatened to throw him to the sharks,” but it was “all in vain.”
As evening approached, McCrane observed that “some of the boys began to crack under the strain.” One man bit another on the shoulder, and someone else untied the life jackets that had been secured to the outside of the raft as they were “too water soaked to be worn” all the time. Someone also “unscrewed the top to the first aid supply,” and as a result almost all of the medical supplies were lost.
That night, Campbell and Gunner’s Mate 2nd Class Dayton Genest, of California, passed away, and the men on the raft held two more burials. McCrane was perplexed, as neither Campbell nor Genest was seriously injured and he didn’t know why they died, although he speculated that in Campbell’s case it could have been from drinking salt water.
On the morning of December 20 they spotted a second raft and decided they would try to reach it. The men paddled with their hands and with the one oar they had. The swells were “still so mountainous” that it seemed “impossible to ever reach the other raft,” which could be seen only when it was atop a swell, before disappearing into a deep trough.
Finally, they worked their way to within 10 feet of the smaller raft, which “no one was on.” Seaman 2nd Class Melroy Morrison, of South Dakota, and Fireman 1st Class Louis Shalkowski, of Rhode Island, swam over and tried to “push it toward us as we tried to row to them.” The currents, however, kept them apart. The distance between the rafts increased until the raft with Morrison and Shalkowski disappeared from sight in the swells. Neither man was seen again.
Their raft was in “pretty bad condition” at that point. Seaman Doil Carpenter and McCrane repaired it as best they could, and managed to raise the wooden bottom so the men could be “farther out of the water.”
That night—their second spent on the raft—“most of the fellows had really lost their heads,” with many of them thinking “they saw land and houses.” Radioman 2nd Class Louis Spence, of Texas, jumped overboard and kept swimming around the raft. They other men tried to get him back, but he ignored their pleas. He finally climbed back on the raft and said he had filled the water keg with fresh water while everyone was dozing.
McCrane had Carpenter check the keg to see if Spence had dumped the water or “put salt water in it.” Carpenter found it almost all gone. Everyone started yelling at Spence, who said if they didn’t leave him alone he would “whistle and have the Indians surround all you guys.”
“Go ahead and whistle,” McCrane said.
Spence did.
McCrane waited a while before he asked, “Where are the Indians?”
“Don’t worry, they’ll be here.”
Spence announced he was going for another “short swim” and would be “right back.” Several men tried to grab him, but he pulled away from them. The water was “calmer than it had been,” and Spence would swim about 10 feet away and then swim back to the raft. He did this a number of times before finally swimming out of sight. They heard him yell, and tried to row toward the sound of his voice, but in the dark couldn’t get a fix on him. Spence abruptly stopped yelling—as if “attacked by a shark or drowned,” everyone decided. Spence was never seen again.
After all the excitement, McCrane turned around to find that Holland, one of the most seriously injured, had died. They had their fourth burial that night, committing Holland’s body to the deep. Now down to six—“all
in bad condition”—they had lost a total of seven men from the raft.
On the morning of their third day, the sea started to get choppy again. McCrane felt that things were “beginning to look pretty grim,” but he still endeavored to “keep up his own spirits” as well as those of the other men. They sighted “more planes and a big task force,” but they were far off. With McCrane leading them, they “prayed like never before.”
Someone spotted an onion floating about 25 feet away, and they paddled over. They had almost reached it when a shark about 8 feet long nosed up next to the onion. The men decided “to let the shark have it.”
Darden saw something floating next to the raft and picked it up. It was a flat piece of wood with a quarter-inch chain held on by a nail. The men decided to try to make a fishing line and “catch ourselves a small shark.” Someone remembered hearing that liquid from a shark was “good drinking water.” Darden used Spam for bait and got a bite, but there was nothing on the line and the bait was gone. He tried again, holding the line down about a foot below the surface. A 5-foot shark came up from below. Darden pulled the line in slowly until the bait was out of the water. The shark followed until its head was up near the side of the raft.
