The Sea Hunters II: More True Adventures with Famous Shipwrecks

I PT-109 1943

It was another day of tropical heat and humidity, the type of smothering air that brings on a festering malaise of listlessness and diminished expectations. Even the fact that the crew of PT 109 was due a night in port was doing little to add enthusiasm to what had become an endless war against sweat and insects. The crew was battle-weary and dulled by exhaustion.

They dreamed of home fires and cool breezes.

“Maybe we can scrounge up some bread,” said Raymond Albert.

Albert was from Akron, Ohio, twenty years old and always hungry.

“To make some Spam sandwiches?” radioman John Maguire said dubiously.

“No more Spam,” Albert said. “Perhaps we can shoot a few fish and have fish sandwiches.”

Just then the sounds of an approaching shore launch filtered into the cove where PT-109 was moored. Seated behind the bosun’s mate was a slim, sandy-haired man who usually sported a broad smile. This afternoon, however, no smile was visible.

“Maybe Kennedy’s brought some fresh rations” Maguire said hopefully.

“If he had fresh food,” Albert said, “he’d look happy. He doesn’t look happy.”

PT-109 looked used and abused, but it was not the result of a long life. The trim eighty-foot vessel had first met water in July 1942, just over a year before, in the polluted waters near her factory in Bayonne, New Jersey. Constructed of plywood by ELCO, the Electric Boat Company, she had first been assigned to the PT Boat Training Center in Melville, Rhode Island, before traveling through the Panama Canal on a transport ship. Eventually reaching Noumea in the South Pacific, she had been towed to the Solomon Islands and joined the fighting near Guadalcanal. Powered by three twelve-cylinder Packard engines and sporting a total of four torpedo tubes, she was finished in a dark-green paint scheme that allowed her to hide under a canopy of foliage when not on patrol.

After training at Melville, John F. Kennedy assumed command in April of 1943.

The base for PT-109 was named Todd City in honor of Leon E. Todd, the first PT-boat crewman based at Lumberi to die. The island where Lumberi was located was named Rendova. To the east of Rendova was the Solomon Sea; to the west, New Georgia Island. To the north lay Gizo Island and the Japanese base at Gizo Town, which fronted Blackett Strait. West of Gizo was the tall, tree-covered mountain named Kolombangara that formed the opposite edge of the strait. Rendova was almost uninhabited until the navy base was established, and the jungles nearby were still wild. Brightly colored parrots flitted from one coconut palm to another, while lizards climbed atop the rotting coconuts at their bases. Flies and winged beetles took to the air. When the sun was setting, bats and night birds could be seen taking Hight. The waters near Rendova were warm and teeming with life. Coral reefs poked up through the crystal-clear water, and tropical fish abounded.

It could be considered paradise, save for the war raging nearby.

Lieutenant (Jg) John Fitzgerald Kennedy climbed from the shore launch, clutching a folder holding orders and operational information. A handsome man at twenty-six years old, he had been raised with privilege. After a childhood in Massachusetts, he had attended boarding school at Choate, followed by graduation from Harvard University. Son of the former ambassador to the Court of St. James, Joseph Kennedy, he had little in common with the men who served under him.

Still, his crew had found their well-heeled skipper both friendly and approachable.

A stem taskmaster when that was warranted, he also showed leniency with regulations he found arbitrary or unsound. And while he was tasked with maintaining at least a reasonable sense of navy decorum, he was more concerned with matters that pertained to crew readiness and operations. There was one other thing that endeared him to his men — there was no job he would not do himself. When cargo needed to be loaded, he helped. When the boat needed scraping or painting, he reached for a tool.

Those who had served under other PT-boat skippers rated Kennedy a favorite.

“Gather ‘round,” Kennedy said as he climbed the gangplank. “I have our orders.”

Ensign Leonard Thorn from Sandusky, Ohio, the second in command, shouted down to the sailors in their bunks. Thorn was a large man with light hair and a blond beard. Built like a football player, he had an eternally positive attitude that flowed forth like waves of warmth. Once the crew filtered abovedecks and stood milling on the stern, he turned to Kennedy.

“Men are assembled, sir.”

Kennedy glanced around and nodded.

“We’ve been ordered to go out tonight,” Kennedy said, staring at his men.

“Damn,” someone said under his breath.

Grumbling could be heard as the men scattered, but all in all they took the news surprisingly well. There was a war in progress, and war demanded unusual measures. Personal desires gave way to sacrifice, weariness to preparation, fear to duty. They had a job to do — and they’d do it.

Still, not a single man could envision the horror they were about to face.

“Wind it up,” Lieutenant Kennedy said, a few minutes before half past four the afternoon of August 1.

A rumble filled the air as the first of the trio of Packard engines was started. Down in the engine room, Motor Machinist First Class Gerald Zinser waited for the word to engage the drive.

Behind the helm, Lieutenant Kennedy revved the Packard, then adjusted it back to an idle. Satisfied with the sound, he called down for the drive to be engaged. Then he carefully steered PT-109 away from shore. Slowly the boat made way up the channel. The sun was low in the sky, and the light through the haze cast a pale orange glow over the heights of Rendova Peak.

Seaman Second Class Raymond Albert was on the stem deck. He could see sand crabs scurry from the water’s edge as the noisy PT boat idled past. Overhead a small flock of green parrots flitted past, changing directions in midair before heading across Lumberi to find refuge in the tall palms. The wake angled toward shore and washed against the mangrove roots lining the rim of the water.

