Down to the Sea (26 page)

Storekeeper Ken Drummond, who had considered the loss of Billy Bob Dean off the wing of the bridge a forerunner of things to come for
Hull
and her crew, had been on the port wing of the bridge when the ship went over to stay. For some time before, he had been reassuring Boatswain's Mate 2nd Class Robert E. Parker that the ship was “not going to sink.” A former Golden Gloves boxer nicknamed “Punchy,” Parker was the “toughest guy on the ship,” but he couldn't swim and was afraid of the water. He sat on the deck beside Drummond, holding
the storekeeper's leg like a frightened child, asking repeatedly, “What are we going to do?”

When
Hull
went over, Drummond found himself standing on the side of the ship looking aft at some guys “sitting on the side,” although there was “too much spray and wind” to recognize anyone. Then a wave hit Drummond and washed him overboard. The sea was “very cold and dark,” and he “assumed” he was a “goner.” One overriding thought crossed his mind at that moment:
This is really going to upset my mother.

Lieutenant ( j.g.) Lloyd Rust, the seagoing Texas lawyer, had gone on duty at 8:00
A.M.
in CIC (Combat Information Center), one level below the bridge. There were no windows in CIC—the communications and electronics hub of the ship—so Rust “couldn't see anything.” But he was wearing a voice-powered phone headset and had been hearing reports all morning from various locations on the ship. When the “worst thing happened” and Marks “put the ship in a trough”—“the last place you want to be in a storm”—Rust heard thereafter “all kinds of conflicting orders” coming from the bridge. It was clear to him that Marks was “quite upset” and “not doing any good” with his orders, which “kept changing back and forth.” If the captain had done any one of several things and “stuck to it long enough,” Rust thought, the ship might have made it. But Marks, who had “not been good at seamanship” since the day he took command of
Hull,
proved to be an “incompetent ship handler” to the end.

The phone talker on the bridge kept reporting degrees of rolls as registered on the inclinometer. Around 11:30
A.M.
he exclaimed, “It hit the stop on that one!” Rust knew that meant
Hull
had rolled in excess of 72 degrees, which was as high as the inclinometer went before “hitting the peg”—and beyond what was considered a recoverable roll for the decade-old destroyer. The ship “came back from that one,” but not long afterward,
Hull
went on her side.

Arriving early to relieve Rust in CIC was Lieutenant ( j.g.) Don Watkins, the Carnegie Institute of Technology graduate who had come
aboard as a new ensign more than a year before. Admittedly “not known for being early,” Watkins had been looking for something to do other than stay in the wardroom, where furniture and other loose items were sliding from bulkhead to bulkhead. Being early that morning “probably saved” his life, as most of the off-duty officers Watkins left in the wardroom when he headed for CIC “didn't make it” off the ship.

There was only one exit out of CIC. When it was obvious the ship wasn't going to recover, Rust ordered the hatch to a weather deck opened. Water “rushed in right away,” and he told all the men to get out. Two or three times the ship was lifted by a swell, which caused the water to drain out of the room. Then when the ship dropped off the crest and went the other way, CIC filled again. Each time it drained, several men went out with the flow of water. The two officers, Rust and Watkins, were the last to exit. By the time they did, CIC was again nearly filled with seawater.

When Watkins came out, he found quite a few enlisted men standing on the side of the ship, as well as engineering officer George Sharp, the admiral's son. When
Hull
went over, Sharp had been on deck heading from the bridge to the engine room, where they had been “answering bells all morning,” maintaining a speed of “17 knots up until about 11
A.M
.” Sharp suspected that when the ship had “lurched to starboard at about 11:30
A.M
.,” the longitudinal bulkheads between three main fuel tanks amidships were “possibly carried away.” He knew that would cause many tons of oil in those tanks to flow in the direction the ship was rolling, thereby increasing the list and making recovery from rolls more difficult. He had planned to inspect the tanks, and if they were damaged to shift the fuel elsewhere, but he and
Hull
had run out of time.

To Sharp and the others on the side of the ship it was clear that
Hull
was going to go down soon, as the vessel was “taking on water through both stacks,” which were spewing back hot oil, creating a scenario for a cataclysmic boiler explosion at any moment. Sharp began organizing the men to tie themselves together and go into the water as a group.

