During the early weeks of World War II an unheralded adventure occurred in the remote Molucca Sea. Documentation of this strange affair is justified, if only to provide the exponents of “Navy Blue and Gold” with another “first” for the record books.
Lieutenant (jg) Frank M. Ralston was the pilot of a PBY seaplane that departed the seadrome at Ambon, in the Netherlands East Indies, at 0255 on 11 January 1942. His plane, with its crew of seven, was in company with three other PBYs of Patrol Wing 10 ordered to bomb Japanese transports anchored off Manado, on the northern end of Celebes Island. These slow-flying PBYs, woefully lacking in defensive armament, were being used as bombers because the Allies had nothing else available. To help them survive, this was to be a surprise attack at dawn.
During the 370-mile flight in the pitch-dark of a moonless night, the planes became separated. At daybreak, Ralston found himself 10 miles south of the target area with one of his squadron mates flying a half-mile off his starboard wing and the other two planes not in sight. While circling, in the hope the others would soon join up, the two PBYs spotted six Japanese fighter planes rapidly approaching. Before the Japanese could maneuver into attack position, both pilots dove their planes into the protective cover of a nearby cloud bank. By this action, they not only eluded the enemy, but also lost contact with each other.
Ralston and his crew soon had another problem. Without warning, their port engine sputtered, stopped, and could not be restarted. Unable to maintain altitude on one engine, the heavily loaded plane slowly sank earthward. At 5,000 feet, they broke out into the clear and found the Japanese fighters waiting, like hound dogs after a treed coon. To lighten ship for a climb back into the clouds, Ralston jettisoned his bomb load. The plane, however, continued its agonizing descent, as the enemy headed in for the kill.
On their first firing run, the Japanese slammed the lid on the coffin by shooting out the starboard engine. Although bullet after bullet ripped through the fuselage and wings, no one was wounded. Faced with disaster, Ralston dove his PBY for a dead-stick landing on the sea and managed to put the cumbersome seaplane down roughly, but in one piece. Without hesitation, the crew dove over the side, and frantically swam away from the plane, which the Japanese began riddling with machine-gun bullets.
One hundred yards from the PBY, the seven men, alone in a vast sea, watched with alarm as bullets chewed their plane to pieces. Fortunately, no attacks were directed at them. Nevertheless, they were in a most precarious position. They were many miles from land and had not the slightest chance of surviving unless they could retrieve the inflatable life rafts still in the plane. Miraculously, the PBY did not catch fire, and the Japanese, apparently convinced it was sinking, all at once flew away. This fortuitous turn of events enabled the crew to return to their plane.
Back on board, they found that they could not call squadron mates for help because their radio had been shot to pieces. One of their two life rafts had been shredded by bullets, but the other one was in perfect condition. While some of the men inflated and launched the raft, others hurriedly threw the secret bomb sight over the side and destroyed all classified material. With the plane rapidly sinking beneath them, the seven men crowded into the five-man raft and pushed away, bringing along a 10-gallon breaker of water and whatever canned rations they could find. They had gone no more than 20 yards, when the seaplane vanished beneath the waves.
From a chart they had salvaged, they determined that the plane had gone down about 60 miles east of Manado in the Molucca Sea. That meant they were about 90 miles north of the equator and a good 370 miles from their base in Ambon. The Japanese were to the west, and two small atolls about 30 miles to the east were the nearest possible sanctuary. Without debate, they headed east. All that day and night they paddled, striving to put as much distance as they could between themselves and the Japanese. At noon on 12 January, when there was no sign of the atolls, they stopped. They deduced that, despite their best efforts, wind and current were taking them to the southwest. The exertion of paddling under the equatorial sun made them so thirsty that they made no effort to preserve their water supply. Alarmed at how little water was left and pessimistic about how long they might have to be at sea, they began rationing both water and food. Each man was permitted three sips of water a day, and the daily ration of food was one can of brown bread and one can of baked beans divided among them all.
Someone had had the foresight to bring along a parachute, which they cut up to make a small jury-rigged sail and an awning. The latter, however, did little to prevent all of them from becoming badly sunburned.
The little raft drifted with the current through the twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth of January. Jammed together like sardines in a can, the men grew weaker by the hour. Whenever they saw Japanese aircraft in the distance, they camouflaged themselves by draping their blue dungarees over the raft to make it blend with the sea. Not the least bit encouraging, though, was the occasional sighting of a shark swimming in lazy circles around them.
