Chapter
Three
Tragedy Explodes—the First Day
You never know what a new day will bring. As a Christian, I have learned that even my most carefully made plans are ultimately subservient to the will of God; our plans are not our own. With our top-secret cargo now safely delivered to the B-29 base at Tinian, we were ordered to proceed the hundred or so miles south to Guam, and later to sail on to Leyte to meet up with the battleship USS Idaho for seventeen days of drills. There we would be familiarized with new equipment and conduct gunnery practice with a partially new crew in need of training. We would also get prepared to participate in the invasion of Kyushu, one of Japan’s southernmost islands. Overall, this journey was a dangerous 1,300-mile jaunt that would take us out of the relatively safe Marianas Sea Frontier and into the vast unknowns of the Philippine Sea Frontier. Little did we know the horrors that awaited us.
Since the Indy had no sonar gear to detect enemy submarines—a task relegated to destroyers—it was revealed later that Captain McVay had asked for a destroyer escort for added protection. His request was denied. The command center for the Pacific, known as CINCPAC, insisted the waters were safe.1
To hide the United States’ ability to decipher encrypted Japanese command messages through an ingenious top-secret code-breaking program called ULTRA, the U.S. command maintained a policy to randomly withhold precise enemy ship locations from Navy captains. This allowed some Japanese ships to avoid being attacked, giving them the impression that we had not broken their code and thereby avoiding the possibility of them changing their encryption codes and making our deciphering system obsolete.2
In light of this policy, CINCPAC intelligence did not inform Captain McVay that the Japanese Tamon submarine group had been patrolling our anticipated route. They also did not report that just days earlier, a destroyer escort, the USS Underhill, had been sunk by a kaiten released from a large Japanese patrol sub on the same route we would be navigating to Leyte.3 A kaiten (literally, “the turn toward heaven”) is a manned suicide torpedo. The mentality of their pilots was naturally very similar to that of kamikaze pilots. Each kaiten required a two-man crew, weighed about eight tons, and contained powerful explosive warheads. Their estimated top speed was about 20 knots (23 mph), and they were capable of traveling up to twenty-seven miles. Fanatical kaiten pilots were always ready to climb inside and steer themselves into glory—unless they missed, as was often the case. Since the kaitens were not recoverable, they would simply run out of fuel and silently sink to the ocean floor where both man and machine would be crushed by the enormous water pressure.
A Japanese kaiten; the human torpedo.
Traversing the Unknown
Unescorted and uninformed, the Indy arrived in Guam on July 27 and from there headed to the Leyte Gulf. Life aboard ship was relaxed for the crew as we went about our daily operations. Of course we knew nothing of the skipper’s concerns about our vulnerability.
The temperature was a tropical 110 degrees during the day—hot and muggy. Although air was pumped into our cramped chambers below deck, it still felt like a sauna, making it almost impossible for any of us to sleep at night. The temperature in the engine rooms usually exceeded 120 degrees, even with all the hatches and doors open to draw in any outside breeze. For this reason we were given permission to sleep topside on the open deck. Each of us found our own open space to spread out our blankets so we could enjoy our designated four hours of sleep.
We were traveling in “Yoke-Modified” position, which is a more relaxed state of sailing that is normal for waters perceived to be safe from enemy attack. Our battle-ready state, “Condition Able,” meant that we were on watch for four hours, then off for four hours—an exhausting schedule that left little time for rest. Had we known of the danger that lay ahead, we would have traveled at the most secure position, with all hatches and doors dogged and sealed off, making passage very limited, a position known as “Zed.”4
It is only human to reflect on that fateful night and play the “What if . . .” game. Certainly there was a high probability that things would have turned out much differently had we been properly informed and prepared. But it’s history now; everything unfolded according to God’s intended plan and for His purposes.
We were traveling according to the fallacious conditions and instructions outlined for us at CINCPAC—good reason for the ultimate blame for the ensuing tragedy to have been placed on the high command of the Navy.