Ensign George Ross was a friend of Kennedy’s who had hitched a ride on PT-109 for the night. Formerly the executive officer of PT-166, a vessel sunk by friendly fire on July 20, Ross was without a boat and wanted to take part in the action. Kennedy offered to let him operate the aged thirty-seven-millimeter army antitank gun that PT-109 had been tasked with testing. The gun was crudely lashed with planks onto the foredeck, and Ross was staring at the placement and wondering if it would remain on board after it was fired. There was little Ross could do about it now, so he raised his eyes and stared off the bow.

Fifty yards ahead, several bottlenose dolphins leapt in the air, looking for all the world like a flowing arc of wet gray paint. Staring to port, Ross watched the water a hundred yards ahead boil as a school of baitfish danced across the top of the water. To starboard, Ross thought he caught the glimpse of a shark’s fin piercing the surface, but when he looked more carefully, he could see nothing.

“Ensign Thom,” Kennedy shouted above the noise of the engines.

“Sir,” Thom said, approaching from the stairs leading belowdecks.

“Go below and tell Zinser that engine three feels sluggish.”

“Yes, sir,” Thom said as he went belowdecks.

“Skipper reports number three feels sluggish,” Thom shouted over the din.

Zinser was wiping his hands with a rag. He pointed at a round glass bowl attached to an engine.

“Seems to be okay now,” Zinser said. “There was some gunk in the fuel.”

“I’ll let him know,” Thom said, as he started to leave.

“Mr. Thom?” Zinser said.

Thom turned around and smiled at Zinser. “Yes, Zinser?”

“We’re going to see action tonight, aren’t we?”

The enlisted men respected Thom. One reason was because he was as open and honest with the crew as the rules allowed. “Word is the Express is running. We are going to try to sink a few.”

Zinser nodded. “What’s the chance we get tomorrow night off?”

“Hard to say,” Thom said. “I guess that depends on tonight.

Thom had never spoken truer works, but neither he nor Zinser knew that yet.

Thom went to the helm station and touched Kennedy’s shoulder. “Zinny had some bad fuel.”

“Yeah,” Kennedy said, “she’s smoothed out now.”

Thom stared at the sky. The last flicker of light was washing down the side of the distant peak. In the Solomon Islands, it grows dark quickly. One moment there is waning sunlight, and within half an hour the first stars can be seen. It was as if a switch had been flipped off.

“It’ll be clear tonight, sir,” Thom noted.

“All the better for hunting,” Kennedy said easily.

ON THE JAPANESE destroyer Amagiri, there was a level of tension that came from knowing they were being stalked. Somewhere in the night were the pesky American mosquito boats. The fast plywood attack crafts came quickly and disappeared just as fast. This was a strange and new type of marine warfare. The Japanese sailors were not trained for this. Historical rules dictated that ships fired on other ships when they were in sight. Sneaking and hiding in the dark was a little unnerving.

Truth be told, the PT boats had not caused much damage — their torpedoes were notoriously inaccurate, and to use their deck guns, they needed to be close enough to the ships of the Express to be in harm’s way themselves. Still, they were out there in the blackness, came quickly without warning, and sped away as if on the wings of eagles.

Gunner Hikeo Nisimura adjusted the chin strap on his helmet and stared to port. From his vantage point in the bow gun, he had an unusually broad view of the areas Amagiri steamed past. This evening, the top of the peak on Kolombangara Island was shrouded in clouds. As he watched, the last remnants of the setting sun dropped below the horizon, and the peak began to grow purple from top to bottom, as if a giant had poured on a ladle of plum sauce.

And then, although the temperature was nearly seventy degrees, Nisimura felt a chill.

In Amagiri’s pilothouse, Commander Kohei Hanami stared at the chart, then ordered the speed increased to thirty-five knots. Hanami was both a stem taskmaster and one who believed in rigid schedules. In the holds of his command were 912 soldiers and nearly a hundred tons of supplies that were bound for Munda Airfield, where the Japanese army was fighting a losing battle against the American marines. Amagiri’s part in this plan was to arrive at the base at Vila on Kolombangara Island, off-load the soldiers and supplies, then steam back to her base before daylight.

ENSIGN Ross WALKED back from the bow to the helm. The flotilla was cruising north through Ferguson Passage. To starboard, barely visible in the black of night, was the outline of Vonavona Island. Ross stood for a moment, hands on his hips, and smelled the air. Salt and seawater, mildew and fungus. From over the water on land came the scent of night-blooming jasmine and limes mixing with the musty smell of mangrove roots at low tide. He sniffed again.

A smell of home.

The scent of baked beans wafted through a hatch. Then the smell of meat being fried in lard. Beans and Spam was the order of the night. Ross just hoped the cook had some powdered lemonade to add to their chlorinated water for flavor.

Reaching Kennedy behind the helm, he smiled. “Smells like dinner’s almost ready, Jack.”

Kennedy adjusted his orange kapok life vest. “I can hardly wait, Henry,” he said, smiling.

“I checked out the thirty-seven millimeter,” Ross said. “She’s ready for firing.”

“Mamey’s in the forward turret?” Kennedy asked.

“Yes,” Ross said.

“He’s a good Massachusetts man,” Kennedy said, “from Chicopee.”

“I talked to him,” Ross said. “He mentioned he’s new to your crew.”

“Yes,” Kennedy said. “Starkey, Marney, and Zinser down in the engine room — all new to 109.”

“How do you feel about them?” Ross asked.

“All good men,” Kennedy noted. “Ready to fight.”

“That’s good,” Ross said, “because I have a feeling they’ll soon have a chance.”

