The first torpedo slammed into the hull of the USS Indianapolis just past midnight on July 30, 1945. The second torpedo struck the ship’s fuel tanks and powder magazines, setting off a chain of explosions. Of the approximately 1,200 men onboard the cruiser, which had been on its way from Tinian to Leyte, 300 were either killed instantly or went down with the ship. The other 900 leapt into the sea. In the final, frantic minutes before the Indianapolis sank, several distress signals were sent out, and the stranded men hoped they would be rescued in a day or so. They would not. As a result of both human error and security precautions that hindered an immediate search, the dwindling crew, spread out over twenty miles, floated in shark-infested waters hundreds of miles from land for four days with almost no food and water. Herbert Jay (“Jack”) Miner II, a nineteen-year-old radio technician second class, wrote to his parents in Glencoe, Illinois, from a hospital on the Philippine island of Samar to tell them what happened beginning on July 30. Miner downplayed some of the more horrific details, and he was also fortunate not to have witnessed—for the most part—the shark attacks that claimed the lives of many of his crewmates. (A “CRE” is a Chief Radio Engineer, and an “RT” is a radio technician. Although it is implied in the letter that Miner salvaged supplies from the sunken ship, the incident was, in fact, a hallucination. The death of his friend Ray was not.)
Dear Folks:
Still here and still don’t know when we are to go. Can’t tell you where I am but you might call up Mrs. Louis Richburg and ask where the Dr. is. Through a strange coincidence I ran into him yesterday and we had a friendly little chat. He is a Lt. Com. and a very busy one it seems. I was talking to one of the nurses the other night and when I mentioned being from Glencoe she thought a while and then asked if I knew Dr. R. That’s how it started.
Are you curious as to what happened to me when the ship was sunk? I think it’s legal to tell about it now.
To begin with, we got hit about 0005 on July 30. Some damn deck ape had stolen my mattress a few days before so I was sleeping on a cot, topside, just forward of our radio shack. There was an explosion and I woke up in time to see another one through the port. I just sat there wondering what they were practicing now. Then I heard guys milling around and figured it was time to arise and dress. Then I whipped into the shack and within about a minute all the rest of the radio techs were there. Most of us slept topside due to stolen bedding and because it was considerably cooler. About three minutes had passed since the explosion and the ship was already listing 10 to 15 degrees to the starboard. Most of the power had been killed so we were unable to communicate with any other part of the ship, particularly the main radio shack. Lots went on in the next five minutes, including the inflating of life-belts, transmitting a couple of messages, and plenty of scared and wild faces. By then the list was so severe that we could not work any longer. The CRE told us to get the HELL out, which we did with a most ready spirit. Until then, no one had been able to believe that we were down—not the USS Indianapolis—and of course we hadn’t received any abandon-ship orders. Due to Fate, and not my own will, I was the last guy to get out of the shack. Almost broke a chief’s leg in the mad scramble.
I came out the st’bd door and almost fell down the ladder. I managed to hoist myself down onto the hangar deck suffering nothing worse than two barked shins. It was preternaturally quiet and I was mumbling—gotta keep calm no matter what, try to be careful, don’t hurt yourself getting off.
A voice was yelling “Go off the high side—off the high side.” That was O.K. by me, but how to get there? The ship was at about a 45 degree angle and time was getting mighty short. After a couple of seconds I spotted a figure who had a grip on something and was working his way across the deck. “Mind if I hang on you long enough to get a hold of that too?” says I grabbing him firmly by the ankle. A short but powerful struggle ensued from which I gathered that he meant “no.” I started to slide slowly across (or down) the deck and the water began to close in around me. I went under and came up with a thud against something hard. Again I was inwardly chanting “Don’t get panicy—take it easy.” I was only caught for a few seconds but it seemed considerably longer. Finally got my head out of water in time to see, hear and feel the after super-structure scrape past my fanny. I paddled away as fast as possible. I wasn’t scared anymore, and for the first time in a mighty long ten minutes I relaxed to watch the show. You should have seen that baby go down! It had turned completely over. The stern was poised for a moment and then the whole works slid forward, down, and out of sight. There was a hazy moon so that the ship had been clearly silhouetted.
The first hour or so I was busy paddling around, shoving life jackets at guys who didn’t have any, and looking for my buddies. Finally a life-net appeared out of nowhere with a few guys on it. Some more of us climbed into it, and we put up a yell for stragglers. Pretty soon another net showed up which we latched onto. The remainder of the night I was busy (1) pewking oil, (2) holding a sicker guy up, and (3) trying to convince everyone that a message had been sent so there was nothing to worry about.
By morning, three life-rafts had joined the party. They were ten-man rafts but were loaded with about twice that. Shortly things were arranged so that the sick, guys who pretended to be sick, loafers, and a pharmacist mate were permanently stationed on these rafts. It got to be a nasty situation later on. The sum total of our group must have been about 200, including a very few officers. The officers were afraid to assert themselves and do some organizing until it was almost too late. There were supplies, though for only ten men, on each raft. Towards evening of the first day I noticed some guys stuffing their faces with crackers and actually guzzling the few ounces of water. A few of us started to bitch and yell for justice. The whole trouble was that no one guy could do a thing. We were packed together so closely that any motion was next to impossible without exerting a week’s store of energy. You had to arouse the spirit of the rabble to accomplish anything. Eventually the officers did get most of the supplies together on one raft and managed to keep the robbers away.
The first day a plane flew directly over us, and low. Everyone yelled and screamed, but it availed us naught. That was the first support kicked out from under our morale.