On the night of July 29, the sea was relatively calm with overcast skies. Captain McVay agreed to cease the presumably defensive zigzag maneuver thought to create a more evasive target—a naval regulation later proven to be ineffective. Lieutenant McKissick took the watch on the bridge at 6:00 p.m.5 The ship was on course 262 True, which was due west. Noting the overcast skies, Captain McVay entered the bridge and said to McKissick, “You may secure from zigzagging after twilight.” McKissick responded, “Aye, aye, sir.” And steadily the Indy continued on to her destiny.6
I got off watch around midnight and decided to grab my blanket from my locker below and sleep topside on the breezy deck. The night before, I stretched the regulations a bit and slept on top of number 1 turret in a large life raft. A Marine buddy by the name of Munson had the same idea and joined me there. But on this night, not wanting to risk losing any of my hard-earned stripes (having made Sergeant just two days before), I chose instead to sleep on the open deck under the barrels of number 1 turret.
The Indy was cruising at about seventeen knots. Her large engines, combined with the sound of her wake, droned a familiar lullaby. Tired and homesick, and missing my family and my little brunette back home, I wrapped my blanket around me and curled up on the steel deck hoping for a few hours of rest. After thanking the Lord for His provision and protection thus far, I asked Him to watch over my loved ones back in Kentucky. Then, using the arch of my shoe for a pillow, I drifted off to sleep.
Enemy in Wait
While I had innocently fallen asleep in harm’s way, I and everyone else aboard the Indy were utterly unaware that the Japanese submarine I-58, under the command of Lt. Cdr. Mochitsura Hashimoto, had been silently slithering through the dark sea with its serpentine periscope and had spotted us at about midnight.
The I-58 was a formidable submarine measuring 356 feet in length. Although the normal safe diving depth for Japanese submarines was 300 feet, the I-58 was designed to go even deeper to evade its enemies, capable of descending to 450 feet.7 It had been commissioned in September 1944 and carried a crew of 105 officers and men.8
It was part of the celebrated Tamon group—one of six submarines left in the dwindling Japanese fleet. She was powered by two 4,700-horsepower diesel engines capable of gliding through the water at seventeen knots and could travel 21,000 miles before refueling. Commander Hashimoto had in his arsenal nineteen torpedoes and six kaitens, complete with twelve suicide warriors.9
The I-58 had just been fitted with two new kinds of radar equipment, one for detecting surface ships and one for detecting aircraft. The sub was also well equipped with both electronic and acoustic sonar. Since they were armed with kaitens, the open deck had been stripped to only one 25 mm machine gun.10
Commander Hashimoto had been at sea for four years and had yet to destroy an enemy ship. He was desperate for a kill. Now he had his chance. The noble Indianapolis was an easy target as she unwittingly made her way into the crosshairs of Hashimoto’s periscope. According to the testimony of Hashimoto given many months later, no kaitens were needed—a disappointment for the crewmembers who wanted to be launched. The exhilaration of a possible “first kill” combined with the anxiety of engaging the enemy caused tension to run high aboard the I-58. In his book Sunk, Commander Hashimoto describes what happened after his navigator shouted, “Bearing red nine-zero degrees, a possible enemy ship!”11
At 12:08 a.m., when the I-58 was fully submerged, Commander Hashimoto gave three orders: “Ship in sight,” “All tubes to the ready,” and “Kaitens stand by.” After the submarine dove, it altered course to port so that the black shape that was the USS Indianapolis was straight ahead. Hashimoto was still unsure of what it was, but it seemed to be getting closer as it took a course directly toward the submarine. He was ready to launch six torpedoes, but at this point he still thought it might have been a destroyer that had already detected the submarine and was approaching for a depth-charge attack. (It was impossible at that time to determine how far away a ship was unless you knew the class—and therefore the size—of the ship.) Even if it wasn’t a destroyer, he couldn’t let us get directly overhead or we wouldn’t be in good position for a torpedo hit.
Japanese Lt. Cdr. Mochitsura Hashimoto at the periscope of his submarine, the I-58. (Edgar Harrell Collection)
Hashimoto watched the black shadow of the Indy grow slowly into a triangular shape, clarifying the distance and positioning. At 12:09 he announced, “Six torpedoes will be fired,” choosing to fire from all tubes in a single salvo. He also ordered one of the kaiten crews to enter their craft and another to stand by.