Kennedy nodded and stared into the black night. “I do, too, Henry,” he said easily. “I do, too.”

The time was half past 9 P.M.

There were a total of fifteen PT boats on patrol, as the Japanese flotilla consisting of the destroyers Amagiri, Arashi, Hagikaze, and Shigure steamed south. The boats worked in small groups, with PT-109 patrolling with PT-157, PT-159, and PT-162 of Division B.

Radar was a recent addition to the PT boats, and only a few of the vessels had been equipped. The radar sets were finicky, unreliable, and subject to interpretation by the operator. Still, they were better than nothing — and when they did work, they added a margin of safety and success to what were for the most part random search-and-destroy missions.

On PT-159, the operator stared at the glowing green screen intently. A second later, he shouted to the captain. “Radar contact, four possible barges, three miles distant, along Kolombangara.”

The skipper climbed down to look at the radar screen, then back up to stare into the blackness. After repeating the maneuver a few more times, he ordered the deck guns set to fire low. With the crude radar, he was still certain the blips were barges.

In fact, they were the four Japanese destroyers.

PT-159 raced close to fire and was met with fire from the heavy guns of the destroyers. Now knowing his target, the skipper pushed the buttons on the dashboard to launch a pair of torpedoes. Unfortunately, the skipper of PT-159 chose not to break radio silence to inform the other boats of the flotilla passing. The torpedoes missed and the flotilla steamed south without harm.

While the waters around Kolombangara Island were filled with Japanese destroyers and barges, along with American PT boats and heavy cruisers to the north, there was a different type of war being fought.

It was a solitary and introspective affair of waiting, watching, and reporting.

High atop Kolombangara Island, in a crude camp consisting of a bamboo hut, was a brave Australian armed with a telescope, binoculars, radio, and little else. Lieutenant Arthur Reginald “Reg” Evans was a member of the Australian Coast-watcher Service. The service had been formed in World War I to help in patrolling Australia’s vast coastline. The Australian Navy hit upon the idea of enlisting the help of local fishermen, harbormasters, and postmen to watch the coast and report any suspicious activity by telegraph. The idea proved successful and was reintroduced and expanded as World War II came along. Submarines, aircraft, and small boats transferred the coastwatchers to small islands in the South Pacific to provide eyes on the ground. They reported ship and plane movements, recruited local natives to help the effort against the Japanese, and provided weather reports for the Allied forces. The job was lonely, dirty, and dangerous.

The Japanese knew of the coastwatchers, and they hunted them down with dogs.

Reg Evans sipped a cup of tea and stared down at the black water. He had no way of knowing he would be instrumental in rescuing the man who would one day be elected President of the United States.

Amagiri arrived off Vila just as August 1 turned into August 2. Commander Hanami ordered his ship anchored, then waited as a fleet of barges and landing craft approached and swarmed around his hull. Soldiers assembled on deck, then began climbing down landing nets into the rectangular crafts in an orderly line. To the other side, sailors began to unload cases and crates from the hull, then filled stem nets that were hoisted up off Amagiri’s deck and down to the barges. Hanami paced the decks, willing the off-loading to go faster. The quicker he and the other ships of the flotilla finished, the less chance they had of being dead in the water when the sun came up.

Twenty minutes passed.

“The soldiers are all off,” a junior officer said finally, “and the last of the supplies are being handed down now.”

“Secure the landing nets and order the anchor hoisted,” Hanami ordered. “I want to be back in our slip at Rabaul before first light.”

The officer saluted and made his way forward, as Hanami walked toward the pilothouse.

August 2 was less than an hour old as Lieutenant Kennedy adjusted the wheel of PT-109 to port. The boat was off Kolombangara, following PT-162 and PT-169. Heading west at a slow speed, the trio were seeking a target. Slowly, the three boats crossed Blackett Strait and headed in the direction of Gizo Island. Since the actions of a few hours earlier, when PT-159 and PT-157 had fired torpedoes at the Japanese flotilla, the night had been quiet. Kennedy accelerated PT-109 close to the other two boats, then broke radio silence to request the trio head south to attempt to intercept the rest of the Rendova fleet. The other two skippers agreed. PT-109 made a wide, sweeping turn in Blackett Strait and steamed slowly toward Ferguson Passage.

Aboard Amagiri, Commander Hanami stared into the blackness. He was always uncomfortable when his ship was in Blackett Strait. The close quarters spelled danger if the American PT boats ever launched a coordinated attack. He turned toward the helm.

“What’s our current speed?” he asked Coxswain Kazuto Doi.

Doi stared at the gauge. “Thirty knots, sir,” he answered.

“The other ships are pulling away,” Hanami said. “Increase speed to thirty-five knots.”

Doi gave the order and Amagiri slowly began to gain speed.

Captain Yamashira, Amagiri’s second in command, made a notation on the chart. “We will be in Vella Gulf in approximately ten minutes.”

Like Hanami, Yamashira preferred the safety of open water.

In the black night, tall wakes lit by the phosphorescence in the water streamed from Amagiri’s bow.

Directly ahead, PT-109 was idling on a single engine. Lieutenant Kennedy strained to listen for the sound of the other PT boats. He thought he heard a throbbing sound from the south, but he was unable to pin down the exact location. The noise was reverberating between the mountain on Kolombangara and the islands to the west. Kennedy stared around his boat as he listened.

Ensign Ross was on the bow near the thirty-seven-millimeter gun. Ahead of Ross in the forward gun turret was nineteen-year-old Harold Marney. By training, Marney was a motor machinist, but tonight he had been assigned deck duty. The rear gun turret was manned by a twenty-nine-year-old Californian, Raymond Starkey.

