“Then, at the very last moment the PT answered its helm and seemed about to glide away,” remembered Kimmatsu, “the full-throated roar of her mighty motors piercing through the night as if it responded to full throttle.” He felt the Amagiri throb heavily beneath his feet as the engines strained and accelerated into a hard turn more of more than 23 degrees to starboard. We’re going to run it down, he felt, we’re going to deliberately ram it lest it escape to strike at us again.
The night air erupted with the sounds of the crashing impact.
Kimmatsu braced himself for a detonation he felt was sure to follow. “Hard on the heels of the collision, a billowing cloud of flaming gasoline exploded with a loud swoosh against the side of our ship . . . as she rode over the little craft.”
Kimmatsu watched in horror as waves of flaming fuel and oil splashed up on to the ship’s bridge and washed down onto the pitching main deck, creating pools of crackling, blazing liquid that threatened to engulf men and equipment. Hanami issued orders frantically into the intercom, summoning fire-control teams who attacked the blazes with fire extinguishers. The ship was a bedlam of confusion.
Kimmatsu now was gripped by a frightening realization: “We were sitting ducks in this brightly lighted stage of macabre loneliness, waiting to be torpedoed or shelled in the middle of the sea.” Initiating evasive action, the Amagiri lurched violently into a turn, tossing Kimmatsu against the gun turret so hard the shell he had been holding flew out of his hands and tumbled toward a group of his friends who were stamping flames. The shell bounced to a stop next to one sailor “whose arm almost instantly shot out in an unbelievable exhibition of adrenalized strength, flicked up the weighty shell and flung it into the sea as it were only a toy.”
Kimmatsu fell onto the deck. “Terrified that I would be roasted alive, I tried desperately to cry out, but no sound came from my rasping throat,” he remembered. He prepared to die. Looking up, he saw his fellow gunner’s mate stagger out of the flaming turret, fall from the ladder and disappear directly into the powder magazine.
Just as a pool of flaming oil was about to wash over him, Kimmatsu was dragged to safety by a team of medical corpsmen, who eventually carried him down to the sick bay. There, he joined several other casualties of burns and smoke inhalation, including the friend he saw fall from the ladder.
“You all right, Haru?” the friend asked, his ankle badly sprained and his face and hair singed by fire. Kimmatsu nodded.
“I fell through the hatch and landed hard on the needles [shells] below,” explained his friend.
Meanwhile the ship seemed to be slowing to a dead stop. Commander Hanami had decelerated the Amagiri both to diagnose the ship’s severe vibrations and to minimize the ship’s drafts in an attempt to help the fire-control teams put out the fires. “Following the standard battle practice, we had instantly separated from the other ships and severed all communications so as to not silhouette them for the enemy,” Kimmatsu explained years later. “This greatly increased our own danger, since, every moment, the chance of attracting further enemy patrols increased.” Kimmatsu also braced himself for the possibility that Japanese shore batteries would mistakenly open up on the Amagiri, as it was drifting off its planned course.
Fortunately for the Japanese, the Amagiri’s fires were quickly extinguished, and the engines were re-engaged to a slower speed to minimize the hammering produced by the damaged propeller. The other ships soon rejoined the Amagiri to form a protective escort to safety. Kimmatsu’s despair gave way to feelings of relief and confidence that they had met the enemy, defended themselves, and triumphed.
The “Battle of Blackett Strait” ended as the Tokyo Express vanished in the western darkness. On their return journey, the Japanese warships just narrowly missed the six American destroyers of Admiral Arleigh Burke’s attack force positioned north of Kolombangara, which had withdrawn around 3:00 a.m. to escape the danger of Japanese air attack at daylight.
PT 105 skipper Richard Keresey summarized the dismal results of the skirmish: “Fifteen PT boats ventured out into Blackett Strait to attack four Japanese destroyers, the best odds PT boats ever had. We fired thirty-two torpedoes, including four from my 105. We hit nothing! The destroyers kept right on going straight down Blackett Strait and then straight back a couple of hours later.” He added, “when the 109 got in the way, they ran over it.” Similarly, naval historian Commander Robert J. Bulkley, Jr. noted: “This was perhaps the most confused and least effectively executed action the PTs had been in.” Years later, John F. Kennedy dismissed the night’s events as a “fucked up” series of events.
