Chapter
Seven
Tragedy and Triumph—the Fifth Day
It was now getting close to midnight on Friday, August 3—ninety-six hours after our ship had been sunk. The seas continued to churn while fifty-six survivors hung on for life aboard the disabled PBY. I had no idea how many other men were scattered for miles all around us, still clinging to life. With a mesmerizing rhythm, the billows swayed us back and forth under the clouds still glowing by the illumination of the approaching Doyle. There was great comfort in knowing the massive destroyer was steadily forging ahead to our rescue. It finally arrived on the scene at 11:45 p.m., some five hours after we were initially picked up. Over the next several hours we were transferred to the Doyle from the damaged Playmate 2. At 12:30 a.m., the Doyle radioed the commander of the Western Carolines:
HAVE ARRIVED AREA [X] AM PICKING UP SURVIVORS FROM THE USS INDIANAPOLIS (CA 35), TORPEDOED AND SUNK LAST SUNDAY NIGHT.1
I don’t remember too much about the transfer, but I do recall a net being rolled over the side for us to climb up, even though most were unable to do so. I vaguely remember being placed into a motor whaleboat that took a group of us to the ship. They fastened me into a wire basket of some sort and hoisted me aboard ship. After transferring our group of fifty-six, the Doyle picked up another thirty-seven survivors that night for a total of ninety-three. By early dawn, their portion of the rescue was complete. Other ships gradually came, finding more sailors strewn over many miles. The following is a list of all the rescue ships that came to the scene on Friday, August 3.2
| Ship Name | Arrival Time | Rescued |
| USS Doyle DE 368 | 0015 | 93 |
| USS Bassett APD 73 | 0052 | 152 |
| USS Register APD 92 | 0200 | 12 |
| USS Dufilho DE 423 | 0300 | 1 |
| USS Talbot DE 390 | 0500 | 24 |
| USS Ringness APD 100 | 1025 | 39 |
As the sun broke through the clouds that morning, the Doyle trained its guns on the crippled PBY and sent it to the bottom of the sea. It had been damaged severely in the landing, taking on a lot of water and leaking oil. By noon we were on our way to Peleliu, located five hundred miles from the Philippines and about the same distance from New Guinea, an island that we had earlier taken from the Japanese. It was there that we lost over ten thousand Marines, and the Japanese lost an entire garrison of over 10,500 soldiers.
As we were being rescued, the B-29 crew of the Enola Gay was anxiously waiting for the skies to clear over their base on Tinian so they could accomplish their mission. Their predetermined target was Hiroshima. I later learned that on the same day we were rescued, President Truman was returning to the United States from the Potsdam conference where he had met with Great Britain and Russia to strategize the final invasion plans to defeat Japan. While en route from London aboard the cruiser Augusta, he confidently informed reporters that America possessed a new weapon that could ultimately end the war. Obviously, the president was right.3
As I was taken aboard the Doyle, I recall two sailors wrapping my arms around their necks and literally dragging me to a compartment below deck. My legs simply had no strength to hold me. Many of my shipmates were also in critical condition. Some had broken legs and arms, and many suffered excruciating pain from infected shark bites. They stretched me out on some kind of table, removed my clothes, and began gently scrubbing the layers of oil off my skin with kerosene. Next they washed me with a saltwater soap, being extremely careful of the body areas that had rubbed together, producing saltwater ulcers. All of my skin was basically decomposing and would peel off and bleed with the least bit of scrubbing. In the days to come, this proved to be a serious and miserable condition for all the survivors.
After I was cleaned up, my sympathetic attendants dressed me in a set of navy skivvies and placed me in one of the sailor’s bunks. Another corpsman brought me some sugared water in a cup, but allowed me to sip only two or three tablespoons at a time.
After the Doyle dropped us off at Peleliu for about two days of medical attention, we were transferred aboard the hospital ship USS Tranquility on Monday morning, August 6. By about 1:00 p.m. we were on our way to the Naval Base Hospital 18 on Guam, arriving there on August 8. There they treated us for the painful saltwater ulcers among many with other injuries. I vividly remember how they stretched out my arms and legs and cleaned off the infections—without any anesthetic. Not having any better treatment, they wrapped the ulcers in Vaseline gauze and strapped my limbs to the bed so I could not move. I was required to stay in this position for several days.