Watkins began to assist, but on the next wave he was washed off. He came up treading water next to Fireman 2nd Class Roderick Mackenzie, twenty, of Los Angeles, California. Mackenzie was clearly having a difficult time keeping himself afloat, and Watkins quickly saw why.

“Where's your life jacket?” asked the officer.

“Couldn't get it,” Mackenzie said.

“Hang on to me.”

The kapok life jacket wasn't designed to support two men, and they “weren't doing too well together.” When a raft passed nearby, Watkins suggested Mackenzie “swim over and get on it.” As the raft was already full, Watkins decided to stay on his own. Mackenzie made it to the raft and was pulled aboard. Watkins waved goodbye to the sailor.

When Rust came out of CIC he got “hung up and cut pretty badly” on the mast and its rigging before he was able to get clear of the ship. Once in the water he saw a life raft nearby with men hanging on it. He made for the raft, and when he reached it he joined in kicking and paddling in order to move farther away from the ship.

Rust heard the rumbling before he saw the approaching swell. Looking up, he realized they were about to be hit by “a wave 70 feet or better.” When the swell struck, the raft and men tumbled end over end into a seemingly endless pit. Rust was kept underwater a long time before his life jacket finally started pulling him toward the surface. He came up under the raft, which had wooden slats across the bottom. He “almost drowned trying to get out from under the raft” and past all the exhausted men hanging on to the rope handles on the side. Deciding he would be better off alone, Rust pushed off and moved away.

Rust had learned that each swell could be heard a couple of seconds before it hit, giving him time to take a deep breath before “it swallowed me up.” The waves were “so much and powerful” that they kept him tumbling underwater near the limit of his stamina. Just when he thought he was going to drown, he could feel the water rushing by as his life jacket brought him back up to the surface. He then had only enough time to take a couple of breaths before he heard the next swell coming. This went on for hours—all afternoon, in fact.
Rust frankly wasn't sure where he was finding the endurance to take such a beating.

A nagging thought kept coming to the newly licensed barrister who had not yet set foot in a court of law as an attorney. Lloyd Rust knew he might have to be “resigned to the fact” that he was going to die.

It was several hours before the thirteen
Monaghan
survivors were able to fix the lashings for the wooden “latticework” bottom of the oblong raft and “let the wounded climb in.” Before that, each huge swell that hit ripped the men away from the handles and lines they were clutching, and scattered everyone in different directions. They kept having to “fish around to help the wounded back,” which left everyone “tired and weak.”

One by one the others followed the injured men into the hard-shell raft, designed to hold eight men. In a “shaky condition” to start with, the raft filled with water as “waves were breaking over [it]…continuously.” Afraid that the bottom might fall out from
all the weight, the able-bodied men tried to float so that their life jackets would take some of the weight.

Water Tender Joe McCrane, the senior enlisted man present—not one of the ship's eighteen officers had survived—was in charge. Already affectionately known as “Mother McCrane” for the concern he showed others, McCrane was a man in the right place at the right time. Once all were inside the raft, McCrane “started to organize” by first finding out “who was hurt and how badly.” Gunner's Mate Joe Guio and Ship's Cook 1st Class Will Ben Holland, of McMinnville, Tennessee, were the most seriously injured. Guio had “a large piece of the bottom of his foot hanging off” and Holland had “a big hole in the top of his head.”

Checking the supplies in the raft, McCrane found two kegs of water, assorted canned rations, and a tin filled with medical supplies. They had no flares and only one oar—everything else had broken loose in the storm. Trying to get water from a keg turned into a difficult job, as the spigot was stuck. When they got it open, everyone took a few sips. The water tasted stagnant, as though it hadn't been changed for some time, and men complained of being sickened by it.

As darkness settled over them the rain had stopped and the wind had died down considerably. Large waves continued to break over the raft, providing “force-feedings of seawater” and leaving everyone “very cold and very miserable.” They decided they might as well try to settle down for the night and “pray to be picked up” in the morning.

Guio, who had had most of his clothing torn off, was shivering uncontrollably. “I don't think I'm going to make it,” he said softly.

McCrane pulled the injured man close and wrapped his arms around him to keep him as warm as possible.