Water Tender 3rd Class James T. Story, of Grant, Oklahoma, took his penknife and plunged it into the shark’s head. The shark seemed “little fazed,” and swam off. Meanwhile, Evan Fenn and Fireman 1st Class William Kramer tried catching by hand the small fish that swam around with the sharks, but were unsuccessful. The men gave up fishing.
The planes and task force in the distance seemed to be getting closer. McCrane tied a white skivvy shirt on one end of the oar and the men took turns waving it in the air. They also used cans of Spam and biscuits to try to reflect the sun at the ships and planes. After several hours, two planes came “right over the raft about 200 feet above.” The men did everything possible to attract attention but were almost sure that the pilots hadn’t seen them. After they were well past, however, the planes suddenly turned back toward their position. One plane signaled the men by “nosing over in a steep power dive” that ended with a “deafening roar” as the plane buzzed low overhead.
That was when the men knew for sure they had been sighted. They were so happy as to be “almost speechless.” There were no cheers, yells, or whistles. “Thinking of nothing better to do than to thank God,” they all recited a raspy “prayer of thanks.”
The two planes, which had flown off a Third Fleet aircraft carrier, circled and dropped dye markers close by in the water. They then climbed with full throttle, dipped their wings in farewell, and departed.
Ten minutes later, the men on the raft saw “the most wonderful sight in the world”: a U.S. destroyer “steaming at full speed right at us.” At 11:41 A.M. on December 21, Brown (DD-546) picked up the six Monaghan survivors, who had been in the water for three days and nights.
The last to leave the raft was Joe McCrane, as “befitted the senior in command.” He took a final look back before grabbing on to the line and being hoisted up the side of the destroyer. It occurred to him that to his “dying day,” he would “never forget the finest shipmates that a man could have.” And he would always remember “the Mighty M, a gallant ship” that had played a “brilliant role” in her country’s “fight for victory.” He understood, too, the sad irony that it had taken a monstrous storm at sea to do what the Japanese had been “trying to do since December 7, 1941, at Pearl Harbor.”
Sixteen
When Fireman Tom Stealey ran the length of Hull’s stack and jumped off, he went “right into a roll.” Falling deeply into the swirling sea, he thought his “lungs would give out” just as he popped up to the surface. Buffeted by fierce winds and rain, he managed “one big breath” before dropping into a “deep funnel” that took him down again. Stealey “started flapping” his arms and legs in a desperate bid to reach the surface. He came up just when he was again near the end of his endurance, “right on top of a wave” that took him “sailing 30 or 40 feet through the air” to the crest of another swell, forcing his now nearly limp body to roll and twist and turn as if trapped in a frenetic water ballet.
Stealey lost his shoes and pants; he had his kapok life jacket “stripped off,” too, but was able to snag it and put it back on. When a 5-gallon can passed nearby, he grabbed the handle, thinking the container might provide added flotation. The next funnel he dropped into “beat the living hell” out of him. When he surfaced, he was holding the handle without the can attached. He saw a bench float by but decided to let it go, fearing that he might be “beaten to death” if he tried to hold on to it.
After an hour or so he spotted the first person he had seen since entering the water. The visibility had begun to “clear up a little,” and although “the big waves were still there,” he wasn’t dropping into as many funnels. The two men waved, then swam toward each other. “Circles of water,” however, kept them separated. Stealey had the idea to swim along with the circular currents. When he did, the next time he came around they were closer. With each man “swimming with the circles,” they eventually came together. Although Stealey did not know the guy and they never traded names, they used the straps on their life jackets to tie themselves together. By evening, they had “thirteen guys hooked up.”
Throughout the long night no one saw any lights or ships or heard anything other than the angry wind and sea. It was as if they were all alone in the middle of the ocean. Shortly after sunrise, “one guy went out of his head all of a sudden.” Untying himself before he could be stopped, he took off and disappeared from sight.
The next day, a single dorsal fin appeared in the water.
