PT 109

by William Doyle

  Kennedy’s squadron commander Al Cluster, who came up from Tulagi to join the rescue party, was onboard the PT 157 that night. He remembered the scene: “It’s a riot in retrospect. The little native got up on the bow of the boat, and we had Jack down below. Each boat had some medicinal whiskey, little bottles of brandy, about the same kind you get on airplanes today.”

  Kennedy downed one or two of the liquor bottles, and on his largely empty stomach, the effect was immediate. As Liebenow and West guided the PT 157 directly up to the beach of Olasana Island, an exuberant Kennedy hollered out, “Lenny! Hey, Lenny!” his voice well fortified with alcohol.

  “Goddammit,” snapped Cluster, “keep your voice down. I don’t want to alert the Japanese over on Gizo! Quiet!” Cluster felt the urge to smack Kennedy on the head with an oar if he didn’t shut up.

  Kennedy was unfazed, and shouted, “Lenny, where are you?”

  The PT 109 crewmen were asleep in the bushes.

  They had collapsed in exhaustion earlier that night, uncertain of their fate as they began their seventh night in the wilderness. They knew a rescue was underway, but they also appreciated that much could go wrong before they could be evacuated to safety.

  At 12:30 AM on August 8, they began waking up to the shouts of their skipper, John Kennedy.

  Finally, a voice replied, “Here we are!” It was Ensign Lenny Thom, who, along with the other survivors, did not know the timing and details of the rescue operation. “The boats are here!” someone shouted. Thom joyfully splashed out into waist-deep water to greet Kennedy.

  Barney Ross remembered, “Although we’d set a watch all night long, apparently we were all asleep at the critical moment when Jack and the PT boat arrived off of our little haven in the bushes.” When salvation came, he recalled, “They were hollering for us to wake, finally we woke up in time to be rescued. I will never forget, I felt sort of foolish—we were all asleep!”

  A dinghy was put over the PT 157’s side. Liebenow shut the engines off and Welford West, Ray Mach, the 157’s rear turret gunner, and Eroni Kumana and Biuku Gasa maneuvered the small boat the short distance to shore. When the most severely wounded crewman, the badly burned Pat McMahon, heard furtive noises in the dark, he declared, “Halt—who goes there?”

  “It’s me, ‘Doc’ [Fred] Ratchford!” replied the pharmacist’s mate, who was well known and beloved by the sailors at Rendova as the man who routinely dispensed first aid to them, tended to their cuts, bruises, and minor medical complaints, and insisted that they wash their feet every day to prevent tropical ailments.

  McMahon, beside himself with joy, crawled out from the shelter of the little hut the natives had improvised for him, stood up, and collapsed into Ratchford’s strong arms, tears running down his face.

  “Doc Ratchford,” McMahon cried, “I knew you’d come for us!”

  McMahon was carefully picked up and carried to the boat.

  Other crewmen rushed and hobbled to the beach, and waded out to the boat.

  By 2:15, according to the ship’s log, all eleven PT 109 crew members were aboard the PT 157 and that critical phase of the rescue was complete. Liebenow recalled, “The crew of the 157 still had a job to do. We backed into clear water, spun around and headed for home. It wasn’t until we could spot the dark mass of Rendova Island and Todd City that I relinquished the wheel.”

  “So,” Liebenow asked Kennedy during the journey, “what did you do with your boat?”

  “Gone,” replied Kennedy; “just one of those things.”

  “Jack,” kidded Liebenow, “how in the world could a Jap destroyer run you down? How in the world were you not able to get away from getting cut in two?”

  “Lieb, to tell you the truth, I actually do not know. It all happened so quickly. I just don’t know how it happened.”

  The native scouts joined in the gentle teasing of Kennedy, chiding him in Pidgin, “Aren’t you an old woman for losing your boat?”

  But soon, John F. Kennedy broke down. He collapsed in a bunk belowdecks on the PT 157, and he was crying. “He was very tired,” recalled Al Cluster. “There were tears streaming down his face. He was bitter about the skippers who had left them behind. If they had come to look for them, he thought, maybe the other two men lost on PT 109, Marney and Kirksey, could have been saved.”

  To Liebenow, it appeared McMahon and another wounded sailor, probably Ross, were in shock. They were brought below decks immediately to be tended to with rudimentary first aid by the two pharmacist’s mates.