Guio, having lost a lot of blood, kept drifting in and out. At one point he awoke groggily and asked McCrane if he could see anything.

“The stars,” McCrane answered.

“I can't see a thing,” Guio said. He thanked McCrane for trying to keep him warm, and others for helping him, too. Guio then laid his
head back on McCrane's shoulder and “went to sleep.” About half an hour later, McCrane tried to awaken Guio, only to find that he was dead. McCrane told the others, then decided to “hold for a little longer” the man who had rescued from the sinking ship so many others, McCrane included, and who freed from
Monaghan
's deck—an effort that caused his own serious injury—the raft upon which their lives depended.

Twenty minutes later, the men on the raft held their first burial at sea. They recited the Lord's Prayer as the popular and heroic Joe Guio was lowered over the side. The rest of the night was “spent very quietly” with everyone “just absorbed in their own thoughts.”

At daybreak, McCrane gave each man a small ration of food and a cup of water. The malted milk tablets were “very good tasting,” but the biscuits were so hard they had to be soaked in water before they could be eaten. When McCrane opened a can of Spam to divvy up, they were suddenly surrounded by sharks, which made the men “plenty scared.” While the sharks disappeared for long stretches of time, they would quickly reappear whenever a new can was opened. At one point, seven sharks were counted, “just circling, and waiting.” The men talked nervously about how sharks must have a strong sense of smell to find food, and all agreed they would never again let anyone tell them that “sharks go after you only if you are bleeding.”

McCrane and the group's next most senior man, Machinist's Mate 2nd Class Robert J. Darden, twenty-eight, of Jacksonville, North Carolina, busied themselves treating the injured—applying sulfa powder and ointment to wounds and bandaging them. Their efforts seemed “fruitless,” for as fast as a wound was treated “it had to be put back into salt water.”

That morning they sighted several planes, which “seemed to be going everywhere” but over the raft. Everyone was “on edge” and so sore from cuts, bruises, burns (from the sun and salt water) and other injuries that “even if we brushed against each other it was painful.”

One of the water kegs was lost that day when the lashing failed to hold it to the raft and it drifted away without anyone noticing. Not
knowing how much longer it would be before they were rescued, McCrane reduced the daily water rations. Thirst became a major problem. McCrane and Darden had a “difficult time” with Seaman 1st Class Bruce Campbell, of Texas, who insisted on drinking salt water. They “slapped him and threatened to throw him to the sharks,” but it was “all in vain.”

As evening approached, McCrane observed that “some of the boys began to crack under the strain.” One man bit another on the shoulder, and someone else untied the life jackets that had been secured to the outside of the raft as they were “too water soaked to be worn” all the time. Someone also “unscrewed the top to the first aid supply,” and as a result almost all of the medical supplies were lost.

That night, Campbell and Gunner's Mate 2nd Class Dayton Genest, of California, passed away, and the men on the raft held two more burials. McCrane was perplexed, as neither Campbell nor Genest was seriously injured and he didn't know why they died, although he speculated that in Campbell's case it could have been from drinking salt water.

On the morning of December 20 they spotted a second raft and decided they would try to reach it. The men paddled with their hands and with the one oar they had. The swells were “still so mountainous” that it seemed “impossible to ever reach the other raft,” which could be seen only when it was atop a swell, before disappearing into a deep trough.

Finally, they worked their way to within 10 feet of the smaller raft, which “no one was on.” Seaman 2nd Class Melroy Morrison, of South Dakota, and Fireman 1st Class Louis Shalkowski, of Rhode Island, swam over and tried to “push it toward us as we tried to row to them.” The currents, however, kept them apart. The distance between the rafts increased until the raft with Morrison and Shalkowski disappeared from sight in the swells. Neither man was seen again.

Their raft was in “pretty bad condition” at that point. Seaman Doil Carpenter and McCrane repaired it as best they could, and managed to raise the wooden bottom so the men could be “farther out of the water.”

That night—their second spent on the raft—“most of the fellows had really lost their heads,” with many of them thinking “they saw land and houses.” Radioman 2nd Class Louis Spence, of Texas, jumped overboard and kept swimming around the raft. They other men tried to get him back, but he ignored their pleas. He finally climbed back on the raft and said he had filled the water keg with fresh water while everyone was dozing.