The shark looked to be 10 to 12 feet long, with a large and conspicuously rounded fin that had a white tip. The fin aimed straight for the men. With circular eyes inset into a rounded snout, the shark hurtled toward the men like a maasive gray torpedo. It first bumped a man in the center of the line in a hard body check, then twisted around, eyes bulging and jaws snapping, and seized the man at about waist level. Amid violent splashing, the shark “pulled him down so fast he made no outcry.”
Surfacing some yards away, the shark released the bloody and now shrieking man like a dog dropping a bone. Whirling back toward the line of men, the shark—teeth glinting in the sun—hit furiously again, grabbing and pulling down a second man.
Panic had set in and everyone was hollering. Men desperately worked to untie themselves from the line and as soon as they were free started swimming away. Stealey did likewise—nearly “running on top of the water getting the hell out.” There were more terrible cries behind him. Although Stealey did not look back, he knew that the shark was either finishing off the first two men or striking new victims. Certain that “a mess of sharks” would be attracted by the sounds and smells of men dying in the water, Stealey swam as hard and fast as he had back in the days when he was winning ribbons in high school swim meets in California.
Eventually, Stealey found himself with three men from the larger group. Once again they tied themselves together. Anxiously they searched the horizon and skies in all directions for would-be rescuers, but there was “nobody in sight, no ships, no nothing.” The hopelessness of their situation “started to get to everybody.” A couple of the men talked about nobody looking for them and being left for dead. Stealey changed the subject to home and family and the first things he wanted to eat when he was rescued. Steak and potatoes sounded good to Stealey, who tried to recall the exact tastes and textures.
Stealey turned to the man next to him to ask a question. To his shock, he saw that the guy was “dead, just like that.” Whether from “exposure, exertion, or a little bit of everything,” Stealey had no way of knowing. Before nightfall, a second man passed away as suddenly, leaving Stealey and a young seaman he knew only as Smitty, who said he was from Gridley, California, about 30 miles “down the road” from Stealey’s hometown of Stockton.
In the wee hours of the morning, Stealey, who had mana
ged to drop off to sleep in his high-collared life jacket, awakened to the sight of the sweeping beam of a ship’s searchlight off in the distance, obviously looking for men in the water. Observing the sweep of the light, Stealey realized the ship was going to pass too far away to spot them.
“They’re gonna miss us,” Stealey said. “We gotta swim toward them.”
He and Smitty started swimming. After a few minutes Smitty stopped, saying he was too tired to keep going. Stealey “egged him on.” In another ten minutes Smitty was finished. “You know I’m here,” the exhausted man said. “When you get picked up, send someone to get me.”
Stealey swam on.
The next thing he knew, he awoke after daybreak “in torture,” lying on top of his life jacket with no memory of taking it or anything else off. He was “bare-assed” and “little fish were nibbling” on his legs. His skin was blistered from the sun, and his eyes, swollen from the salt water, were nearly shut. His lips were swollen, too, and his ears ached. His life jacket was so waterlogged that when he put it back on he hung so low in the water that the sea came up to just below his chin.
There was no ship to be seen, and Smitty was gone, too.
Literally inches from death, Stealey saw a vision that looked like one of those postcards of a cascading waterfall at a national park, only this one flowed with pineapple juice. It looked wet, cool, and delicious, and he was so very thirsty—and yet, somewhere in the parched recesses of his memory, he recalled that he “didn’t even like pineapple juice.”
It was about then that Stealey decided to commit suicide. He knew one way he did not want to go: to be “eaten by a shark” like his shipmates. He started drinking salt water—“as much as I could get down.” His first feeling was unexpected: he felt better at having something in his stomach for the first time in days. If he kept drinking salt water, he figured, it would be only a matter of time before he died. He hoped it would be like going to sleep, as some of the other men had so quietly expired. He began to make his peace: saying goodbye to his wife, Ida, and telling her that he was sorry, and how he had tried to get out of this mess but couldn’t.
Down to the Sea Page 23