The Indianapolis was now becoming more visible from Hashimoto’s point of view; he could tell that we were either a battleship or a large cruiser, and he was able to assess the masthead height as ninety feet. He felt confident he’d be able to hit his target, as we were now four thousand yards away and sailing toward the I-58 at a moderately high speed.
The Japanese submarine I-58. (U.S. Marine Corps)
As Hashimoto was setting his torpedoes, he still hadn’t given the kaitens their orders to launch. The phase of the moon was not ideal for a kaiten attack, as they could be seen and destroyed before hitting their mark, so Hashimoto decided not to launch them unless the ordinary torpedoes failed. The Indy was now clearly visible in the moonlight. Hashimoto saw the two turrets aft and the large tower mast and incorrectly took her to be an Idaho-class battleship. Dead quiet now, they waited. Hashimoto altered the setting to “green sixty degrees” and a range of fifteen hundred yards.
At long last, he gave the order: “Stand by—fire!” Soon the report came from the torpedo room that all tubes had been fired. Hashimoto watched through his periscope, waiting as six torpedoes sped toward the Indianapolis. He ordered the submarine to be brought parallel to the enemy ship. Finally, a column of water shot up on the Indy’s starboard side by the forward turret, and then another by the aft turret. Immediately red flames shot out of the ship, and then another huge column of water that seemed to engulf the entire ship rose from the area by number 2 turret. Hashimoto shouted, “A hit! A hit!” and his crew danced for joy.
Soon came the sound of a heavy explosion, much louder than the torpedo hits themselves. Three more explosions followed, then another six. The crew of the submarine mistakenly thought it was a depth charge attack and briefly panicked, but Hashimoto assured them there were no other ships in sight—it was just the enemy ship exploding. Several more flashes came from the Indy, but still she didn’t sink. Hashimoto planned to give a second salvo of torpedoes even though the kaiten pilots asked to be sent to finish the job. Their job seemed easy enough now, despite the moonlight, but he knew that once they were launched they could not be retrieved. He didn’t want to waste them if it was unnecessary.
As soon as they reloaded the torpedoes, the I-58 resurfaced and raised the periscope. But there was now nothing to be seen. Hashimoto ordered them to head for the area in which the Indy had sunk, but there was still no trace of the “enemy” ship. Nevertheless, he was certain that a ship that had been as damaged as the Indy had could not have escaped. And even if she’d stayed afloat, she would have still been in sight—there was no way she could have gotten away that quickly. Nevertheless, Hashimoto later admitted he wished he had proof. Fearing reprisals from any ships or aircraft that might have been accompanying the Indy, he made off to the northeast. After staying on the surface for an hour, they dove and prepared for their next encounter.12
The Front of the Ship . . . Was Gone
There has not been a season in my life since that night that I fail to remember what happened next. The first torpedo pierced the Indy on the forward starboard side about forty feet in front of number 1 turret, where I slept. The concussion jarred me instantly to my feet. In the time it took Commander Hashimoto to say, “Fire one . . . fire two,” the second torpedo hit around midship, forward of the quarterdeck, somewhere in the close vicinity of my Marine compartment. Then, a few seconds later, a third explosion rocked the ship. It was the ammunition magazine underneath me. The explosion blew all the way through the top of number 1 turret—my bed the night before and, devastatingly, Munson’s bed that disastrous night. I’m sure he never felt a thing. The detonations sent water high into the air, drenching me as it rained down, yet protecting me from the massive fireball that flared all around me. The blast was so powerful that the massive turret with its three 18-foot barrels was lifted off its moorings and sent over to the starboard side.
I was stunned and confused. No one was firing at us, and we were not firing at anyone. I couldn’t understand what was going on. I looked toward the front of the ship and to my astonishment, it was gone! Approximately thirty-five feet of the bow had disappeared. It had been completely cut off. I then realized what had happened. We had been torpedoed.