Maguire was to Kennedy’s right; to his left was Thom, who was lying on the deck. Directly behind the cockpit, Edgar Mauer peered into the night. Mauer, who also functioned as the cook, had been a seaman aboard the tender Niagara when she had been torpedoed and sunk. He had no desire to repeat the experience, so he watched the water carefully.

Two of the crew, Andrew Jackson Kirksey and Charles Harris, were off-duty and slept a fitful sleep on deck. Raymond Albert, a seaman second class, was on watch amidships, while Scottish-born motor machinist William Johnston slept near the stem engine hatch. Gerald Zinser kept watch nearby.

Belowdecks was the oldest man on the crew, thirty-seven-year-old Patrick “Pappy” McMahon, tending the engines. At this instant, Pappy was adjusting the flow of raw seawater into the engines to regulate the temperatures. Touching a manifold, he liked what he felt. Wiping his hand on a rag, he listened carefully to the engine-room noises. Something was amiss, but he could not pin down what it was. He climbed over an auxiliary generator to stare at a gauge.

The stray sound would save his life.

Like the edge of a knife, glistening wakes flowed from the bow of Amagiri as the ship hurtled north through the blackness. Commander Hanami paced the deck in the pilothouse. He knew the enemy was nearby — he could sense it — but so far at least, nothing had attacked.

“Ship to starboard,” the lookout suddenly shouted.

“Deck guns fire,” Hanami ordered.

As soon as he looked out the window, he could see the PT boat coming into view. Amagiri was right on top of the vessel, and Hanami knew the guns were too close to find their mark.

“Hard to port,” he ordered.

Hanami knew that if it got away, the PT boat stood a chance of lining up for a shot. He needed to sink the vessel or his crew would suffer the consequences.

The moment before, the horizon had been clear; now, as if by magic, a massive vessel had appeared in the blackness. It was all too much to comprehend. For a second, like a man staring at an avalanche unable to move, the crew stood mute as the mysterious leviathan approached.

There was only one chance to save the crew of PT-109. They needed to get out of the way — and fast. Kennedy rammed the throttle forward.

Belowdecks in the overheated engine room, Pappy McMahon heard one of the engines race. Unfortunately, the drive was not engaged, and now that the engine rpm had increased, there was no way for McMahon to slam her into forward without stripping the gears off the shaft.

For the next few seconds, PT-109 was a sitting duck.

On the bow of Amagiri, the gunners could not depress the guns low enough to take a shot.

“Steer straight at the ship,” Hanami ordered the helmsman.

Hanami stared out the starboard window at the men on the deck of the PT boat. Two blond-haired men were behind the helm; on the foredeck a man struggled with an artillery piece.

Ross tried to fire the thirty-seven-millimeter gun, but he simply did not have enough time. Kennedy, who by now realized he had throttled up the wrong engine, pulled back on the throttle, but it was too late. The Japanese destroyer was now only feet away.

And then it happened.

Metal met wood like a machete hacking off a tree branch.

In the forward gun turret, Marney saw Amagiri approach only seconds before he was crushed by the bow. The teenager, who had been with the crew only a few weeks, died in the warm water of Blackett Strait thousands of miles from his home in Chicopee.

Andrew Jackson Kirksey, sleeping on the aft starboard deck, managed to rise to his elbows before Amagiri slammed into PT-109. He left behind a wife and young son. Neither his nor Marney’s body was ever found.

One second Pappy McMahon was staring at a racing engine; the next found him on the deck of the engine room of PT-109. As if in a dream, a line of fire came into his view. This was followed by a black shape scraping through the engine room. A few seconds later, McMahon felt water, and when he struggled to regain his footing, he was, strangely enough, looking out the stem of the ship at the sea. He could smell the fire before he felt the pain.

On Amagiri, Commander Hanami felt his ship pass through the PT boat with barely a shudder.

“Damage report!” he shouted to his second in command, who raced from the pilothouse.

“How’s she feel?” he asked Coxswain Doi.

“There is a slight vibration, sir,” Doi answered.

“Reduce speed to thirty knots,” Hanami ordered, “and see if it smoothes out.”

Then he began to write notes in the ship’s log about the encounter.

The stern of PT-109, burdened with an engine, plunged down into the black water.

Pappy McMahon, burned by a sudden fire, was plunging down through the water, spinning like a top from the turbulence caused by Amagiri’s propeller wake. Heavily weighted and with a rotting life vest, he struggled to swim toward the light on the surface. He popped to the surface, surrounded by a sea of burning gasoline.

Ensign Thorn had been hurtled into the water at the moment of impact, as were Albert, Zinser, Harris, Starkey, and Johnston. Miraculously, the bow of PT-I09 remained afloat and Kennedy, Maguire, and Mauer remained aboard. Henry Ross had first ridden out the collision on deck but then decided it was safer in the water. As soon as he slipped into the wetness, he realized his mistake. The heavy layer of gasoline on the water caused fumes that quickly sickened him. Struggling to breathe, he fainted and floated on the water in his orange kapok life vest.

“Into the water,” Kennedy ordered Maguire and Mauer. “The boat might explode.”

The three men entered the water, then swam a short distance away. They waited until Amagiri’s wake and the strong currents in Blackett Strait carried away the burning slick of gasoline.

“Back to the boat,” Kennedy said a few minutes later.

The men swam back to PT-109 and climbed onto what was left of the wreckage. The boat was riding in the water, bow in the air, with the shattered stern lapping at the edge of the water. She was afloat, but there was no way to know for how long.

