The Finest Hours

by Michael J. Tougias

  As they motored ever closer, the searchlight partially illuminated the shoals of the bar, and all four men caught a glimpse of what was ahead. Webber could not believe the height of the seas and thought his boat seemed smaller than ever. Scared and nearly freezing to death, Webber was forced to make a decision that could very well cost the lives of his crewmen. Do I turn back? Do I go ahead? What do I do now?

  Webber knew that he would not be criticized for turning back. Why add to the tragedy by sending four more men to their deaths on Chatham Bar? He cleared his head and turned his thoughts to the men he was attempting to save. In his mind’s eye, Bernie could picture the Pendleton crew trapped inside that giant steel casket. He and his crew were their only hope.

  * * *

  Webber’s thoughts drifted back two years to another rescue attempt he had made in equally hazardous conditions. So haunted was he by the tragedy that he could almost see the faces of those lost men on the crest of each rising wave. Like the Pendleton, the New Bedford–based scalloper William J. Landry had also found itself trapped by a fearsome nor’easter.

  That storm had hit in the early spring of 1950. Heavy snow fell in a curtain off Cape Cod, and the angry storm was aggravated by 70-mile-per-hour winds and rough seas. The William J. Landry was taking on water while attempting to circle Monomoy toward Nantucket Sound. During this crisis, Captain Arne Hansen managed to send out a distress call that was received by the Pollock Rip Lightship and relayed back to the Chatham Lifeboat Station.

  Bernie Webber had been part of a four-man crew led by veteran seaman Frank Masachi. They were ordered to take out the motor lifeboat 36383, which was moored in Stage Harbor, but just getting to the lifeboat would prove to be a life-and-death struggle. The normally tranquil Stage Harbor was topped by a blanket of menacing whitecaps that offered a visible warning for sane men to stay ashore.

  The crew fitted the small dory with thole pins to hold the oars in place and then dragged it to water’s edge. They pushed the vessel out and helped one another get aboard. Webber and Mel Gouthro grabbed the oars and began their battle against the turbulent seas while Masachi and Antonio Ballerini sat low in the boat. The small dory began taking on water almost immediately as it struggled toward the lifeboat.

  Suddenly the dory capsized, throwing Webber and the others into the bone-chilling water. The coast guardsmen kicked off their heavy boots, grabbed the bottom of the overturned boat, and held on. Gradually, the waves pushed the boat to shore, where it beached itself on Morris Island, across from Stage Harbor.

  Webber and the other crewmen had hoped to seek refuge in an old boathouse but, fighting back the frigid cold crawling up his legs, Masachi refused to give up the mission. He ordered his men to right the 19-foot dory, find the oars, and resume the journey toward the CG 36383. Their valiant effort came up short once more; this time the thole pins snapped, capsizing the boat and sending the men back into the icy water. Again, they managed to make it back to Morris Island, where they finally opted to get warm inside the boathouse.

  The crew rubbed their aching arms and legs and started the old Kohler gasoline-powered generator. Frank Masachi cranked the antiquated magneto telephone connecting him to the Chatham Station and was told that the William J. Landry was still afloat, but taking on massive amounts of water. Knowing that the fishing crew were alive seemed to reenergize him. He decided they would make a third attempt to reach the lifeboat.

  Webber and the rest of the crew found some broom handles and whittled them down to replace the broken thole pins. Again, the tired, frozen men walked on sore legs down the beach to the frigid water. Again, they were turned back—this time the oars broke before the vessel plunged them into the sea. They struggled to Morris Island, utterly exhausted and freezing cold, then waded back to Chatham Station.

  At this time, the crew aboard the Pollock Rip Lightship finally had the Landry in their sights. That was the good news. The bad news was that the storm was intensifying and the seas were at top heights. As the Landry crew was attempting to retrieve the towing rope from the lightship, a mighty wave slammed the vessels together, further damaging the fishing dragger. After 24 hours of fighting for their lives, the Landry’s crew were now physically and emotionally beaten.

  Lightship skipper Guy Emro had been speaking to Captain Hansen over the radio and heard the captain say, “Oh my God,” and then nothing else.