  But for the rest of the PT 109 survivors, a feeling of pure, unbounded happiness spread over them. For survivor William Johnston, the overriding emotion was one of joy to be alive, to be found and to be going back to relative safety. He helped himself to some brandy, put his arms around Kumana and Gasa, and loudly sang along with them a Christian hymn the scouts learned in Episcopalian mission school:

  Jesus loves me, this I know,

  For the Bible tells me so;

  Little ones to Him belong,

  They are weak, but He is strong.

  Yes, Jesus loves me; yes, Jesus loves me . . .

  According to Liebenow, “We really had a celebration. We broke out the medical brandy, they were all shaking hands and patting our crew on the backs and the natives were screaming [songs] at top of their voices. I thought the Japs would hear them.”

  Weather-beaten flag flown by the PT 109 before the crash. (Frank J. Andruss, Sr.)

  “Let’s try to keep it quiet!” Liebenow called out firmly.

  At 5:15 A.M. on Sunday, August 8, 1943, Lieutenant William Liebenow docked the PT 157 at Rendova with the rescued PT 109 survivors aboard.

  It was six days and three hours since the Amagiri had destroyed Kennedy’s boat. “Kennedy’s friends and the crew’s friends came and some cried, they were so happy to see them,” Eroni Kumana recalled. “They gave everybody food. A ship came for us and one for the crew. We all stood up and shook hands all round.”

  Kennedy already felt a powerful bond with the two natives who saved his life. He told Gasa and Kumana that he planned to get another boat to command, and if he managed to not get killed, he would seek them out in the Solomons sometime later and spend time visiting them. He owed them everything, but the two men were leaving soon. So in lieu of awarding them a medal, Kennedy presented Gasa with a gold coin his friend Clare Boothe Luce, wife of Time-Life publishing titan Henry Luce, had given him. Kennedy later wrote to Mrs. Luce to inform her the good-luck piece “did service above and beyond its routine duties during a rather busy period.”

  Gasa recalled the scene of the festivities: “We had a big feast. The three of us [Gasa, Kumana, and Kari] sat with Kennedy and his crew at one table. Kennedy made a speech thanking us. He said that if he had good luck he would try to come and see us again. Kennedy gave me a ‘dime,’ and said it was the only thing he could give me at that time. I was also given a ribbon with seven colors, and a Colonel gave me a medal and commended my courage. A canoe from the Wana Wana lagoon came for us and took us home.” Years later, Biuku Gasa proudly described his marathon journey through enemy waters by canoe, foot, and barge to rescue John F. Kennedy and his fellow PT 109 survivors as “the quickest and most far-ranging journey ever made by a Solomon Islander in the Western District.”

  Before they left, Kennedy pulled Kumana, Gasa, and Kari aside and emphatically and repeatedly thanked them for saving his life and the lives of his crewmen. He promised the scouts he would always think of them and would never forget their help and that of Ben Kevu and his colleagues.

  In the decades that followed, some PT boat veterans criticized Kennedy’s performance during the battle that resulted in the sinking of the PT 109. Years later, PT skipper Hank Brantingham said bluntly: “He goofed off. He got lost. And he got run over.” Another leading critic was Thomas Warfield, who said of Kennedy, “He wasn’t a particularly good boat commander.” Warfield explained, “The nearest thing I can figure out is they got kind of sleepy and were
n’t too alert and Kennedy was idling with his mufflers closed. He shouldn’t have been muffled. He knew the destroyers were coming out. He saw this thing coming at him and got bugged a little bit and shoved his throttles forward [too fast]. And I think he killed his engines.”

  But even the notoriously difficult Warfield expressed admiration for how Kennedy held his crew together and tried to summon help during their post-crash ordeal, saying, “I think you have to give him a hell of a lot of credit for getting out there and swimming out almost every night, whether it was the most intelligent thing to do or not, you have to give him a hell of a lot of credit for doing that. He was trying to get some kind of action.” He added, “It’s better than sitting there and starving to death. And if somebody is going to do it, why not the commander of the boat? I think you really have to give him a lot of credit for doing that. He really tried to take care of his boys—he deserves that, no question about it.”

