The Finest Hours (12 page)

Joseph positioned himself in the wing of the bridge, where he could see his cutter's fantail. He had Madigan slowly make the semicircle and bring the cutter toward the rear of the tanker, where he had the engines killed so he could again gauge the rate of drift. As the diesel engines fell silent, the momentum of the
Acushnet
propelled it toward the wallowing tanker looming just ahead. A thousand thoughts raced through Joseph's mind:
What if a sudden swell should smash the ships together and sink them? What if the survivors should fall between the ships and be crushed? What if the oil in the tanker should blow up upon impact? And what of my future if we fail?
The possible outcomes made him pause, but only for a second or two. “Ahead one third!” he shouted.

They were now close enough to clearly see the desperation etched into the faces of the survivors lined up at the rail of the tanker. Just then, a mountainous sea pushed the bow of the
Acushnet
toward the tanker's propeller. Madigan swung the wheel furiously, and Joseph shouted into the power-phone connected to the engine room, “Ahead on starboard, back on port,” and the engines churned the ocean to even more of a froth. Just a few feet from impact, the cutter's bow stopped, and slowly began to reverse itself.

Joseph and Madigan breathed a sigh of relief, and when the
Acushnet
was directly alongside and perpendicular to the tanker, Joseph shouted, “Back on both engines!” Careful to keep the bow pointed away from the tanker, Madigan worked the wheel so that the stern of the cutter eased closer to the tanker. The distance between the
Acushnet
's fantail and the
Mercer
closed from ten feet to just a couple feet, then a slight shudder went through the cutter as her stern hit the tanker. “Stop both engines!” Joseph shouted.

Now was the time for the survivors to jump, but not one made a move. And who could blame them? They were paralyzed with indecision, watching how the two ships, just inches apart, were rising and falling chaotically.

Coast guard lieutenant George Mahoney, Sid Morris, John Mihlbauer, and a handful of other men were out on the
Acushnet
's rear deck, slipping and sliding, waiting for the tanker crew to jump. Mahoney screamed, “Come on, you guys, jump! We'll catch you!” Still no one even lifted a leg over the rail. The tanker and cutter were like two ends of a seesaw, and it was only for the briefest of moments that the cutter's stern rose up within three or four feet of the deck before plunging back down.

Mahoney, frustrated by the survivors' lack of action, cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, “Look, we can't stay here all day! Jump!”

Finally one survivor awoke from his trance, climbed over the rail, and paused, waiting for the cutter to rise on the next wave. When the cutter was three feet below him and just two feet out from the tanker, he threw himself forward and landed on the deck.

His successful leap gave the others confidence, and a second man climbed over the rail, preparing to jump. The ships were now several feet apart, and Mihlbauer put his hand forward, screaming, “No, not yet! Wait a second. Okay, now get ready. Jump!” The survivor did as he was told and made it with inches to spare, just missing being crushed to death between the ships.

Captain Joseph described what happened when the third man leaped. “He poised at the rail and then jumped. But he had waited too long. He leaped as we were falling. His feet hit our rail, and he fell backward, toward the narrowing space between the hulls of the ships. I watched, horrified, as a scream started from his lips.” Two coasties lunged toward the man and grabbed him by the coat, but their momentum and the weight of the survivor began to pull them over the rail. Then three more coasties grabbed at the sliding men, and all were pulled onto the deck.

The remaining survivors were now more reluctant than ever to make the leap. Two coast guardsmen, however, acted on their own, and when the cutter rose on a swell almost level with the tanker, they simply reached out and each yanked a survivor off the
Mercer
and onto the cutter's deck. The coasties were preparing to make another grab when an especially large wave lifted the back end of the
Mercer
so high it looked like it would drop straight down on the cutter. Men scattered off the deck, fearing they'd be squashed, as Joseph screamed into the power-phone, “Full speed ahead!”

Sid Morris remembered what happened next: “The engines groaned and strained, the bulkheads and decks shivered with the sudden tearing vibration, the double screws churned furiously, and, after what seemed an eternity, our ship strained and lurched forward, away from the plunging, knifelike edges of the tanker's propeller.”

The propeller came so close it actually nicked the rail. Captain Joseph, allowing himself to breathe again, decided luck was with them and ordered the helmsman to go for another try. When they were back in position, again they had to coax the survivors. Sid Morris remembers how one heavyset sailor made the leap, skidded wildly—in a standing position—across the deck, and slammed into the rail, saved only by a fast-acting coastie who grabbed him before he plunged off the ship. The survivor later told Sid the reason he slid so fast was that he had put on new shoes he wanted to save.