“Mauer,” Kennedy ordered, “see if you can find the blinker.”

Mauer scrambled into the battered hull and searched until he found the metal tube that encased a battery-operated light used for signaling. “Found it, sir,” he said.

“Climb as high up onto the bow as you feel safe and start signaling for the others,” Kennedy said. “There must be others from the crew in the water.”

“What do you want me to do?” Maguire asked.

“Help Mauer, and keep watch for anyone who is out there,” Kennedy said, as he began to remove his shoes and shirt. “I’m going into the water to see who I can find.”

High on a peak on Kolombangara Island, Reg Evans scanned the night water with his binoculars.

Just north of Plum Pudding Island, past the halfway point west in Blackett Strait, was a section of water aflame. Evans recorded the position. Then he lay on his cot for a few hours of rest.

As soon as Kennedy swam into the blackness, Mauer and Maguire began to hear the faint sound of voices from across the water.

“Help, help,” Zinser screamed. “It’s Ensign Thom — I think he’s drowning.”

Maguire had no desire to climb back into the gasoline-saturated water, but he knew he needed to. Grabbing a rope from the locker, he secured it to the hulk of PT-109 and slid into Blackett Strait.

Ensign Ross awoke from his faint, floating in the black water. For a few moments, he had no idea what had happened and how he had ended up in his situation. A few minutes passed before his head began to clear enough to assess the situation. He could just see the outline of a pair of men floating in the water nearby, and he swam over to them.

“Thom’s delirious,” Zinser said, as Ross came into sight.

Thorn was fighting an invisible opponent. Ross reached behind him and took him in his arms.

“Lenny,” he said, “it’s Barney.”

A short distance away, Maguire swam toward the three men, the lifeline from PT-109 giving him his only sense of security. Fumes rose from the water, and Maguire’s head was spinning.

“I have a line to the boat,” he said.

With the blinker as their guide, the men slowly began to make their way back to the floating hulk.

A short distance away, Charles Harris bobbed on the water with an injured leg. Seeing another body floating on the water, he swam closer. The body was the badly burned Pappy McMahon, who was drifting in and out of consciousness. He held on to McMahon.

Yards away, Kennedy swam through the water. Harris heard him shouting for the crewmen.

“Lieutenant Kennedy,” Harris screamed, “over here.”

Kennedy followed the voice, and soon the pair of men materialized out of the gloom.

“McMahon is hurt,” Harris said, as Kennedy came alongside.

“How are you?”

“My leg is injured but I think I can swim,” Harris said.

“I’ll tow Pappy,” Kennedy said. “You just follow behind.”

Kennedy grabbed McMahon’s life vest and began to pull him back toward the floating wreck of PT-109. Harris was having trouble keeping up — his leg was numb, and he was in shock. After Kennedy and McMahon disappeared from view, Harris began to wonder if he was going to die in the water. His will was fading, and the water was warm and comforting. Just when he had resigned himself to death or capture, Kennedy reappeared out of the blackness and grabbed hold. Harris tried kicking, but only one leg was working.

Thorn had made it back to the boat and regained some strength. As soon as he felt strong enough, he took the line and slipped back into the water to search for other survivors. He was not a strong swimmer, but any fears or exhaustion gave way to duty.

Alone in the water, William Johnston had swallowed a lot of gasoline. He had vomited until his stomach quivered, and he was shivering like a dog climbing from freezing water. He heard Thom yelling at him to swim for the boat, but he had little energy. A few kicks and he would rest. And then the idea of death began to comfort him. He passed out.

“Come on, Bill,” Thom said, upon reaching him, “we’re going back to the boat.”

“Boat?” Johnston said weakly.

Thorn grabbed his life vest and started to drag him back to safety.

Raymond Starkey was alone.

His hands and arms were burned, and he could feel the heat through the water. Minutes later, the current carried him close to a dark outline in the water. He listened and could hear voices.

“Ahoy,” he yelled.

“Over here,” voices answered.

Paddling closer, he could see Kennedy in the water near the wreckage.

“Climb onto the wreck,” Kennedy said.

Starkey managed to slip up onto what remained of the stem, then collapsed.

Just then, Kennedy began to call out the names of the crew. Kirksey and Marney did not answer.

Hours passed while the sky began to lighten. As the sun rose, the situation was grim.

That morning, Reg Evans built a small fire, warmed some water for tea, and then began to scan the water of Blackett Strait with his binoculars. Noticing wreckage on the water, he concentrated his telescope on the area. It looked like a Japanese barge, and he reported it to his base in New Georgia as such. Three hours would pass before Evans was notified that PT- 109 had been lost the night before.

For the men on PT-109, at first the rising sun brought a sense of relief. The warm glow on the main mountain of Kolombangara Island allowed the men to see one another and their surroundings, and that brought a sense of reality back to an otherwise unreal situation. They were alive, at least most of them, and they were glad.

But these feelings were quickly replaced by a different reality.

The men of PT-109 were floating smack dab in the middle of enemy territory.

“If the Japs come,” Kennedy asked, “what weapons do we have to fight with?”

After a count, the crew found they had six .45-caliber side arms as well as Kennedy’s .38. This was augmented with two knives and a pocketknife — hardly an arsenal.

Just before lunch, Reg Evans radioed that the hulk was still on the water and floating off Gizo in Blackett Strait. He was now aware that an American PT boat had been lost the night before, and he carefully watched the wreckage to see if he could make out what it was. It might be a PT boat, he thought to himself. But his telescope and binoculars were not strong enough to allow him a defined image. He continued to scan the water and report the movement of the wreckage.