At the time of the collision, Lieutenant Philip Potter was a few thousand yards away from the PT 109, commanding the PT 169. Potter recalled spotting the Japanese warship from a distance of about two miles, and that they tried to warn Kennedy of the danger: “We radioed Kennedy to look on his starboard bow. There was a bow wake coming directly toward him. No response. Nothing. And I think Lowrey warned Kennedy. But what amazed us was that we got no response from either of the boats.” The PT 109 evidently did not receive this radio warning or the similar broadcast a few minutes earlier by Keresey in the PT 105—either because radio operator Maguire was next to Kennedy in the cockpit instead of at the radio belowdecks, or because the message was not picked up on the 109’s often unreliable VHF ship-to-ship radio.
According to Potter, “the destroyer rammed the [PT 109] and it blew up. Just shot into flames.” He added, “You could see they went right through the boat. There was an immediate explosion and you knew the gas tanks had exploded.” Potter’s log recorded he had fired two torpedoes at the Amagiri, both of which missed. After circling away toward Gizo, he later asserted he returned to look for Kennedy’s boat. “We tried to find the 109 and any survivors,” he claimed. “We cut our engines, trying to listen for them. But we didn’t hear a thing. Then I told Warfield [by radio] the 109 had been hit and we patrolled around, very slowly, stopping and listening.” He gave up the search and withdrew toward the Rendova base.
Potter asserted he spent “thirty to forty-five” minutes searching for survivors of the PT 109 but did not find a trace of them. “I’d say we headed for the base around 3:30 to 4 A.M. We usually liked to get out of that area before daylight because the [U.S. Army Air Forces] planes would take over in daylight. You usually feared them more, if you were in Japanese waters, than you did with the Japanese,” referring to the recent friendly fire incidents.
At about the same time Kennedy’s boat was struck, lookouts aboard John Lowrey’s PT 162 identified a Japanese warship, possibly one of the vessels following in the convoy, speeding north some 700 yards away. Lowrey rotated his boat to fire two torpedoes, but for unknown reasons he did not fire. “The PT 162 finally turned to the south-west upon getting within 100 yards of the warship to avoid collision,” Thomas Warfield wrote in his after-action report. By this point, according to Warfield, men on the PT 162 had seen the collision involving the PT 109. And yet there is no record of the PT 162 making any attempt to search for survivors of the PT 109, nor is there evidence Warfield commanded them to do so.
And so, inexplicably, the PT boats closest to the PT 109, the 162 and 169, withdrew toward the safety of the Rendova base. Beyond Potter’s alleged cursory check, no one bothered to conduct a methodical search for the crew of the PT 109.
To their horror, the eleven survivors would soon realize no one was coming to save them.
PHOTO SECTION
The Dawn of War: John F. Kennedy’s daughter and U.S. ambassador to Japan Caroline Kennedy provided the author with this private family photograph of her father as a U.S. Navy ensign in 1942. It has never been published by anyone outside the Kennedy family. (Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Papers, John F. Kennedy Presidential Library)
The PT 109 crew: Besides Kennedy on the far right, others have been tentatively identified as, top row, left to right: Ensign Al Webb (standing far left, friend of the crew), Leon Drawdy, Edgar Mauer, Edmund Drewitch, J
ohn Maguire. Bottom row, left to right: Charles Harris, Maurice Kowal, Andrew Kirksey, Ensign Leonard Thom. All except Webb were assigned to the PT 109. Drewitch, Drawdy and Kowal left the boat before the crash on August 2, 1943.
Seven more men, not pictured, were aboard the PT 109 on the night of the crash: George Ross, Patrick McMahon, Harold Marney, Raymond Starkey, Raymond Albert, William Johnston and Gerard Zinser. Kennedy recalled this photo being taken off Guadalcanal in early July 1943, but it may have been taken the previous month. (John F. Kennedy Presidential Library)
Profile and bird’s-eye views of the PT 109.
Kennedy in the cockpit of PT 109. (John F. Kennedy Presidential Library)
This is one of only two known photos of PT 109 in action during Lieutenant (jg) John F. Kennedy’s brief command. The photo is heavily water-damaged. The photographer, location and date is unknown, most likely May–June 1943, possibly near Tulagi or the Russell Islands. (Frank J. Andruss Sr.)
