Indianapolis' 17 knot forward speed through the water continued--shipping thousands of tons of sea
water through collapsing forward bulkheads. Seawater surged in through the gaping hole in her
side. She began to go down by the bow and then to list to port. Officers began to shout--ordering
all hands to abandon ship. By the hundreds they jumped into the ink-black, midnight sea, taking
their burned and wounded shipmates with them. Within about twelve minutes, according to the
survivors, Indianapolis rolled completely over to port and went rapidly down, bow first.
Of the approximately 1197 officers and men aboard, survivors estimate about 880 men,
many badly burned, maimed and wounded--made it alive into the sea in the early minutes of July 30,
1945.
Luck...Fate...whatever you want to call it, played an important role in all the events in the
lifetime of the Indianapolis. Time of day now played a key role in allowing so many men to getaway
from the mortally wounded ship. The torpedo attack had taken place within minutes of a watch change
--about half the ship's company was taking up their watch duties, the other half still awake, and
preparing for their off duty hours.
880 men were now scattered over thousands of yards of open sea. They had no water and no food.
Some had kapok life jackets--many did not. Life rafts were precious few. The rafts which were
designed to float free of the ship, failed to do so. Fuel oil from the ships ruptured tanks coated
the sea and the men, making most violently ill. When the sun rose on that first day, there was
reason for optimism--after all, the crew knew they were due to join up with USS Idaho the next day
for gunnery practice--surely they'd be missed and search missions would immediately be mounted.
However, such was not the case, and for the next four and a half days, the men of the Indianapolis
would know terror, thirst, hunger and despair on a massive scale. Many would give up the struggle
and slip quietly beneath the sea, never to be seen again by their shipmates. Prayer constantly
assaulted Heaven. Some cursed the navy. It would be the quintessential struggle of man against nature.
Shark attacks began with the coming of daylight on Monday. One by one sharks began to pick-off the
men on the outer perimeter of the clustered groups. Agonizing screams filled the air day and night...
Blood mixed with the fuel oil. The survivors say the sharks were always there by the hundreds-
swimming just below their dangling feet. It was a terror filled ordeal- never knowing if you'd be
the next victim. By the third day, lack of water and food combined with the unrelenting terror
began to take its effect on the mental stability of the men. Many began to hallucinate. Some, many
who had taken in sea water, went slowly mad. Fights broke out. Hope faded. By Wednesday evening,
the third day, survivors estimate that only 400 or so were still alive- the dead littered the
surface of the sea.
At about 10:25 AM, Thursday morning, 24 year old Lieutenant Chuck Gwinn, piloting his Lockheed
Navy Ventura PV-1 bomber based on the island of Palau, about 300 miles south of the location where
Indianapolis went down, was on routine antisubmarine patrol. It was his second flight of the day;
earlier while attempting to reel out his radio antenna, it broke away. He returned to base at
Palau, installed a new one and immediately took off to start his antisubmarine patrol. On that
second patrol, Gwinn was in the rear of the plane working with his crew to solve a binding problem
with the antenna winch. He was leaning out of the plane, guiding the wire, when he chanced to
glance down at the ocean- and changed the fate of 317 men. Gwinn had spotted a huge oil slick.
Thinking the large oil slick indicated that an enemy sub had just submerged beneath his plane,
he dropped down several hundred feet for a depth charge run. The bomb bay doors were opened,
ready to drop depth charges on the suspected enemy sub. Gwinn glanced out the window just as he
was about to release his depth charges--and there, spread out over the ocean, were hundreds of
delirious men waiving to get his attention. Immediately Gwinn regained altitude and radioed his
base at Palau: "Many men in the water", and gave his latitude and longitude. He orbited the
location answering questions from Palau. Many hours were wasted in getting through the
bureaucracy-They refused to believe him--some thought it was a prank.
Some three hours after Gwinn's first report, a Catalina PBY flying boat was eventually dispatched.
At her controls, a 28 year old Navy pilot from Frankfort, Indiana named R. Adrian Marks. Enroute
to the location reported by Gwinn, Lt. Marks overflew the USS Cecil Doyle, whose skipper was a
close friend. Marks informed the skipper of his mission. On his own initiative, the Doyle's
captain, Graham Claytor, diverted from his orders to proceed to Leyte Gulf, where his ship was to
take part in the invasion of Japan, to lend assistance.
At this point, his fuel state near critical, Gwinn headed for his home base, little knowing the
part fate had played in his life or the lives of 317 American sailors and marines.
Arriving at the survivors' location, Marks dropped to about 100 feet above the surface of the sea
while his crew began dropping rafts, and supplies. While this was happening, his crew informed
him they could see men being attacked and eaten alive by sharks!
Seeing these men under shark attack, the crew voted to abandon standing orders prohibiting
landing in open seas. This act of humanity is all the more remarkable when you realize Marks and
his crew had no idea who these sailors might be--English, Aussies, Japanese or American. Marks
landed the PBY. (Years later Marks related he knew the day might come when he'd be forced to make
an open sea landing--so he had planned for the eventuality. On that day he would put his theory
into practice). In a daring maneuver, he landed between swells in a power-on stall - tail low,
nose high attitude. Although many hull rivets popped out from the force of the landing, his PBY
made it! He taxied his plane as close as he could to the first large group of men and immediately
began taking survivors aboard. Some nearby survivors were so weakened by their ordeal that when
they slipped out of their kapok life jackets, they drowned while attempting to swim to the plane.