  According to on-the-scene reporter Frank Hewlett, the PT 109 survivors crew all praised Kennedy “to high heaven.” Charles Harris said, “Kennedy was the hero. He saved our lives. I owed him my life. If it wasn’t for him I wouldn’t be here, I really feel that. I venture to say there are very few men who would swim out in that ocean alone without knowing what was underneath you. Brother, I wouldn’t do it. You could give me a million dollars and I wouldn’t swim out there. That took a lot of guts. I thought he was great. Everybody on the crew thought he was top-notch.”

  Although debates over Kennedy’s performance in the incident endured for years, as for Kennedy’s crew, Bud Liebenow noted that “Not one of them ever had anything bad to say about JFK. And they are the ones who know.”

  In Hyannis Port, Massachusetts, Joseph P. Kennedy had received word that his son was missing at some point after the crash, but he decided not to tell his wife Rose about it yet. The information must have been devastating to the elder Kennedy, given all he’d done to get John into the PT service. One account has Rose learning of the rescue by phone from a friend, who told her “Jack’s been saved!” A mystified Mrs. Kennedy asked, “Saved from what?” She summoned her husband to the phone from his riding stables. According to the August 20, 1943, edition of the New York Times, the couple “shouted in joy” when told of their son’s exploits. According to the article, “Mrs. Kennedy, first to hear the news by telephone at their summer home, expressed deep sorrow for the two crewmen who lost their lives. ‘That’s wonderful,’ Mrs. Kennedy said when told her son was safe.” At the time of their rescue, the PT 109 crew was not yet officially declared as missing, and the news of the PT 109 crash and rescue was delayed for a number of days by wartime censorship.

  On August 12, 1943, less than a week after the rescue, Kennedy wrote a reassuring letter to his parents: “Dear Folks; This is just a short note to tell you that I am alive—and not kicking—in spite of any reports that you may happen to hear. It was believed otherwise for a few days—so reports or rumors may have gotten back to you. Fortunately they misjudged the durability of a Kennedy—am back at the base now—and am OK. As soon as possible I shall try to give you the whole story. Much love to you all Jack.”

  In the second week of August the survivors were transferred to Tulagi, where they were examined and treated by Navy doctor Joseph B. Wharton Jr. Many of the crew had bad coral cuts and abrasions that were infected, in addition to fungus and ear infections. As was his custom, Kennedy made a striking impression on Dr. Wharton: “I remember Jack Kennedy at that time quite clearly. He was one of the finest and most brilliant men I had ever met. Very strong and mature for his age. His knowledge was very versatile, everything from poker to philosophy.” Kennedy’s medical record specified: “Admitted with abrasions, multiple. Patient was on PT boat which was rammed and sunk by enemy destroyer. After being in water about 10 hours landed upon enemy occupied island without shoes, clothing or food. Stayed on island for five days before being rescued. At the present time he shows symptoms of fatigue and many deep abrasions and lacerations of the entire body, especially the feet.” The medical officer prescribed “hot soaks and alcohol and glycerine dressings and bed rest. Multiple vitamin tablets and high caloric diet.”

  After the rescue, the survivors scattered to different assignments. William Johnston and Pat McMahon were evacuated to other hospitals. At Tulagi, Kennedy held a meeting of all the other PT 109 crewmen and told them they earned the chance to rest and recuperate on leave in New Zealand for about a month, or they could choose to stay in the combat zone and go home a month sooner. Everyone chose the latter, so they could get back to the United States as fast as possible. Barney Ross, Gerard Zinser, and Raymond Albert returned to their previous unit, Squadron Ten, based at Rendova. Kennedy, Lenny Thom, John Maguire, Edman Mauer, and Charles Harris stayed at Tulagi awaiting new assignments, along with three crewmen who served on the PT 109 before the crash: Leon Drawdy, Maurice Kowal, and Edmund Drewitch. Ray Lee Starkey stayed with Squadron 9 for the next seven months.

  Kennedy closely followed the recovery of his injured men, especially the most badly wounded sailor, Pappy McMahon. In these unpublished passages from his lost 1946 narrative of the incident, Kennedy marveled at McMahon’s bravery, and his sense of duty: “When the survivors were finally picked up, McMahon was sent to a hospital at Guadalcanal. He remained at the hospital over four months and on his release, he was ordered back to the United States for release from the service, because of his badly scarred hands. McMahon, however, requested that he be permitted to remain at Tulagi and help in the repair of old engines. Because of the great shortage at that time of experienced engineers and because of McMahon’s persistent requests, he was allowed to stay for nearly six months more. He worked every day—explaining to the new engineers the intricacies of 1800 horse power Packard engines, and frequently disregarded the doctor’s advice and worked on the engines himself. I saw him often with the thin skin of his hands cut and bleeding at the end of a day’s work. But he still had that smile. McMahon’s courage was an inspiration to us all.”