Just past lunchtime, the wreckage of PT-109, which had been riding bow-down, turned turtle. The hull was filling with water, and it seemed that the boat might sink at any moment. Kennedy had been studying the nearby islands all morning. The wreckage had drifted closer to Gizo Island, making Kolombangara Island a distant swim. There were more Japanese on Gizo, but there were also a few small islands and coral atolls that might be uninhabited. Kennedy made his choice.

“Men,” he said, “we’re going to swim for that small island over there.”

He pointed to a small sand-ringed island sprouting coconut palms a few miles distant.

“Thom,” he ordered, “you and Ross remove the plank we lashed to the thirty-seven-millimeter gun.”

Now that the bow was upside down, the gun had broken the lashings and dropped to the ocean floor two thousand feet below — but the plank used to wedge her in place still remained. Thom cut it loose, and he and Ross floated it over to Kennedy.

Pappy McMahon stared at the blistered skin on his floating arms. He was in shock from the bums and weak from exposure.

“Lieutenant,” McMahon said to Kennedy, “you’d better leave me here — I think I’m done for.”

“No, Pappy,” Kennedy said forcefully, “you’re going to make it.”

The crew assembled on each side of the plank and awaited the order to begin kicking.

“Thom,” Kennedy said, “you and Ross keep the men together. I’m going to tow Pappy.”

And with that, the crew of PT-109 began to paddle slowly toward the distant island.

Hours passed as they painstakingly made their way. Kennedy had cut one of the straps of McMahon’s life vest and clutched the canvas strap in his mouth. Slowly, using a breast-stroke, he towed the delirious man to safety.

Four men were on each side of the plank, with Ensign Thom rotating back and forth to even the paddling. Kennedy was towing McMahon. Eleven men in total — deep in enemy territory.

Lieutenant John F. Kennedy was feeling an exhaustion that ran through his entire body.

To the west the sun was just dipping below the top of Gizo Island, as he slowly paddled the last few feet into shallow water alongside Plum Pudding Island. He was barely able to rise to his feet Once standing, he teetered unsteadily for a few seconds until he got his land legs, then whispered down to McMahon, who was floating lightly on his back.

“Pappy, I’m going to check for the enemy,” he said quietly. “I’ll be right back.”

“Be careful, Skipper,” McMahon said weakly.

Kennedy walked through the coral rocks and sand onto shore, then entered the foliage and disappeared. With his .38 revolver in his hand, he crept through the bush and trees. The island was about the length of a football field and half again as wide. Palm trees were scattered about, but the primary fauna seemed to be some form of long-needled, pinelike tree, along with bushes dotted with bird droppings. There was no sign of habitation save for the thousands of land crabs that scurried about, and a single bat that Kennedy flushed from sleep.

He walked back through the island, rubbing his aching jaw. The canvas strap he’d used to tow McMahon was a little moldy, and Kennedy had swallowed a great deal of seawater. Suddenly, he felt his stomach roil, and he vomited the salty waste into the bushes at the edge of the beach. When he was finished, he raised his head and stared into Blackett Strait.

The rest of his crew was entering the shallows near the island, and the taller men were finding footing beneath the water. The water was studded with coral outcroppings, and it tore into their feet. Stumbling through the uneven subsurface, the nine men made their way ashore.

Kennedy helped Pappy to his feet, and the eleven survivors stumbled into the brush.

Upon learning of the fate of PT-109, Reg Evans had alerted his native scouts to search for survivors. He could still see the wreckage, but now that the currents had changed, it was drifting north toward Nusatupi Island. Earlier he had requested an aerial search, and his last transmission of the night was to seek the results. So far he had received no word. Evans settled in for the night.

As night came on August 2, the crew of PT-109 began to understand their precarious situation. Only moments after taking cover in the bushes, a Japanese barge had slowly passed from south to north less than seventy-five yards out into Blackett Strait. The men kept quiet and the barge passed, but it confirmed just how close to the enemy they were.

Once the barge was safely out of sight, Kennedy motioned to Ross and Thom. Walking a short distance away, the three of ficers held a conference.

“Okay,” Kennedy asked plainly, “how are we going to get out of here?”

The men discussed their choices, but in reality there were few. All agreed that as soon as night fell, the other PT boats in their squadron would return to search for them, but how would they be able to intercept the rescuers in the black of night?

“Our only hope is for one of us to try to swim out in the channel with the blinker,” Kennedy said finally, “and since I’m the strongest swimmer, I’ll go out tonight.”

The three officers nodded slowly. They knew the waters around the Solomon Islands contained sharks. That, combined with the Japanese nearby, the strong currents in the water, and the fact that Kennedy was exhausted, made the idea about as risky as borrowing money from an angry loan shark.

“Jack,” Ross said, “I don’t think this is wise.”

“What other choice do we have?” Kennedy said quietly.

It was a question without answer.

After a few hours of fitful sleep, Kennedy awoke and stared out at the water. It was a black, limpid pool of the unknown. In the last twenty-four hours, his boat had been run down by a Japanese destroyer and lit aflame. To add insult to injury, he and his crew had been forced to swim to a deserted island deep in enemy territory. They had no food, no water, and very little with which to defend themselves. Kennedy was as scared as the others, but he was also their leader. If there was any chance for rescue, he would take it, even if it meant a nighttime foray into shark-infested waters.