  When Hansen came back on the radio, he said they were giving up the fight. The last wave had been a dagger in the heart of the crew. “We’re going down below to pray and have something to eat,” the exhausted captain reported. “If we die out here, it will be with full stomachs. So long, thank you. God bless you all.”

  Guy Emro reported the news to Chatham Station and then watched as the seas swallowed the William J. Landry whole. The remains of the crew were never found.

  The tragedy left a bitter taste in Bernie Webber’s mouth. He had tried but failed to save the lives of those doomed fishermen. Now, less than two years later, he was faced with a similar, desperate challenge.

  As he peered out at the ominous Chatham Bar, the only obstacle between them and the open sea, Bernie Webber had an epiphany. He believed that God had placed him in this time and in this place. He thought about the iron will of Frank Masachi, and he also thought back to the thousands of sermons he had heard his father give while he was growing up. They had all been preparing him for this. He pictured the disappointment in his father’s eyes when he had turned his back on the ministry as an aimless youth. On this stormy night, Bernie believed that he was serving God. Webber later recalled the feeling. “You receive the strength and the courage, and you know what your duty is. You realize that you have to attempt a rescue. It’s born in you; it is part of your job.”

  As the lifeboat pitched along a canyon of waves, Webber and his crew spontaneously began to sing. They sang out of a combination of determination and fear through the snow and freezing sea spray. Their four voices formed a harmony that rose over the howling winds. Webber could think of no more poignant hymn to fit the situation they found themselves in.

  Rock of Ages, cleft for me,

  Let me hide myself in Thee;

  Let the water and the blood,

  From Thy wounded side which flowed,

  Be of Sin the double cure;

  Save from wrath and make me pure.

  The men grew silent as Webber motored the CG 36500 into the bar. The searchlight cut through the snow and darkness, and Andy could see—and feel—that the waves were growing and swirling from every direction. He braced himself for the collision he knew was coming.

  When they hit the bar, the tiny wooden lifeboat cut into a mammoth 60-foot wave. The mountain of bone-chilling water lifted the vessel, tossing it into the air like a small toy. All the men were temporarily airborne.

  The boat and the men came crashing back down on the hard surface of the sea, and another huge wave struck. This time, a torrent of water washed over the crew, knocking them to the deck. The violent wave shattered the boat’s windshield, sending shards of glass into Webber’s face and hair as he fell backward.

  The wave had spun the CG 36500 completely around, and its bow was now facing the shore. It was the most dangerous position for the boat and the crew. Webber pulled himself up off the deck and attempted to steer the boat back into the seas before it broached and killed them all. He brushed bits of glass off his face with one hand, the other gripped firmly on the steering wheel. With the windshield now broken, the sea spray came into the wheelman’s shelter, pelting Webber’s flesh with ice and picking at his open wounds. The snow was hitting his face so hard he could barely open his eyes. As he tried to get his bearings, he glanced down to where the boat’s compass should have been. The compass—his sole means of navigation—was gone, torn from its mount. He had to rely on instinct alone.

  Blindly, Webber pointed the boat back toward the oncoming wave. When the wave hit, Livesey had the sensation that the little lifeboat was being consum
ed by the wall of salt water. He could feel that the boat was on its side, and for a sickening second, he wondered if it would right itself.

  The wave freed the boat from its grip. Webber used every ounce of strength and again straightened the vessel. He gave it throttle, advancing a few more precious feet. Seconds later, another wave slammed into the vessel, again sending it careening on its side at a 45-degree angle.

  Webber managed to get the lifeboat back under control. Then, despite the crashing of the ocean, each man realized one sound was missing. The motor had died, and the next wave was bearing down on them.

  7

  CHATHAM MOBILIZES

  In an odd coincidence, the front page of the February 18, 1952, edition of the New York Times ran an article about World War II tankers. It had nothing to do with the drama that was unfolding off the coast of Chatham. The article described how “nationally known individuals turned a $100,000 investment into a $2,800,000 profit by buying and chartering five World War II tankers.” The Senate investigations subcommittee would begin public hearings involving the tankers and corruption in government.