The morning of the fifteenth found them without food or water. They began to pray for rain. They could live a few more days without food but, parched as they were, they could not survive much longer without water. Their prayers were answered in mid-afternoon, when they were struck by a cyclonic squall that lasted for several hours. By the time it subsided they had trapped almost 5 gallons of precious water. It had a strong rubbery taste, but it would sustain life.
At sundown excitement ran at fever pitch because they thought they saw land on the western horizon. All eyes strained to verify the sighting, but darkness came before they could be certain. Encouraged with the thought they were drifting in the right direction, they manned the sail continually and raised it at the slightest whisper of a friendly breeze. Around midnight, ominous black clouds blotted out the stars, and they were struck by an even more violent storm than the one that afternoon. Gigantic waves, some of them more than 20 feet high, crested over the raft and torrential rains, driven by screeching winds, drenched and chilled them. Clinging for dear life to the sides of the raft, the men fervently prayed that it would not capsize, as it crazily lurched and dipped in the churning sea. This terrifying ordeal lasted several hours until, just as suddenly as they came upon them, the wind and rain vanished and stars once again twinkled in the heavens.
At dawn on the sixteenth, land was sighted definitely many miles to the west, but treacherous winds were determined to drift them to the southeast. Despite their weakened condition, they paddled without letup all that day and night in one last attempt to survive. On the morning of the seventeenth, the weary men were overjoyed to discover their efforts had been successful, for they were no more than 10 miles from the shore. Not until mid-afternoon, however, after more paddling with hands that were blistered and raw, did the little rubber raft grate to a stop on the sandy beach. Having been packed together for almost six unbelievable days, the seven survivors stumbled ashore to find they were too weak to stand for more than a few minutes at a time. Gradually, they made their way up the beach where, beneath the shade of coconut palms, they lay down on the good earth to regain their strength.
From the chart, they figured they had landed on the north shore of Mangoli, one of the Sula Islands, about 100 miles south of the equator. This meant they had traversed a straight-line distance of nearly 200 miles in their little raft. However, the magnitude of their accomplishment did not dawn on them for some time.
As soon as the famished Americans felt able, they began walking eastward along the shore, and soon arrived at a small native village whose inhabitants gave them a hearty meal of rice, fish, and fruit. The natives confirmed that this was, in fact, the island of Mangoli, and advised the men to go to the town of Sanana, on the nearby island of the same name, where they could expect to get help from the Dutch. As night was falling, the tired men wisely decided to rest in the village overnight before setting out on the next leg of their journey. Just after sunrise on the morning of 18 January, they began to make their way across the island toward its south coast, where they hoped to find boat transportation to Sanana. The natives casually suggested the distance was no more than 10 miles, which was probably true as the crow flies, but it turned out to be closer to 20 on land, much of it over a 5,000-foot mountain. Only four of the crew had managed to keep their shoes. The others wrapped pieces of torn-up life jackets and flight suits around their feet. Walking over the rough terrain was difficult, and twelve hours of superhuman effort had passed when they staggered into a small native village on the south coast.
The village mayor was very friendly, did everything possible to make them comfortable, and promised that, the next day, there would be a boat to take them to Sanana, a distance of only 3 miles. After eating an ample meal, the exhausted men flopped down on the dirt floor of a native hut and fell asleep. They arrived at Sanana in a large native sailing canoe about noon on 19 January 1942. The Dutch controller, a Mr. De Santy, greeted them warmly and provided them with the good things of life—a place to stay, hot baths, shaves, haircuts, clean clothing, hot food, and cool beer. After sending a radio message to Patrol Wing 10 headquarters requesting transportation, Ralston and his crew relaxed in carefree comfort to await its arrival.
The next morning, the jubilant survivors were picked up by a PBY and flown back to their base at Ambon, where they were accorded a hero’s welcome. Not until then did Lieutenant Ralston realize the significance of their adventure.
For centuries, men have been acclaimed and recorded in history for achievements beyond the ordinary—first to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge, first to sit atop a flagpole for thirty-three and one-half days, first to eat twenty live goldfish, and so forth. Ralston and his crew claimed to be the first seven men to cross the equator in a rubber life raft—at least in the Molucca Sea.