Like many others, I had a boil that was bothering me. Mine was in my right armpit. The corpsman said it would eventually need to be lanced. After a few days they stretched me out on a table, then handed me a small bag of ice to hold in my armpit. This was my only anesthesia. I knew I was in trouble when four sailors were brought in to pin my shoulders and legs to the table while the corpsman lanced the boil. Even in my weakened condition, the pain was so excruciating that my adrenaline kicked into full force, making it difficult for the sailors to hold me down. Worse yet, they discovered the boil wasn’t ready, so they opened up the incision and stuffed it with Vaseline gauze so it could drain, a procedure that had to be repeated every day for about a week.
It was soon after arriving at the hospital in Guam that I had a visitor, one whom I had seen many times walking topside on the forward deck aboard the Indianapolis. It was Adm. Raymond Spruance. He had come to my bedside to pin a Purple Heart on my pajama top, then he thanked me for my service, wished me a good recovery, and shook my hand, and moved on to the next survivor. I was deeply moved by his sincerity and honored by his presence. Little did I know that that would be the extent of our recognition until the year 2001.
Survivors en route to the base hospital on Peleliu. (U.S. Navy photograph, National Archives)
Shocking News
On August 6, while still in Peleliu aboard the Tranquility, a momentous event took place that would forever change the world. While the providence of God was saving our lives, many other lives would be taken on that historic day. For it was on that day that the clouds over Tinian cleared and the Enola Gay finally departed with the Indy’s top-secret cargo secured in its bomb bay. Unknown to us, at 8:15 a.m., the first atomic bomb (nicknamed “Little Boy”) was released over Hiroshima, instantly killing more than 118,000 Japanese and injuring another 140,000, who would ultimately die by the end of the year as a result of the explosion.
On Thursday, August 9, the second atomic bomb was dropped on Nagasaki. This one, nicknamed “Fat Man,” was responsible for killing 40,000 Japanese and seriously wounding another 60,000. The Indianapolis survivors knew nothing of what had happened.
The news of the detonation of the atomic bombs was finally revealed to us on August 10. It was then that we were able to put it all together. To our utter astonishment, we learned that the top-secret cargo we delivered to Tinian was the crucial components for the two bombs dropped at Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Obviously, the news media was buzzing around everywhere trying to get a special scoop on the story. I was interviewed by a reporter from the Louisville Times. I remember it well because I was still secured to my bunk, one of six Kentuckians who had survived. I still have the article, dated August 15, 1945.
On the same day that “Fat Man” was dropped on Japan, Admiral Nimitz called from his headquarters, just a few buildings from where we were recuperating, for a court of inquiry to be opened concerning the sinking of the USS Indianapolis. Our loved ones did not know that we had been shipwrecked and rescued. It was the middle of August when we learned that the Navy had waited two weeks after the sinking of the Indianapolis to make their first public announcement of the tragedy. Although we did not know it at the time, a cover-up was in the making, and it took time to strategize a response that would stand up to both public and naval scrutiny in the days to come. This would ultimately be proven some fifty years later.
After about two weeks in the hospital, all the survivors were taken to a submarine camp to further convalesce. This was our first opportunity to get together since the rescue. For several days we all discussed the horrors we had experienced and mourned the loss of our shipmates who were not so fortunate. I was shocked when I discovered that only nine of my thirty-nine Marine companions aboard ship had survived. One of my most cherished possessions is a picture of all my fellow Marines under the massive barrels of number 1 turret, with their signatures on the back of the picture.
It was a bittersweet reunion when I met with the other eight Marine survivors. I had seen some of them earlier while recuperating in sick bay, but now we were all together and able to discuss what had happened. In disbelief and with great sympathy, we talked about the thirty who perished, and tried to determine if anyone had been in their group at sea. Each of us had special buddies that we inquired about. We learned that Captain Parke was so involved in swimming around his group—trying to keep them all together and defending them from the sharks—that he died of exhaustion. They said that his head finally collapsed into the water, never to rise again.