Beneath me, below deck, I could hear and feel the bulkheads breaking under the pressure of the water as the Indy’s gigantic screw propellers continued to push her forward. Massive fires from the explosions lit up the night sky, exposing the doomed Indianapolis to any enemy that might still be lurking nearby. All electrical power had been cut off. All communications had been rendered inoperative. As a result, no word was sent to the engine room to stop the engines. Within a minute of the initial blast, I had come to my senses and knew the ship was going to sink. The open bow was already going underwater.
I made my way to the emergency station, which was mid-ship on the quarterdeck. As I did, men were coming up from below deck, screaming cries of excruciating pain. Most were in their night skivvies and had been blown out of their bunks. Hysterically they cried for help. Many had scorched flesh hanging from their faces and arms. The smell of burning flesh and hair was nauseating. Compound fractures revealed protruding bones from the bodies of those who had been thrown up against the bulkhead walls. It was a living hell. I’ll never forget the fires, the horrified faces, and the cacophony of screams. I can still hear the explosions and the screeching metal being twisted and torn by the tons of water the ship was taking on.
On my way to the emergency station, I noticed the ship was already listing about twenty degrees to the starboard. Evidently the second explosion had made a gaping hole in the starboard side, flooding most of the compartments in the forward area. As bulkheads continued to break, more and more water filled the lower compartments, causing the ship to actually erect itself for a minute or so. But as she continued to plow forward and bulkheads gave way, the ship rolled severely to starboard again. Because of CINCPAC’s unwillingness to warn us of the high probability of imminent danger, we had been traveling completely open. Battle-ready status had been discouraged. Watertight doors were not closed and dogged. As unthinkable as it may be, the gallant Indianapolis and her noble crew had become victims not only of the enemy, but of the very Navy they served.
As best I can recall, it took me about four minutes to get to the emergency station. Realizing my kapok-filled life jacket was in the fiery inferno below deck in my locker, I was eager to get to the station where I knew many more were located. When I got there, I could see the canvas bags filled with jackets hanging all around on the open bulkheads. I yelled over to Lieutenant Stauffer, “Sir, permission to cut down the life jackets!” Committed to following Navy procedures, he quickly retorted, “No! Not until we are given orders to abandon ship!”
Suddenly, a Navy commander I recognized came from below deck—Commander Lipski. He was burned severely and pleading for help. At the sight of this, someone cried out, “Get the commander a life jacket!” Immediately a sailor cut down the canvas bags filled with kapoks. As they tumbled to the deck, I quickly grabbed one and put it on. I decided not to fasten it in the straddle, contemplating the jump I would soon have to make into the sea. Other sailors likewise scrambled for a jacket, each man knowing he was about to face the challenge of the great deep and perhaps soon meet his Creator and Judge. A controlled panic could be seen on every face as we suddenly found ourselves confronted with the very thing every human being hates—utter helplessness. Even so, the will to survive fortified itself with the face of bravery as we all desperately prepared to leap into the pitch-black water.
Another two or three minutes passed before word of mouth spread that Captain McVay had given the word to abandon ship. He had been waiting for a damage control report, but tragically, those who had gone below to make that assessment never made it back topside.
By now, men were being washed overboard. The front half of the ship was completely underwater. It was nearly impossible to stand on the open deck because of her severe list to starboard. When word to abandon ship finally reached the quarterdeck, many men ran to the high side (port side) and began jumping off. It was bedlam. In the light of the flames I could see men jumping on top of each other. I recall making my way to the port side and hanging on to the rail to keep from falling due to the steep incline. As I stood there, I looked out into the blackness of night and then at the pitch-black oil that had already started to leak from the Indy floating on the water below. That moment is indelibly etched in my mind. The stark reality of what was really happening flooded my senses. I was face-to-face with my mortality. Eternity was before me. And in the midst of my fear and helplessness, I cried out to God in prayer.
Anyone who has ever experienced a similar situation will understand what I am about to say: There are times when you pray, and times when you pray! This was one of those latter times. No one offered to help me because no one else could help me. I was there alone—or so it seemed. But as I reached out in desperation to the Savior of my soul, He suddenly made it clear to me that He was also going to be the Savior of my life. There was no audible voice. Something far more comforting was suddenly given to me. An unexplainable and ineffable peace enveloped me like a blanket on a frosty night. With the undeniable marks of the supernatural, the chill of terror was replaced with the glowing warmth of divine assurance. I knew within my heart that God was answering my prayers and was going to see me through.