A total of 18 men made the leap from the tanker to the cutter, without a single casualty. Thirteen crewmembers, however, decided it was safer to stay with the tanker. Joseph had a quick message sent to headquarters:

SURVIVORS TAKEN ON BOARD BY MANEUVERING
ACUSHNET
STERN ALONGSIDE TANKER. MADE TWO PASSES. RECEIVED FIVE MEN ON FIRST PASS AND THIRTEEN ON SECOND.

Captain Joseph asked for and received permission to take the survivors to Boston, as two of them needed hospitalization. The ones who escaped without a scratch were ecstatic to be safely aboard a coast guard vessel where they could enjoy hot coffee, food, and dry clothing. “The happiest moment of my life,” said quartermaster Hurley Newman, “was when I jumped onto the aft deck of the
Acushnet.
”

The
Acushnet
left the accident scene at nightfall and steamed toward Boston. When Captain Joseph, his crew, and the survivors arrived in Boston at eight
A.M.
on Wednesday, they were all taken aback by the huge crowd gathered by the docks. A loud cheer went up from the bystanders, and car horns blared. The press was out in force, snapping pictures of survivors coming down the gangplank and shouting questions. When Captain Joseph emerged, another cheer went up, and two survivors, Massie Hunt and Alanson Winn, got on either side of the captain, draped their arms around his shoulders, and smiled broadly as the Associated Press snapped a picture that appeared on the front page of several newspapers around the country.

Later, when Captain Joseph and the
Acushnet
arrived in Portland, another swarm of people awaited, including the captain's family. Joseph later wrote, “I came out on the wing of the bridge to receive the congratulations. As I looked down on the assembled throng and waved to my wife, my youngest son, in a loud voice, yelled, ‘What's the matter, Dad? Why didn't you take them all off? Did you get chicken?'” Joseph could only smile ruefully and shake his head.

The fractured half of the
Fort Mercer
was eventually towed to New York City with the 13 crewmembers still on board. One man had to be treated for broken ribs. The ship was repaired and fitted for a new bow section and renamed the
San Jacinto.
It would remain in operation for a dozen more years before splitting in half once again and sinking during a storm off Virginia. Fortunately no lives were lost in that wreck.

 

15

TUESDAY AT CHATHAM STATION

Bernie Webber rubbed the sleep out of his tired eyes and felt a dull pain in every joint of his body. Despite his exhaustion, he had not slept well. Bernie lifted his beaten body off his bunk and looked around the room. The aches and pains reminded him what had happened. He and his brave crew had indeed saved the lives of 32 seamen in a tiny lifeboat. Bernie looked to the floor and thought he was dreaming. Dollar bills were scattered about the floor, and his dresser drawer was overflowing with cash. Not knowing what this meant, he quickly got dressed, scooped up all the money, and went downstairs. The survivors appeared to be everywhere, lying on cots and on the floor. Bernie took the money to commander Cluff.

“Where did all this cash come from?” he asked. Cluff told him that the money was a gift collected by the
Pendleton
survivors who had managed to retrieve some of their belongings before abandoning ship. The monetary gift eventually went to buy a television set for the Chatham Station, a rare luxury in 1952.

But some others felt differently about Bernie. Higher-ups were angry about Webber's breach of protocol during the rescue—he had turned off his radio and ignored authority on the return trip to Old Harbor. Cluff told Webber that some ranking officers were even grumbling about a court-martial. But Bernie's superiors had all been shouting over one another as they attempted to give him advice. The noise had been a distraction. Bernie knew what he was doing and where he was going on that night. Cluff promised Webber that he'd handle the fallout and told him not to worry. As it happened, Cluff did not need to run interference for Bernie or anyone else. Later that day, Rear Admiral H. G. Bradbury, commander of the U.S. Coast Guard First District, sent out this priority wire:

HEARTY WELL DONE TO ALL CONCERNED WITH RESCUE OPERATIONS SS
PENDLETON
. TO BERNARD C. WEBBER BMI IN CHARGE OF
CG 36500
AND CREW MEMBERS ANDREW J. FITZGERALD EN2, RICHARD P. LIVESEY SN, AND ERVIN E. MASKE SN. QUOTE: “YOUR OUTSTANDING SEAMANSHIP AND UTTER DISREGARD FOR YOUR SAFETY IN CROSSING THE HAZARDOUS WATERS OF CHATHAM BAR IN MOUNTAINOUS SEAS, EXTREME DARKNESS AND FALLING SNOW DURING VIOLENT WINTER GALE TO RESCUE FROM IMMINENT DEATH THIRTY TWO OF THE THIRTY THREE CREW MEMBERS ON THE STRANDED STERN SECTION OF THE ILL FATED TANKER MINUTES BEFORE IT CAPSIZED … REFLECT GREAT CREDIT ON YOU AND THROUGH YOU THE ENTIRE SERVICE.”