McCrane had Carpenter check the keg to see if Spence had dumped the water or “put salt water in it.” Carpenter found it almost all gone. Everyone started yelling at Spence, who said if they didn't leave him alone he would “whistle and have the Indians surround all you guys.”

“Go ahead and whistle,” McCrane said.

Spence did.

McCrane waited a while before he asked, “Where are the Indians?”

“Don't worry, they'll be here.”

Spence announced he was going for another “short swim” and would be “right back.” Several men tried to grab him, but he pulled away from them. The water was “calmer than it had been,” and Spence would swim about 10 feet away and then swim back to the raft. He did this a number of times before finally swimming out of sight. They heard him yell, and tried to row toward the sound of his voice, but in the dark couldn't get a fix on him. Spence abruptly stopped yelling—as if “attacked by a shark or drowned,” everyone decided. Spence was never seen again.

After all the excitement, McCrane turned around to find that Holland, one of the most seriously injured, had died. They had their fourth burial that night, committing Holland's body to the deep. Now down to six—“all in bad condition”—they had lost a total of seven men from the raft.

On the morning of their third day, the sea started to get choppy again. McCrane felt that things were “beginning to look pretty grim,” but he still endeavored to “keep up his own spirits” as well as those of the other men. They sighted “more planes and a big task force,” but they were far off. With McCrane leading them, they “prayed like never before.”

Someone spotted an onion floating about 25 feet away, and they paddled over. They had almost reached it when a shark about 8 feet long nosed up next to the onion. The men decided “to let the shark have it.”

Darden saw something floating next to the raft and picked it up. It was a flat piece of wood with a quarter-inch chain held on by a nail. The men decided to try to make a fishing line and “catch ourselves a small shark.” Someone remembered hearing that liquid from a shark was “good drinking water.” Darden used Spam for bait and got a bite, but there was nothing on the line and the bait was gone. He tried again, holding the line down about a foot below the surface. A 5-foot shark came up from below. Darden pulled the line in slowly until the bait was out of the water. The shark followed until its head was up near the side of the raft.

Water Tender 3rd Class James T. Story, of Grant, Oklahoma, took his penknife and plunged it into the shark's head. The shark seemed “little fazed,” and swam off. Meanwhile, Evan Fenn and Fireman 1st Class William Kramer tried catching by hand the small fish that swam around with the sharks, but were unsuccessful. The men gave up fishing.

The planes and task force in the distance seemed to be getting closer. McCrane tied a white skivvy shirt on one end of the oar and the men took turns waving it in the air. They also used cans of Spam and biscuits to try to reflect the sun at the ships and planes. After several hours, two planes came “right over the raft about 200 feet above.” The men did everything possible to attract attention but were almost sure that the pilots hadn't seen them. After they were well past, however, the planes suddenly turned back toward their position. One plane signaled the men by “nosing over in a steep power dive” that ended with a “deafening roar” as the plane buzzed low overhead.

That was when the men knew for sure they had been sighted. They were so happy as to be “almost speechless.” There were no cheers, yells, or whistles. “Thinking of nothing better to do than to thank God,” they all recited a raspy “prayer of thanks.”

The two planes, which had flown off a Third Fleet aircraft carrier, circled and dropped dye markers close by in the water. They then
climbed with full throttle, dipped their wings in farewell, and departed.

Ten minutes later, the men on the raft saw “the most wonderful sight in the world”: a U.S. destroyer “steaming at full speed right at us.” At 11:41
A.M.
on December 21,
Brown
(DD-546) picked up the six
Monaghan
survivors, who had been in the water for three days and nights.

The last to leave the raft was Joe McCrane, as “befitted the senior in command.” He took a final look back before grabbing on to the line and being hoisted up the side of the destroyer. It occurred to him that to his “dying day,” he would “never forget the finest shipmates that a man could have.” And he would always remember “the Mighty M, a gallant ship” that had played a “brilliant role” in her country's “fight for victory.” He understood, too, the sad irony that it had taken a monstrous storm at sea to do what the Japanese had been “trying to do since December 7, 1941, at Pearl Harbor.”