With his .38 on a lanyard around his neck, he waded into the water and began to follow an underwater reef to the south toward Ferguson Passage. On the northern edge of the passage lay Nauru Island, bordered with a thick coral plate that caused the waves to crash at heights of up to ten feet. The sound of the breakers made it hard to hear the sound of boat engines, and Kennedy struggled to listen. Hard knobs of coral cut his feet and ankles. In places he could walk on the reef at chest depth; other times the coral receded and he would plunge into the black water and swim for a distance. Slowly making his way south, Kennedy awaited the rescue ships he knew were coming.

Hours passed as he stood in the water, waiting.

Once he thought he heard a boat, and he signaled with the blinker. But it was nothing. For hours he stood, with only the blackness of the water and the feeling of marine life brushing his legs. Once the sun rose, he struggled onto a small island south of Plum Pudding and collapsed.

He was out in the open on the sandy beach, but he was too exhausted to move.

A few miles away, a pair of Reg Evans’s Gizo Scouts, Biuku Gasa and Eroni Kumana, were awakening on Sepu Island. During the night, the Japanese had landed several hundred more troops on Gizo Island, and the two scouts wanted to report this development. Sliding their dugout canoe into the water, they began to paddle toward Kolombangara Island.

While the men were not large by Western standards, just a shade over five feet tall, they were lean and strong. As their canoe paddles bit into the water, they began to chant. It was a song of the sea in their native language, and the cadence carried them forward. Finding some floating debris, they stopped and placed it in the dugout. Implements for shaving, a few olive-drab pieces of cloth, and a letter they could not read. They continued on.

The sun was roasting Kennedy as he awoke on the sandy shore. He tried the blinker and found that he had left it on and the battery was dead. Tossing it outside, he stared to the north. He was about a mile south of Plum Pudding Island, and he began to walk and swim toward the other men.

Ensign Thorn had posted night guards, but they reported no sign of Kennedy. Thorn feared his friend had been swept away or eaten by sharks, but there was little he could do. He could only tend to the crew as best he could. McMahon’s bums were festering. Thorn ordered some coconuts felled and then hacked them open with a knife. He tried to rub the oil on the wounds, but it did little to alleviate the suffering. Harris tried to use the coconut oil to lubricate their handguns, but the experiment proved a failure. The oil gummed up the slides, and Harris was forced to strip all the weapons and clean them. Just then, Maguire saw someone in the water.

“Someone’s approaching,” he said, pointing.

Ross waded into the water and helped Kennedy to his feet. Taking a few steps, Kennedy stopped and vomited up seawater. He was barely coherent as he struggled ashore. Collapsing in a clearing just off the beach, he managed to croak, “Barney, you take it tonight.”

“Okay, John,” Ross replied.

The day passed, waiting for a rescue that did not come.

Johnston and Starkey passed the time trying to catch fish. Zinser tried bathing his burned arms in salt water, but it did not help. Whenever he felt sorry for himself, he had only to look at McMahon. The older man was obviously in pain, but he suffered his discomfort without complaint.

That night Ross waded out into the passage, but again no boats were seen.

REG EVANS HAD explained to Biuku and Eroni about the wreck of PT-109 and asked them to keep an eye out for any survivors. They stayed at Kolombangara to rest before beginning the long trip back across Blackett Strait the next morning.

Kennedy had regained his strength by the time Ross returned early the next morning.

“Nothing, Jack,” he said disgustedly. “I don’t think they’re looking for us at all.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Kennedy said to Ross and Thorn, “that we should move to that island.”

He pointed south to an island named Olasana located about two miles away.

“It’s closer to Ferguson Passage, as well as larger,” he said. “Maybe we can find something to eat there. If not, at least we wouldn’t have to swim as far on our nighttime journies.”

Thom was not a strong swimmer, but he was game.

“It looks like the reef runs there,” he said. “We should be able to walk a lot of the distance.”

“Then it’s agreed,” Kennedy said. “I’ll tell the crew.”

Tonight would mark the fourth night of the ordeal, but the men took the news well. The tension was taking its toll, and the crew was glad to be doing something. Just waiting for rescue or capture was stressful; doing anything about their situation was preferable. They set off for Olasana Island. Hours later, the crew struggled ashore and made their way into the trees. The currents had proved stronger than expected, and everyone was tired.

That night no one swam into Ferguson Passage. Help would have to find them.

Biuku and Eroni were flying across the water. The sea was slick, and the day’s rest had given them strength. Mr. Evans had shown them the wreckage of a vessel through the spyglass. It had washed ashore on the south side of Nauru Island, where the breakers crashed on the coral reef. They decided to check it out on the way home — maybe there was food or fuel aboard.

“Sitting here doing nothing is killing me,” Kennedy told Ross. “Let’s swim over to Nauru.”

“Our planes should be flying over,” Ross agreed. “Maybe there’s a clear spot of sand where we can write a rescue message.”

Leaving Ensign Thom in charge, the two men made the short swim to the southernmost island bordering Ferguson Passage. Because of the islands’ strategic location directly on the passage, Kennedy and Ross figured that the Japanese might have a post there, but they found no sign of habitation. Walking through the trees to the southern side, they stared out on the passage and noticed the wreck of what appeared to be a Japanese barge. A few boxes had washed ashore, and Ross pried one open and found it filled with hard candy. After eating their fill, they decided to return to the others and share the windfall. Walking along the shore, they came upon a pair of dugout canoes and tins of fresh water. The canoes had been stashed by the scouts, but Kennedy and Ross had no way to know that.