As the finite security of the great Indianapolis slipped away beneath my feet, the infinite security of the Almighty bore me up and gave me peace—a supernatural peace promised in His Word: “Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all comprehension, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus” (Philippians 4:6–7).
Abandon Ship
With almost no one left on the quarterdeck, I stepped over the rail and walked two long steps down the side of the ship that now made a ramp into the water. Then I jumped feetfirst into the murky, oil-laden ocean. My kapok jacket came up over my head, and as I came up to the surface of the water, I desperately parted it with my hands in an effort to get my head above the layer of thick black oil. Pushing the oil away from my face, I swam away from the sinking ship about fifty yards and joined a few others who had also abandoned ship.
Together we watched in amazement as we saw the fantail going high in the air. As the ship went under, some boys who were still on board frantically ran up the fantail as it went vertical, but then it suddenly rolled to the starboard. In their panic, several boys blindly jumped off, landing in the four big screws that were still turning, and quickly met their death. Gradually the firelight of the steel inferno dimmed as the fantail disappeared. In a span of twelve minutes, the mighty USS Indianapolis slipped into her watery grave in the seven-mile depths of the Mariana Trench, the deepest region of the Pacific Ocean. There she rests to this day.
I cannot remember all that raced through my mind as I swam in the darkness, but I do recall a powerful promise that resonated within my heart that dreadful hour, a promise that has ruled my life from that day forward: “Peace I leave with you,” Jesus said. “My peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid” (John 14:27 KJV).
Survival is a powerful motivator. I looked around at some of my young shipmates. We took inventory of our little group and discovered there were about eighty of us. Since the Indy had continued to move ahead even after having been hit, many men had bailed off behind us, and some even in front of us. Small groups of men were scattered over approximately one mile. At least one-third of the men in my group were injured, some burned beyond recognition. Some men had no life jacket and hung on to their comrades who did. And to our dismay, there was not a life raft to be found. Our lives depended solely on divine providence and the kapok life vests He had supplied.
Two of my fellow Marines were in our little cluster of about eighty, but one had sustained such a serious injury after being blown against a bulkhead that he lasted only a couple of hours. The other Marine, Miles Spooner, dove into the water headfirst when he abandoned ship, so his face was covered with the gooey oil. Over the next several days the oil would become an excruciating irritant to his eyes. As he tried to rub the oil out, he rubbed saltwater in. By the second day his eyes were so inflamed that he could not shut them. His eyeballs eventually bulged out of their sockets, leaving them vulnerable to the blistering sun and saltwater. Early on I knew he would never survive without help, so I gave him my word that I would be there for him, come what may.
By morning our numbers dwindled by about one-third. Most of the severely wounded were hysterical with high fevers and died during the night. When they passed on, we ceremonially removed their dog tags, a well-meaning but misguided act. We later learned that those who were given the macabre task of recovering the decomposed bodies had no way of knowing who they were. Seldom could they even acquire readable fingerprints—a determination only made possible by dehydrating the skin.
We also took their life jackets and gave them to crew members who were without. Then we quietly released their bodies into a watery grave. Even then, the corpses remained with us as if they were somehow still alive and afraid to leave. The gruesome sight of departed friends was a constant reminder of our potential fate and the fragility of life.
The morning of July 30 brought with it both hope and despair. We were shivering cold and glad to feel the warmth of the rising sun. The surface water dropped to about eighty-five degrees Fahrenheit at night, gradually lowering our body temperatures to dangerous levels of hypothermia.
In In Harm’s Way, Doug Stanton graphically describes the physiological processes of hypothermia, explaining that despite the comparative warmth of the Pacific Ocean at this latitude, it was still more than ten degrees cooler than the human body, which caused our core body temperatures to drop, often to dangerous levels.
Depending on the survivor’s percentage of body fat and the clothes he was wearing (more clothes is better when it comes to retaining heat, even in water), each survivor was cooling at a slightly different rate. On average, as the air temperature dropped at night to the mid-eighties—which felt brutally cold compared to the hundred-degree days—our core body temperatures slipped about one degree for each hour we were in the water, and as much as ten degrees from sundown to sunup.