Moment of Impact: A 1961 oil painting by official Navy artist Gerard Richardson depicting the moment the PT 109 was rammed by the Japanese destroyer Amagiri. (John F. Kennedy Presidential Library)
Captain Frederick Conklin presents the Navy and Marine Corps Medal to JFK at the Chelsea Naval Hospital in Massachusetts, June 12, 1944.
Campaign flyer produced during JFK’s presidential run, 1960. Through shrewd marketing and publicity, Joseph P. Kennedy transformed the PT 109 into a chariot that carried his son to the White House. (Frank J. Andruss Sr.)
A PT 109–themed “float” (actually a real PT boat, the 796, repainted) carries surviving crew members past the viewing stand of newly sworn-in President ennedy during the inaugural parade in Washington, D.C., on January 20, 1961. (John F. Kennedy Presidential Library)
“Without PT 109,” said JFK’s aide David Powers, “there never would have been a President John F. Kennedy.” (Elliott Erwitt, Magnum Photos)
7
LOST AT SEA
THE SOUTH PACIFIC
2:40 AM, AUGUST 2, 1943
The ocean floor was 1,200 feet below them.
Eleven American sailors were trapped at night on the fiery surface of the Pacific Ocean, struggling to stay alive. They were surrounded by enemy-held islands.
Gasoline fumes invaded their lungs, causing them to gag, retch, and spiral into unconsciousness. As they thrashed in the water, they gobbled volumes of salt water that made them choke harder. They paddled and treaded water, but there was no visible destination to head for. Their life jackets helped them stay on the surface, but soon their waterlogged shoes and clothes threatened to pull them under.
They had no food, no water, no radio, no life raft, no medical supplies, and, it seemed, no way of getting to safety. Most of them were scattered so far apart they could not see each other—some were so isolated they concluded the rest of the crew was dead. They knew the waters were home to sharks and barracuda.
The eight crewmen in the water saw nothing but blackness all around, punctuated by pockets of burning gasoline. Their PT boat had all but vanished.
Those who had been burned were slashed by the agonizing pain of salt water soaking their wounds. They knew they were helpless against sharks, or against the Japanese if the enemy chose to circle back to the impact area, flip on searchlights, and strafe them. Worst of all, they would have felt utterly alone, adrift in a uniquely hostile chamber of the universe.
Adding to their despair was the appalling realization that, in the words of PT 157 skipper William Liebenow, “There was no well-rehearsed or standard plan for rescue operations at sea, there was no special training in event we were stuck at sea or fell overboard, and no special training in case we were stuck in the ocean.” They were on their own.
On the portion of the PT 109’s bow that remained afloat, John F. Kennedy attempted to regain control of the situation.
“Who’s aboard?” the crippled boat’s skipper called out. Only two of the enlisted men, Maguire and Mauer, replied.
The three sailors were desperately clinging to the floating wreckage of the front end of the PT 109. When it seemed nearby flames might detonate the remaining gas in the boat’s tank, Kennedy ordered his men to abandon ship.
“Over the side!” shouted Kennedy. The three men slid into the water and swam away from the wreckage. But within fifteen minutes the flames died down, and it appeared much of the spilled gasoline was pushed away by the wake of the Amagiri. Kennedy summoned Maguire and Mauer back toward the wreck. He then called out again, trying to reach the other crewmen.
Kennedy ordered Mauer to swing his signal blinker around the bow as a homing beacon for the others. Then he took off his shirt and shoes and dove into the water to hunt for the living.
The eight other survivors were scattered and spread out around a wide debris field dotted with pockets of flaming 100-octane fuel. Some were treading water in pools of unignited gasoline. Of those, Zinser, McMahon, and Ross were choking or unconscious from the fumes, and Johnston was retching from gasoline he swallowed while struggling in the water. Three of the eight, McMahon, Zinser, and Johnston, were burned—McMahon the worst of them, having suffered second- and third-degree burns on his upper body.
“Mr. Kennedy! Mr. Kennedy!” shouted Gunner’s Mate Charles Harris from a hundred yards away to the southwest. “McMahon is badly hurt!”
Kennedy swam out to meet them. “Is that you, Pops?” he asked the seriously burned McMahon. “How are you, Mac?”