Learning the men were from Indianapolis, a thoroughly shaken Marks frantically, and now in plain
English, repeatedly radioed for help. When the PBY's fuselage was full, the crew carried men onto the wings. All night long,
Marks and his crew fought to get as many men as possible out of the shark infested sea. The wings' fabric covering was soon
filled with holes, and covered with survivors, many tied in place with parachute cord. By morning, Lieutenant Mark's
PBY was a floating unflyable hulk.
Responding to Marks' calls for help, the destroyers, Cecil Doyle, (DE-368), Talbot, (DD-390), and
Dufilho, (DE-423), converged on the scene. The Auxiliary Ships Ringness, (APD-100) Bassett,
(APD-73), and Register, (APD-92) also came to the rescue of the remaining Indianapolis crew.
The Cecil Doyle came along side Lt. Mark's PBY and took off the rescued survivors. Marks stripped the plane of all instruments
and secret gear, and transferred himself and his crew to the Doyle. He then asked her skipper to destroy his plane by gunfire,
lest it fall into enemy hands.
The PBY Marks used that day, as he put it, "was the duty PBY", one of those built toward the end
of the war in which an experimental self-sealing gas tank had been fitted in the starboard wing.
The port wing tank was the standard non-sealing type. In spite of two direct hits to the starboard
tank, the plane refused to burst into flame. It wasn't until the Doyle trained her guns on the
PBY's port side that they were successful in destroying the plane.
Adrian Marks and his courageous flight crew saved 56 men that day. A record that has
never been equaled for a sea plane of that size since!
Sadley, Bureaucracy is the same the world over. Believe it or not, some low level Navy functionary in the Pacific actually
began the paperwork to court marshal Lt. Marks for disregarding standing orders not to land on the open sea. It was proceeding
through the chain of command until somebody realized who Lt. Marks was and what he'd done...the paperwork for the court
marshal was killed.
Following medical treatment on Guam, the 317 weary, but deliriously happy survivors were returned
to the United States aboard the escort carrier, Hollandia, (CVU-97).
The Indianapolis was a very high profile ship. Owing to her pre-war fame and her wartime service
as the Flagship of ADM Spruance and ADM Halsey, she was the center of attention in the Pacific.
The media of the day, radio and print, attempted to get reporters aboard Indianapolis to record
the news. Young men just out of Annapolis and the various V-12 and NROTC programs all wanted to be
assigned to Indianapolis. That's where the "action" was, and consequently enhanced chances for
recognition and promotion. Politically influential fathers had pulled strings to get their sons
assigned to the Indianapolis.
When the ship was lost, these same influential families began to pressure the navy about the loss
of their sons. The navy reacted badly. ADM Earnest King then the Chief of Naval Operations,
(the navy's TOP Admiral), ordered a Court Marshal for the INDY'S captain, Charles B. McVay.
On 19 December 1945 Charles Butler McVay III was found guilty of the specification of the first
charge: Hazarding his vessel by failing to zig-zag. He was found innocent of the second specification:
Failing to sound a timely order to abandon ship. McVay's punishment was to be dropped 100 point
numbers on the promotions list--effectively ending what had been by all accounts an absolutely
brilliant naval career.
Following the proceedings, an unprecedented thing happened. Almost to a man, the officers sitting
in judgment signed a petition asking the court to set aside the verdict in light of McVay's
record. As Admiral King had retired in the interim, it fell to ADM Chester Nimitz to grant the
petition of the court, and he set aside the punishment. He could not set aside the fact of the
conviction. Admiral Nimitz restored Captain McVay to duty and posted him as commandant of the
New Orleans Naval district where he was promoted to Rear Admiral (lower half), where he finished
his career and retired.
Tragedy continued to stalk McVay even in retirement. What could only be termed "hate mail" was
constantly sent to his home. He was the recipient of emotionally charged phone calls from parents
and loved ones of those who lost their lives in the tragedy of the Indianapolis. His wife contracted
cancer and passed away within a few short years of their move home to Litchfield Connecticut.
Eventually the weight of loneliness and calumnious phone calls and mail took its toll on the man.
In the fall of 1968 Charles Butler McVay III, last Captain of the USS INDIANAPOLIS (CA-35),
stepped out on his front stoop, and using his navy issued service revolver, took his own life.
The tragedy of the Indianapolis had claimed her final victim.
The Navy
Department announced that Captain McVay's offical record has been amended. He has been exonerated of the
loss of the Indianapolis and the lives of those who perished as a result of her sinking. The action was taken by Secretary
of the Navy Gordon R. England who was persuaded to do so by New Hampshire Senator Bob Smith, a strong advocate of McVay's
innocence. The Indianapolis survivors are deeply grateful to Secretary England and Senator Smith and also to young Hunter
Scott of Pensacola, Florida, without whom the injustice to Captain McVay would never have been brought to the attention of
the media and the Congress.
©Donald E. Bruner 10-01