  The days of instant reporting had not yet arrived, and so far the only people who were well informed of the double tanker disaster were those in the coast guard and the private citizens of Chatham.

  * * *

  Ed Semprini finished a long day in the broadcast booth at Cape Cod radio station WOCB. He had just returned home when he received a call from fellow journalist Lou Howes. “Don’t bother sitting down for dinner,” Howes advised his friend. “We’ve got a tanker that went down off Chatham.” Before Semprini could respond, Howes added to the graveness of the situation. “There’s not one tanker,” he said. “There’s two of them! I’m heading to the Chatham Lifeboat Station right now.”

  “How about giving me a ride?” Semprini asked. “I’ll go down with you.” Semprini hung up the phone and then called his engineer Wes Stidstone. “Gather your equipment and meet me in Chatham,” Semprini told him. “I think we’ve got a big story on our hands.”

  Semprini’s wife, Bette, overheard the conversation and looked out the window at the driving snow illuminated under the streetlight. “You’ve got to go out on a night like this?” she asked with worry in her voice. Semprini nodded wearily and then put on his wool coat and hat, wondering what the evening had in store.

  * * *

  Lou Howes pulled up in front of Semprini’s home and honked the horn. The horn and the engine seemed to be the only instruments that were in good working order in the battered old Chevrolet. Semprini heard the blare of the horn and trudged through the snow toward his ride. He climbed into the passenger side and rubbed his cold hands in front of the heater, which he quickly realized was broken. This trip better be worth it, the newsman thought to himself as the jalopy pulled away from his house and into the blinding snow.

  While the blizzard wailed outside, Cape Codders stayed in their warm homes and huddled around the radio as news of the rescue missions began to spread. Those with shortwave radios could listen in real time to the dramatic dispatches between the coast guard station and the rescue crews.

  Chatham’s town fathers found out about the drama that was unfolding off their coast during their annual budget meeting that night. Members were slowly filing in and had had just enough time to shake the snow off their winter coats before they were told of the dire situation involving the seamen. The town’s business would have to wait. Professional photographer Dick Kelsey immediately realized the importance of what was happening. He raced home and grabbed his old 4x5 Speed Graphic camera, #2 flashbulbs, and several film holders and headed for the fish pier.

  If the rescue crews somehow made it back alive, they would be cold, hungry, and possibly very sick. The call went out to the town clothier to gather up warm clothes. The local representative of the Red Cross was also alerted. Ordinary men and women went home and began cooking warm meals for the seamen in hopes they would return. The people of Chatham had been raised on the sea, and they knew what needed to be done.

  * * *

  The town’s dependence on the sea went back to its founding father, who had purchased the land that would later become Chatham with a boat. William Nickerson, a weaver from Norfolk, England, was the first to settle here. In 1665, Nickerson offered a shallop boat to the Monomoyick sachem Mattaquason in exchange for four square miles of rugged land on which to build his homestead. To seal the deal, Nickerson also threw in 12 axes, 12 hoes, 12 knives, and 40 shillings in wampum, among other items.

  This was a harsh land, with strong, howling coastal winds. The settlers built their dwellings with low roofs to withstand hurricanes and blizzards and faced the structures south for maximum exposure to the sun. They insulated the walls with dried seaweed.

  By the time of the Revolutionary War, many of the men of Chatham had begun fishing in the waters off the coast. With fishing came shipwrecks. The Humane Society of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts was the first organized group to offer aid to shipwrecked men, building huts along remote sections of the coast to provide shelter for survivors once they made it to shore.

  In 1847, Congress finally took action to better protect seamen by appropriating thousands of taxpayer dollars to build permanent lifesaving stations along America’s vast coastlines. It would take another 27 years before the first government-authorized lifesaving stations were erected on Cape Cod. In all, nine stations were built from Race Point in Provincetown to Monomoy Island in Chatham. Chatham Station was one of the original nine lifesaving stations built on Cape Cod, its patrol covering more than four miles north and south. The station was equipped with four surfboats, a dory, two beach carts, and a horse named Baby that was used to haul lifesaving equipment down the beach toward disabled vessels.