  Tulagi, Solomon Islands. PT Boat Officers (L-R) James (“Jim”) Reed, John F. Kennedy, George (“Barney”) Ross [rear], and Paul (“Red”) Fay, 1943, likely after August 7, 1943. (John F. Kennedy Presidential Library)

  On Tulagi, when Kennedy’s buddy Johnny Iles first had heard the PT 109 was lost, he asked a Catholic priest to “say some masses for Kennedy.” When Iles eventually greeted Kennedy on his return to Tulagi, he remembered, “I gave him a big hello. Then I happened to mention about the mass. He was furious! He read the riot act to me. He said he wasn’t ready to die just yet and why the hell had I given up hope?”

  John Kennedy’s war could have ended here. By losing his boat and enduring his agonizing ordeal of survival, he had earned himself a one-way ticket home to the safety of shore duty, to a long rest and recuperation in the United States, and back to the sybaritic, globe-trotting life of a super-rich bachelor with a golden future.

  But John F. Kennedy made a surprising decision.

  He chose to stay in Solomon Islands, keep himself in the line of fire—and fight.

  11

  LIFE AND DEATH AT THE WARRIOR RIVER

  SOLOMON ISLANDS

  FALL 1943

  “If your boat was sunk, you’d get new assignments in the States,” explained Kennedy’s squadron commander and close friend, Al Cluster, of the Navy’s informal custom during World War II. But Kennedy would not hear of it, despite his recent harrowing ordeal.

  It seemed Kennedy wanted revenge, in Cluster’s view, as if he wanted to strike back hard at the Japanese. Cluster thought Kennedy was haunted by the deaths of Kirksey and Marney, ashamed for losing his boat and not sinking the Japanese destroyer that instead destroyed his own vessel. “I think all these things came together, and he wanted to get back at them,” reflected Cluster.

  Back in the United States, however, the PT 109 incident generated a brief flurry of national attention, in which Kennedy was transfigured almost overnight into a war he
ro. It was exactly the image his father hoped would propel his son to prominence after the war. On August 19, Navy censors approved stories written by the two wire service reporters, Leif Erickson and Frank Hewlett, who witnessed the rescue; the articles appeared with headlines such as KENNEDY’S SON IS HERO IN THE PACIFIC AND KENNEDY’S SON SAVES 10 IN PACIFIC. Al Cluster followed up with a letter to Joe and Rose Kennedy on September 18, telling them the stories of their son’s courage were true. “Kennedy did a fine job,” he told them. “He’s in my squadron and is one of the finest officers I have. He did very commendable work in getting his crew out O.K. and we’re all very proud of him.”

  Joe Kennedy, his eyes always on the lookout for a “main chance” to thrust his family into national prestige, sprang into action and tried to get Reader’s Digest to run a story on the PT 109 in their hugely popular national magazine. But he got nowhere. The magazine wasn’t interested. The story of the PT 109 came and went, and soon was lost in the flurry of thousands of other stories of war heroics.

  On August 22, 1943, despite the utter failure of the August 1–2 Battle of Blackett Strait, Commander Thomas Warfield launched another nearly catastrophic mass PT boat raid from Rendova. This one, incredibly, was scheduled for the daylight hours, its target several cove entrances on Kolombangara. “I did all I could to prevent the attack being made,” wrote Sub-Lieutenant Reginald Evans, the Coastwatcher who had helped save the lives of the survivors of PT 109, in his after-action report. He continued: “Machine guns covered the entrance to both coves and a small coastal gun opened fire from Kukkuli Pt. The P.T. boats retired at high speed under a smoke screen. I was later informed that the U.S. casualties were 3 killed and 5 wounded. Had the Japs been good gunners they would have sunk half the boats.” Evans was shocked by “the absurdity of the attack” by eight PT boats in broad daylight, which gave the Japanese a half an hour to prepare a counterattack. American participants in the operation called it Warfield’s “suicide mission.”