Our first sergeant, Jacob Greenwald, was not a swimmer but said he got a lot of help, even a spare life jacket, thanks to the help of another Marine survivor, Pvt. Earl Riggins. He indicated that Earl had tied him to the center of the floater net to keep him safe. Everyone had stories that were unique to his group, both in how they survived the ordeal and with vivid details of those who didn’t.
Years later, my Marine buddy Miles Spooner gave an interview to a newspaper and described me as “a ‘hard-shell’ Christian, (who) quoted Bible verses, prayed, and pleaded with God during their extended time afloat.”
“I didn’t care much for religion then,” Spooner said, but he’s changed his mind over the years. Did religion save him and Harrell? “Probably so,” he said, in a choked voice.4
I am thankful that the Lord gave me a steadfast hope and a desire to pray to Him during such an agonizing ordeal. But make no mistake; it was the God of the Bible, not mere religion, that saved us.
We later learned of the gruesome recovery effort conducted on August 4 through August 9 by four reconnaissance ships: the destroyers Helm (DD 388) and Aylwin (DD 355), and the destroyer escorts French (DE 367) and Alvin C. Cockrell (DE 366). After searching for hundreds of miles, they retrieved a total of ninety-one bodies for identification and burial.
Nine Marine survivors of the USS Indianapolis. Top row (left to right): Miles Spooner, Earl Riggins, Paul Uffelman, Giles McCoy, Melvin Jacob. Bottom row (left to right): Max Hughes, Raymond Rich, Jacob Greenwald, and me, Edgar Harrell (1945).
The tragedy and insanity of war is well illustrated in the report that was drafted by the Helm. The report stated that most of the bodies were entirely naked, although a few had shirts on. There was no way to recognize their faces because they were all so horribly bloated and decomposed from their time in the water. Half of the bodies had been attacked by sharks; some were closer to skeletons than corpses. The rescue mission witnessed sharks attacking bodies and had to drive them off with rifle fire.
Identifying the bodies was extremely difficult. The skin had come off of most of the hands, either from decomposition or sharks, so getting fingerprints was usually out of the question. If there was skin left on the hands, sometimes the Medical Officer could dehydrate it and attempt to take prints. But most identification had to come from personal effects, if at all. Projectiles were used to sink the bodies after they’d been examined.5
An acquaintance of mine, Dr. John Neumann, who was a member of the USS Helm, had charge of a burial detail of the men of the USS Indianapolis. Ironically, Neumann’s most frightening experience with war and death occurred after the war officially ended. He was among the Navy physicians called to recover the survivors and the floating dead after the sinking.
I thought I had seen the worst, but it wasn’t anything like recovering the bodies from the Indianapolis. As we prepared the dead for burial at sea, I saw so many dead sailors and Marines gutted apart. It was obvious that a shark had ripped off an arm or leg. The stench and the condition of the survivors as well as the dead was very dreadful. Some of our [medical] team just couldn’t take it and had to be replaced.6
The process of mourning was difficult for each of us. On the one hand, our hearts were filled with joy because we had survived; on the other hand, we felt twinges of guilt because we had not met the same fate as our comrades. Competing emotions were only complicated by the difficulties of our own physical and psychological wounds—some far deeper than we could have imagined—wounds that would fester for the rest of our lives.
Catastrophic Reflections
Our minds also reflected upon the inconceivable catastrophe caused by the bombs we had delivered. While no one rejoiced in such a calamity, we understood then, as we do now, that the devastation produced by the atomic bombs was merciful in comparison to the ongoing fire bombings that continued to incinerate the Japanese on a daily basis. One account indicates that in one night, 325 bombers destroyed sixteen square miles of Tokyo, killing 100,000 men, women, and children and injuring untold thousands more.7
Relating a conversation he had with his pilot, one B-29 navigator named Tom Banks described what he saw firsthand during the summer of 1945:
“Pilot to Navigator, over.”