Richard Livesey woke up that morning with a sore throat and throbbing head. He feared that he was coming down with pneumonia. He had a week of liberty coming to him and wanted to get home as quickly as possible. But Livesey and the rest of the crew were told to stay put and wait to be examined by a doctor. Richard was relieved when the doctor informed him that he was not seriously ill. That relief quickly turned to frustration when the physician said that he still wanted to monitor Livesey and the other crewmembers for a week, which meant that his time off would be delayed.

The
Pendleton
survivors did not remain at the Chatham Lifeboat Station for very long, but they did get the opportunity to express their feelings to Webber and the crew. “I'll never forget you fellows,” survivor Frank Fauteux said, shaking their hands. “God bless you, I mean it.” Wiper Fred Brown nodded in agreement. Later that morning, they piled onto a bus bound for the Essex Hotel in Boston. Along the way, they had to pick up two crewmembers, 51-year-old Aaron Posvell of Jacksonville, Florida, and Tiny Myers's close friend Rollo Kennison, both of whom had been treated for shock and immersion at Cape Cod Hospital in Hyannis. The storm had blown farther out to sea before dawn. As the bus left the Chatham Station, the seamen drove past the wreckage of their ship glistening in the morning sun. “There she is,” young Carroll Kilgore said, with sadness in his voice.

One of Boston's major newspapers, the
Daily Record
, ran the bold headline
32 RESCUED, 50 CLING TO SPLIT SHIPS OFF CAPE.
The Cape Cod
Standard-Times
ran the headline announcing
FOUR CHATHAM COAST GUARDS RESCUE 32 AS TWO TANKERS BREAK OFF CAPE
.
The front page of the
Boston Daily Globe
reported
32 SAVED OFF TANKERS
.
The newspaper also ran a photo of skipper John J. Fitzgerald with the subhead “Boston Captain Dies on Pendleton Bow.” This declaration was a bit premature, since the Fitzgerald family was still under the impression he might be alive.

Margaret Fitzgerald had first received word that her husband was in trouble on the evening of February 18. The tanker captain's 11-year-old son, John J. Fitzgerald III, heard the telephone ring while he and his brother were watching
The Adventures of Kit Carson
on television. His mother took the call and then listened silently as the disturbing news was relayed.

“My God,” Margaret screamed. “Did my husband die?”

The person on the other end of the call told her that it was still a fluid and confusing situation. He told her about the four simultaneous rescue operations and that at this point, her husband's fate was not known. Margaret Fitzgerald hung up the telephone, tried to regain her composure, and gathered her four children to break the news. Like his siblings, young John had a difficult time understanding what his mother was trying to say. It was inconceivable that his father would not come home. Although the boy had grown accustomed to prolonged absences—the tanker captain was home only 45 days out of the year—he expected his dad to walk through their front door eventually, his arms full of presents. His mother, meanwhile, made arrangements for her children and then headed down to Chatham.

Millie Oliviera was the only wife waiting inside the Hotel Essex lobby when the tired survivors came pouring out of the bus after their two-and-a-half-hour ride to Boston. Flanked by two of her three children, she embraced her husband, Aquinol, as he stepped out of the cold and into the warm lobby. During those long hours stranded on the stern, the thin, bespectacled cook feared that he'd never see his family again. Aquinol Oliviera and his 31 crewmates were given free accommodations at the Hotel Essex while they waited to give their statements during the coast guard's impending inquiry. Before that, however, the survivors also had to describe their harrowing ordeal to eager Boston-area reporters. During an interview with the
Boston Post
, Aquinol said he was baking at the moment the ship split and that his face was covered with flour when he ran topside to see what had happened. He also said the storm was worse than anything the Germans had dropped on his ship during the invasion of Sicily nine years before. Rollo Kennison carried a triangular paper parcel when he spoke with reporters. Asked what it was, Kennison reached in and pulled out the flare gun Tiny Myers had given him before his death. “He was too good to die,” a still-shaken Kennison told members of the press.