After sunset our bodies would begin shivering, which is normally the body’s way of generating heat. Unfortunately, it also means you’re burning four times more oxygen than normal. The body slows down to conserve energy. When the body cools to about ninety-three degrees, the central nervous system becomes depressed, apathy develops, speech becomes difficult, and amnesia occurs. At ninety-one degrees, urination stops as the kidneys stop filtering waste, and the body becomes poisoned. Finally, breathing becomes difficult, the heartbeat weakens, and you drift out of awareness of your surroundings.
Although he was not in our group, Dr. Lewis Haynes, one of the ship’s doctors, later estimated that by Tuesday morning our temperatures were down to around eighty-five degrees. As the sun rose the next day, our body temperatures slowly rose with it, but little by little every night many survivors’ temperatures sank lower and the day’s sun wasn’t able to catch them up. Eventually, they began hallucinating and lost the ability to make wise decisions, or their bodies shut down altogether.13
In an effort to keep us all together through the massive crests of waves, our dwindling little group formed a circle and fastened our life jackets to one another. Those who didn’t have a jacket hung on to someone who did. If we had stayed on our own, we would have easily been separated by fifty yards in a matter of seconds.
For those of us who were able to talk, we naturally discussed the possibility of rescue. While no one knew for sure, we tried to assure ourselves that an SOS got off the ship. Even if it hadn’t, surely the Navy would become alarmed when they discovered we failed to make our intended rendezvous the next day with the USS Idaho. Our hopes ebbed and flowed with the sound of every plane that flew over us, most at 30,000 feet.
The sunlight of the first day also brought with it a fear of being slaughtered by an enemy sub. Now vulnerable and easily seen, we knew that whoever torpedoed us could possibly still be around. We all surmised that we had been attacked by a Japanese sub, since we had never seen another ship. We also believed that their subs would surface and exterminate helpless men at sea with their machine guns (a cold-blooded order Hashimoto later said he would have never given). While another enemy attack was still a very real potential, I think most all of us had a guarded optimism that help was on its way. We told ourselves that the enemy would probably think the same thing, and therefore not want to linger in the area.
As the day dragged on, we continued to lose more boys. Those who had accidentally swallowed some of the oil had been vomiting all night and were now severely dehydrated and convulsing. They gradually became delusional and would thrash the waters and shake violently until they finally lost control of themselves. Most of these never made it through the first day.
As our bodies baked in the open sea, we began to realize that the sun was transitioning from friend to foe. It soon blistered our previously chilled and now exposed flesh. We tore our clothing to make protective hoods, but the ultraviolet rays reflecting off the water still managed to find our skin. The bright glare forced us to squint our eyes until our facial muscles became utterly exhausted. Our eyes also burned from the caustic saltwater waves that constantly splashed our faces.
Late on that first day, around dusk, we had company. To our horror, we saw several large black dorsal fins cutting through the water and circling our group. I cannot describe the fear of the anticipation and the unknown. But for some reason the sharks seemed unwilling to launch a full attack on our little cluster. They just circled around and around with what seemed to be a predetermination.
According to experts, the oceanic whitetip shark was most likely responsible for most of the attacks on our men. Growing up to ten feet long, they aren’t the largest of sharks, but they are certainly large enough to become man-eaters when given the chance. They spend most of their time in the upper layer of the ocean but are one of the few species that prefers off-shore, deep-ocean areas. They are aggressive and competitive, and meals are likely to become feeding frenzies as many sharks go after the same source of food. Another possible culprit could have been the tiger shark, which is darker and grows larger but is generally more likely to be solitary.
Sadly, some of the hallucinating boys insisted on swimming away from the group to an island or ship they were sure they saw. As they swam away, their thrashing often attracted the sharks and we’d hear a bloodcurdling scream. Like a fishing bobber taken under the water, the helpless sailor quickly disappeared. Then his mangled body would resurface moments later with only a portion of his torso remaining.