“How far are we from the Japanese coast?”
“About ninety nautical miles.”
“Better recheck, Navigator. We must be closer than that. Come up front and look.”
As I knelt between the pilot and the copilot, the pilot described an arc with his finger from far to the left to far to his right. The earth was on fire. No one spoke, I finally managed to mumble, “We’re still ninety miles away.”
As we approached the Japanese mainland, we could see that hell had been made real on the face of the earth. 8
Everything Banks saw was so consumed by fire that nothing was distinguishable—plants, stores, houses, people. There was nothing visible to bomb, so his pilot ordered him to just pick a spot and drop their payload.
The religious fanaticism of the Japanese predisposed them to willingly die for their emperor—an inevitable reality had the war continued. While the death tolls from the atomic bombs were indeed staggering, had they not been dropped, causing Japan to surrender, these numbers would have been multiplied many times by the continuation of the fire bombings alone. But these horrendous bombings pale in significance compared to what the Allies were planning to do next. Their plans for a full-scale military invasion of Japan would have cost far more lives than those lost at Hiroshima and Nagasaki combined.
Top-secret military plans labeled Operation Downfall were later declassified, revealing plans for two massive invasions of Japan. On October 29, 1945, the Fortieth Infantry Division and the 158th Regimental Combat Team would invade and occupy a small island twenty-eight miles south of Kyushu where they would establish seaplane bases and a refuge for American carrier-based aircraft. This would precede an amphibious assault three days later on November 1, code-named Operation Olympic. The British would land 1.5 million combat troops, and the Americans would land 3 million more. A second invasion, Operation Coronet, was scheduled to commence on March 1, 1946, delivering twenty-two combat divisions to destroy approximately one million Japanese committed to defending the island of Honshu and the Tokyo Plain. General Willoughby, the chief of intelligence for General MacArthur, conservatively estimated American casualties to be around one million by the fall of 1946.9 One could only imagine the loss of life for the British and Japanese.
History records that President Truman had four alternatives for trying to end the war: (1) the use of the atomic bomb, (2) invasion of Japan (a two-phase operation), (3) maintain blockades and continue conventional bombing, or (4) negotiate a peaceful settlement. Obviously, President Truman chose the use of the atomic bomb because he was convinced that it would end the war quickly and save the many hundreds of thousands of U.S. and British lives that would have been lost during the invasion. He also believed that the bomb would be a powerful deterrent to help contain the expansionist agenda of the USSR. Although we can never know for certain, it would certainly appear that he was right on all accounts.
War is an amazing thing, an evil that defies description. Yet I am thankful that God has protected our great nation down through the years from murderous tyrants who have come against us.
Home at Last
The escort carrier Hollandia transported all of us from Guam back to San Diego. On September 26, over three hundred survivors of the greatest naval catastrophe at sea arrived on the shores of the country they loved and served, only to be met with a paltry Salvation Army band. I cannot say that we knew what to expect, but we certainly thought there would be a more enthusiastic and official welcome. The rather large crowd on the pier had assembled to welcome home the crew of the Hollandia and knew nothing of the Indianapolis survivors. To my knowledge, none of our families or friends greeted us. Most did not even know our whereabouts. We remained on land as we were at sea—lost and neglected. We all had a mounting sense that we were somehow an embarrassment to the Navy, though at the time we did not understand why.
With no official welcome, we all came ashore and invisibly made our way through the crowd, somewhat envious of the jubilant and legitimate welcome for their loved ones on the Hollandia. My eight Marine companions and I looked in vain for an official Marine reception that would at least transport us to the Marine Corp Base. We finally located an MP who helped us find a bus. I relate this story not to elicit sympathy, but only to underscore the realities that caused us all to become increasingly suspicious that something was wrong.
Someone has well said, “Truth and time walk hand in hand.” Indeed, over the next few months we began to understand why we experienced such a mysterious cloud of concealment and disregard. The Navy was up to something. And the story of the Indianapolis had to stay out of the headlines until they had all their political ducks in a row.