  The Chatham coast was as busy as it was dangerous. Mariners had to concern themselves not only with deadly shoals but also the tricks of men looking to steal their goods. These men were called mooncussers, and they set out to disorient captains and ground their ships by aggressively waving a lantern from the dunes. The mooncussers wanted the captains to think the waving lantern was a legitimate beacon so they would steer their ships into dangerous waters. They hoped that the ships would crash and their goods be strewn about the shore—so they could be easily scavenged. The mooncussers cared only about themselves, and their actions put the lives of many sailors at risk.

  The mooncussers got their nickname because they “cussed” the moon on moonlit evenings. They could pull off their dangerous treachery only when the sky was near pitch-black. The writer Henry David Thoreau became fascinated by the mysterious mooncussers during several trips he made to Cape Cod between 1849 and 1857. “We soon met one of these wreckers, a regular Cape Cod man … with a bleached and weather-beaten face, within whose wrinkles I distinguished no particular feature. It was like an old sail endowed with life,” Thoreau wrote. “He looked … too grave to laugh, too tough to cry; as indifferent as a clam.… He was looking for wrecks, old logs … bits of boards and joists.… When the log was too large to carry far, he cut it up where the last wave had left it, or rolling it a few feet, appropriated it by sticking two sticks into the ground crosswise above it.”

  The scavenger tradition, though not the deliberate shipwrecking, continued for another hundred years. By the 1950s, the wooden bones of old wrecks could still be found on the beaches of Chatham, disappearing and then reappearing in the shifting sands. One local resident, 82-year-old “Good” Walter Eldridge, had built himself a cottage with wood taken from the wrecks of 17 different vessels that met their fates on Chatham Bar.

  And now the citizens of Chatham hoped and prayed that the CG 36500 carrying Bernie Webber and crew would not add its wooden ribs and planks to the debris on the sands of the bar.

  8

  “HE CAME TO THE SURFACE FLOATING”

  About the same time that Chatham was mobilizing and Bernie and his crew were being hammered at Chatham Bar, the Eastwind was pounding north toward the bro
ken halves of the Fort Mercer. Darkness was closing in, and the violent motion aboard the ship was unlike anything radioman Len Whitmore had experienced.

  Len wondered if the broken sections of the Mercer would remain upright or even stay afloat until his cutter arrived. He had not left the cramped confines of the radio room since eight A.M., and the stress was mounting with each hour. But even in the anxious situation, there was a lighter moment. The cutter’s captain was in the radio shack attempting to call the owners of the Mercer, when suddenly a pigeon strutted out from behind one of the transmitters and walked casually past the incredulous captain. Len was mortified—it was his pigeon. While the cutter was in New York, Len had found the pigeon with its wing broken, and he snuck it on board, where he planned to nurse it back to health. The captain looked at each man in the room, and they all remained quiet. Len waited for the captain to demand who had brought the bird onto his ship, but instead he went back to his task of connecting with the Mercer’s owners. Len let out a silent sigh of relief.

  Len wondered how the Mercer’s men were holding up. He knew that they were encouraged to learn the coast guard had heard the Mayday and were responding, but that alone did not mean salvation.

  * * *

  By 6:30 P.M., the cutter Yakutat, commanded by J. W. Naab of Yarmouth, Maine, arrived at the bow section of the Mercer. In addition to the seas, wind, and snow, the rescue was now hindered by darkness. Overhead, an airplane from the naval air station at Floyd Bennett Field in Brooklyn, New York, dropped flares, doing its best to provide a little light for the men working below.

  Captain Naab’s men tried to shoot lines across to the tanker, but the wind made it nearly impossible. Yakutat crewman Gil Carmichael later recalled how bitter cold it was as he assisted in trying to get a line to the tanker. “The hood of my parka kept blowing off my head as we tried to shoot those lines over to the Mercer. At one point, my head felt so numb I rubbed my hand over it and felt something. It was a big clump of ice, and when I pulled on it, a big patch of my hair came with it. But it was so cold I didn’t even feel it.”