That afternoon someone started yelling and beating the water. Guess what? A nasty looking fin was cruising up and down only a few yards from us. That scared me about as badly as anything ever has. I’d read so many stories about huge schools of sharks gobbling men up and leaving nothing but the bloodied waters. I immediately began working my way (as surreptitiously as possible) into the very center of the mob. I figured that even by morning they could not have eaten more than halfway into the circle. Much to my surprise, no one was consumed that night.
The second day, one man was bitten. The shark took a hunk out of his rear-end, which was hanging over the edge of the raft. By the way, I managed to put in two hours on a raft that day by trading with a guy. That was a blessed relief, believe me.
We were all completely covered with oil, and some had gotten in my right eye. Due to the sun and salt and oil, it filled up with goo and closed completely. That made me a little nervous so I took great care of the one that was left. I didn’t relish being blind amongst a bunch of guys that would gladly kill for a sip of water, a shirt, or a life-jacket. Rations, consisting of half a cracker and one malted milk tablet, were handed out this day and each of the following days. Naturally some of those bas_ _ _ _s took three or four and some got none. I almost went crazy ’cause those guys were out of reach. I had my knife and I was gonna kill ’em or worse.
Planes passed over us about every eight hours or so. We shot flares at night and waved a cloth during the day. We also flashed mirrors, but nothing seemed to work. That was also hard on a man’s sanity.
Three other RTs were with me, but one of them was a gonner from the start. He knew we’d never be found. He must have gone down the third night. That was about the time our number began to decrease noticeably. Most of the men just floated away. About midnight someone came paddling up and said he was a Dr. from a large ship standing off a few miles away. He had just come over to see how badly we were hurt and how many there were. Everyone believed it at first and we were happy as could be. In a few minutes it was apparent however that it was just one of us, completely off his nut. Lots of men were crazy by morning. The third day someone snatched my sun shield so I cut another huge chunk out of my precious shirt. I lent my knife to someone and the louse refused to return it. His face was just like all the rest—bearded, haggard and begrimed with oil so I couldn’t even decide who had it.
I’d had no water at all, but for some reason I wasn’t horribly tortured by thirst. When you remain nine-tenths submerged and don’t sweat, bodily absorption must be considerable. However I could readily picture myself sitting out on the back porch drinking great quantities of ice-cold beer, and I vowed that I would live to realize my ambitions, earthly as they were. My mind was troubled by very few noble thoughts. I prayed to God to pull me through because I knew what it meant to you two and because it meant nearly as much to me personally. There was no other man in that bedraggled crew who wanted to live any more than I.
The fourth night my mind began to lose control of itself. I could no longer distinguish between dream and reality. The ship lay directly below us and only a few feet down. I made a trip down to my locker and to the radio shack with Rudy and Griff (both dead). The morning of the fourth day I wanted to go back down to the shack and some of the oranges we had cached there, but I wasn’t sure how to get down. Several had gone down to get various things but they went for good. I kept asking why the ship’s evaporators weren’t turned on to furnish a little water, and I got varied answers. Most of the guys didn’t know just why they weren’t turned on either. Some crude guys told me I was nuts. I ignored the stupid fools.
We were spotted that morning and the planes were really buzzing around by mid-afternoon. For some reason it did not impress me much. I would just have been hurt if they hadn’t. I just floated there like a jellyfish, watching the boats, rafts, and supplies being dropped to us. I was too tired to move—but not to notice the way things were being bungled. The guys in boats wouldn’t help those in the water or pass out drinking water, etc., etc.
Evening came and we were still there. The one remaining RT and myself were telling each other that our troubles were over. Only hang on for a few more hours and we’d be picked up. Finally he cracked. He came up behind me and threw his arms around my neck and would not let go. He said they’d taken his lifejacket and were trying to kill him. I got a lifejacket around him and then the nightmare started. We were picked up and I buried my face in a sparkling silver scuttlebutt and the clear, bubbling water turned out to be salt. I woke up and Ray was beside me crying and again without a jacket. I shoved another one into his arms and cursed him wildly. He unsettled me completely. Whether dream or reality I don’t know but this was the worst of all—he was unconscious and I was trying to hold his head out of water but he kept slipping down, down, down. I yelled at everyone near me to help for a moment, but no one even looked up. He finally slipped loose and I could feel him bump my feet on the way down.
We were picked up about four the next morning. The few hours between when I lost Ray and when the APD found us were a horrible mixture of dream and truth. Each fantasy was worse than the preceding one. The second I felt that deck under me I just gave up all my efforts. They poured a thin stream of cold water into my face and nothing has ever felt so good. The crew treated us magnificently. They gave up sleep for a couple of nights and devoted all their time to us. They all had huge beards. It must have looked mighty strange to see those great bearded guys gently squeezing an orange into my mouth or holding my head up for a glass of water. They gave me two pints of plasma, but some of the guys were able to walk and eat.
At Samar they greeted me with an IV. In a couple more days I stood up a while and was soon able to eat and walk. I was one big mess of pimples, boils, ulcers, sunburns, and oil.
Anyhow, I’m O.K. now and I’ll relate the rest of the story next letter. Hope this will go on two stamps,
All my love,
Jack
Herbert Jay Miner RT 2/C
Of the original 1,200 crew members, Miner was one of only 317 who survived. The ship’s captain, Charles Butler McVay III, also lived through the disaster but became the only U.S. naval commander court-martialed for the sinking of a ship. (Although survivors would later defend McVay, family members of sailors who perished were less forgiving. “Merry Christmas!,” read one letter to McVay, “Our family’s holiday would be a lot merrier if you hadn’t killed my son.” Racked with guilt, McVay committed suicide.) The USS Indianapolis would be remembered not only for the fate of its captain and crew, but for the top-secret mission it had successfully completed in late July 1945; unbeknownst to even those onboard, the Indianapolis had delivered to Tinian the atomic bomb that would obliterate Hiroshima less than two weeks later.