On other occasions the waves would tear one of the boys away from the group, causing him to helplessly drift into the shark-infested perimeter. Some of those men were only mauled and were able to make their way back to the group. Others were not so fortunate. Over the course of the next few days, this scenario would be played out more times than I wish to recount.
The Approaching Night
Certainly our resolve to do whatever we could to stay together was strengthened the first night. But our hopes of rescue seemed to sink with the setting of the sun. Incredible thirst and inexpressible fear of the sharks only worsened as the dark approached, dehydrated sailors continued to become incoherent and thrashed about until all their energy was depleted, and the thought of having to endure another shivering night was depressing. We were all miserable and helpless.
Desperation and fear only worsened as the blackness of night enveloped our quivering bodies. The darkness seemed to isolate us in our misery, preventing us from even seeing the guy next to us. For some of the men, there was nothing to bring hope. And without hope, all that is left is despair. But for me, hope never waned. And I do not say that to my credit, but to God’s.
Growing up I was absolutely convinced God existed, but before reporting to boot camp, the reality of war and likelihood of my death began to grip my soul. I asked myself questions like, Why was I placed here upon this earth? What is the real meaning of life? What if I don’t make it back? Am I ready to stand before God and give an account of my life?
Despite my church-going ways and other religious practices highly acceptable and expected in my Bible Belt culture, I realized I had no real relationship with God. He was distant, not personal. As a nineteen-year-old, I really had no faith, no passion to glorify God, no real hunger to hear the sound of His voice in Scripture and obediently serve Him, no real desire to commune with Him in prayer. I realized my best efforts fell far short of His standards. I was scared. My fear of death in war suddenly paled in insignificance. My sin condemned me to an eternal hell, and I knew it. I needed mercy. I needed forgiveness. I needed a Savior.
Racked with guilt and shame, the Lord, by His grace, drew me to himself in faith on the first day of August 1943 while I attended our little church in Murray, Kentucky. That Sunday after the sermon, the pastor gave an invitation and pronounced the benediction. Being deeply convicted that I had violated the laws of God in many ways, I remained seated as most everyone left. The pastor saw me and sat down by me and asked if he could help. I told him I needed to get things right with the Lord and that I felt as if today was my last chance. He opened his Bible and turned to Acts 16:31, which says, “Believe in the Lord Jesus, and you will be saved.” In the quietness of that moment, by the regenerating power of the Holy Spirit, I begged God for His gift of mercy and grace, based solely on Jesus Christ paying for my sins on the cross. That day God forgave my sins, and I experienced the miracle of the new birth in Christ. Knowing the sinless Savior had taken my sins in exchange for His righteousness, my heart was filled with joy and relief. I remember thinking to myself, Now I am ready for war, because now I am ready for eternity.
Two years later, bobbing in the middle of the Pacific, I was reassured that even if the Lord chose to let me perish, I knew His sweet providence was ultimately in charge. In fact, it was a welcome thought to consider that He might decide to take me to my heavenly home and relieve me from my distress. But somehow I knew that He had plans for me and wanted me to survive.
Had it not been for the strength and incomprehensible peace of the Lord, I fear the ordeal of the first night and day would have destroyed me. I had already seen and experienced enough anguish and suffering to last me a lifetime. The inescapable bloody carnage alone was almost unbearable, not to mention my own physical challenges, plus the fear of the unknown. Yet through it all, God remained my close companion. His faithful presence gave me great strength and resolve.
As the terrors of the night surrounded me, my heart ran frequently to the Lord in prayer. The Holy Spirit would help me think of Scripture. When this happened, I would lay hold of His promises and pray them back to Him with an attitude of awe and great joy. That night I remember quoting the Twenty-third Psalm, giving special emphasis to the source of my strength and hope—the Lord himself—and to my Shepherd’s personal care for me. I prayed:
The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever.
Psalm 23 KJV, emphasis mine
Sleep was intermittent during the night. Had it not been for sheer exhaustion, I probably never would have been able to even shut my eyes, much less doze off for short intervals. Yet by God’s grace I relaxed in the darkness and rested in His care. Convinced that rescue would come in the morning, I felt encouraged and confident. Little did I know this was only the beginning. The worst was yet to come.