The sailor replied stoically, “I’m all right, I’m kind of burnt.” In fact, he was in shock. He couldn’t move his arms and hands, and was in no shape to swim.
“How are the others?” asked Kennedy.
“I hurt my leg,” reported Harris. Kennedy, who had been on the Harvard swimming team five years earlier, towed McMahon by the strap of his life jacket and headed for the PT 109 wreckage, while simultaneously encouraging Harris, who labored to swim with only one working leg. It was a tough crossing, done against the wind and “very strong current” that were slowly drawing the survivors away from the wreckage.
“McMahon and I were about an hour getting back to the boat,” Kennedy remembered of the ordeal.
At one point, Harris despaired, “I can’t go any farther,” prompting fellow Bostonian Kennedy to wisecrack, “For a guy from Boston, you’re certainly putting up a great exhibition out here, Harris!”
“Go to hell,” snapped Harris as he struggled in the water.
“I was a good swimmer,” explained Harris, who had competed on a Navy swim team. “But I had two problems: my jacket and sweater, and my knee. I hit my knee on something when I went over the side, and I thought it was broken. Kennedy helped me get out of my jacket and sweater, but after that, I made it to the boat on my own.”
Elsewhere, machinist’s mate Gerard Zinser had awoken in the water to the sounds of crew members’ screams and the blinding agony of salt water soaking his burn wounds. He struggled back toward the wreckage.
George Ross regained consciousness some distance from the boat, only to be set upon by an incoherent, babbling Ensign Lenny Thom, who was trying to climb on top of him as if Ross was a log.
“Lenny, Lenny,” yelled Ross, “it’s me!”
Zinser was floating nearby, and joined Ross in slapping Thom around, hoping he’d regain his senses.
“Mr. Thom is drowning!” yelled Zinser. “Bring the boat!”
On the remains of the PT 109, Edman Mauer and John Maguire heard the commotion and now realized at least two more crew members were alive. They decided to launch a rescue of their own. While Mauer kept swinging the boat’s blinker device on the bow as a guiding signal, Maguire fastened a rope to the wreckage and, clutching the free end, swam out into the gasoline-choked water and fumes to search for his crewmates, hollering out their names.
Maguire managed to link up with Gerard Zinser, Barney Ross, and Lenny Thom and guided them toward to the bow’s hull. On the way, Zinser screamed, “Please, God, don’t let me pass out! Bring th
e boat!”
“Goddamn it, there is no boat!” Maguire replied.
Lieutenant Kennedy swam over to the group to help escort Zinser to the boat. But Zinser was at the limits of his endurance. He recalled, “At one point, I wanted to give up, too. My body was terribly burned, and the pain from the swelling and stinging was almost more than I could bear.”
Kennedy grabbed Zinser’s shoulder, shook him, and shouted, “I will not allow you to die!”
Meanwhile, Ensign Thom, who had by now regained his senses, spotted the semiconscious form of William Johnston. Leaving the group and Maguire’s tethered line to attempt a rescue of his crewmate, Thom reached Johnston, who was delirious after swallowing gasoline, inhaling gas fumes, and suffering burns on his neck.
“Come on, Bill, let’s go,” Thom urged Johnson. “Let’s keep paddling.” Towing Johnston against the Blackett Strait’s swift current, it took Thom as long as three hours to get Johnston back to the wreckage.
Still elsewhere, in the wake of the collision, crewman Raymond Starkey found himself floating on top of a mattress with minor burns on his hands and face, seemingly alone in the middle of the ocean. He was enveloped in darkness, and he was in despair.
“Oh my God, oh my God,” Starkey said to himself as he pondered the danger of sharks—the Solomon Islands were home to numerous species, including the feared oceanic whitetip, ten-foot-long marauders of deep water who had preyed on shipwreck survivors for centuries. His thoughts drifted to his wife, Camille, and four-year-old daughter, Shirley. Finally he spotted the wreckage of the PT 109 several hundred yards away and swam over to join the others. Eventually, after enduring a similar ordeal, crewman Raymond Albert found his way to the wreckage as well. (Although Kennedy was later credited in some accounts with personally rescuing three men—McMahon, Harris and Starkey—the evidence suggests he directly saved only McMahon. He did aid Harris, which may or may not have been crucial to the crewman’s survival, but Starkey got back to the boat by himself.)
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