Biuku and Eroni anchored their canoe near the Japanese barge and set out searching the interior. They found a Japanese rifle, took it, and climbed back aboard their canoe. They were just starting to paddle when they looked toward Nauru.

“Look,” Ross said, pointing.

Kennedy stared across the water and saw the two men in the canoe.

Were they Japanese?

Kennedy and Ross had no way to know, so they filtered back into the bushes and hid.

“Japanese?” Biuku asked Eroni.

“Don’t know,” Eroni answered.

The men were paddling furiously away from the encounter north on Blackett Strait. If not for Biuku becoming thirsty at just this instant, history might be very different.

“Let’s stop on Olasana and drink some coconut milk,” he said.

Luckily, Eroni, now clear of the possible Japanese, agreed.

On Olasana, Thom watched the men approaching. He stared at them carefully. Even at this distance they appeared to be natives, but were they islanders consorting with the Japanese? At that instant, he made a decision that would seal their fate. He waded into the water and began to call out to the men. The natives stopped and began to turn away. Then Thom got a brainstorm.

“White star,” he shouted, “white star.”

The natives had seen the emblem on the lower wings of the American planes. In addition, most knew that if they helped an American pilot, there was usually a reward.

“American,” Biuku said at last.

So they paddled over. With help from Thom, they stashed their canoe in the brush.

After a hurried conference, Thom convinced them to take Starkey in their boat back to the base at Rendova. It was almost forty miles distant and the sea in Blackett Strait was choppy now, but the three men set out.

Kennedy had loaded the water tins and hard candy into the dugout. After leaving Ross to guard Nauru, he was paddling back toward Olasana Island. His plan was to share the spoils with the crew, then have them all move south to Nauru.

Biuku and Eroni made it partway into Blackett Strait before they had to turn back because of the worsening weather. At the same time, Kennedy was returning to Olasana with the water and candy. The two canoes met near the island and glided onto shore.

That night, Kennedy and Ross tried to paddle out into Ferguson Passage, but their boat overturned and they nearly drowned. They managed to swim to Nauru and fell into an exhausted sleep.

The night passed slowly on Olasana. A few of the crew were distrustful of Biuku and Eroni and spent the night watching them carefully. Not knowing whether the native men were loyal, they feared the two would slip off into the night and report them to the Japanese for a reward. On the other side, the massive men armed with black handguns intimidated Biuku and Eroni. They wanted to explain that they only wanted to help, but what little English they spoke would not allow them to get their point across. The Gizo Scouts slept, but with one eye open.

The following morning, when Kennedy returned to Olasana, he knew it was time to do something. Kennedy needed to trust the natives — it was their only hope. Taking a knife to a coconut, he scratched out:

He asked the two natives to deliver the message, and they set out for Rendova at once. Stopping in Raramana, they showed the coconut to Benjamin Kevu, the English-speaking leader of the scouts. Kevu knew that Evans was moving his base, and he sent a native to deliver a verbal recap of the message on the coconut. Biuku and Eroni continued on toward the American base at Rendova.

Reg Evans had moved from the top of Kolombangara Island down to water level on Gomu Island. As soon as the native arrived with the message from Kevu, Evans began planning a rescue. Drafting a reply, he ordered seven of his scouts to leave in the morning for Olasana. The text of the message was:

Before dispatching the trio of canoes, Evans loaded them with supplies. Rice, C rations, cigarettes, cans of hash along with native pawpaws, boiled fish and stoves to cook, tins of water, matches, and fuel. As soon as the natives reached the shipwrecked crew, they set to work fashioning shelters out of palm fronds, cooking food, and lopping off coconuts so the men could drink the sweet milk. Then they showed Kennedy to a canoe and hid him under palm fronds, so planes flying over could not see him. They began to paddle back to Evans with Kennedy.

Meanwhile, Biuku and Eroni had reached the base at Rendova.

It was almost six that evening when Kennedy slid from under the palm fronds and shook Evans’s hand. Evans motioned to his crude hut. The men immediately began to discuss the rescue plans.

“Have the boats stop here and pick me up,” Kennedy noted. “I’ll lead them through the reefs.”

“You’ve been through a lot,” Evans said, staring at the skinny, sandy-haired man. A beard covered the man’s face, and his lips and cheeks were chapped and red. Only the man’s eyes were clear — they burned with a conviction that brooked no argument “Why don’t you let us handle it?”

“I’m going back for my men,” Kennedy said, “period.”

“Okay,” Evans agreed. “I’ll radio Rendova.”

The signal to the boats was to be four shots in the air. After checking his .38, Kennedy realized he had only three shells left and borrowed a rifle from Evans. Then he set off with the natives in a canoe for a nearby island where they would meet the rescue boats.

At 8 P.M. that night, he heard the engines of the boats and fired into the air.

PT-157 pulled close, and Lieutenant Cluster shouted across the water.

“That you, Jack?”

“Where the hell have you been?” Kennedy said.

Hauled aboard, Kennedy took a place on deck with Biuku and Eroni, who were there to help guide the boat. The PT boats roared up the channel. In half an hour, they were off Olasana.

“Slow down,” Kennedy said, “and lower a raft. We will lead you through the reef.”

Climbing into a rubber raft with Biuku and Eroni, Kennedy led PT-157 safely through the coral. Once inside the reef, he began to call to shore.

“Lenny, Barney, come on out,” he yelled.

The crew of PT-109 walked into the open. They could scarcely believe the ordeal was at an end.

The survivors were ferried out to the PT boat in the raft. Once they were all aboard, Kennedy showed the helmsman the way back through the reef. It was almost 10 P.M. when PT-157 reached open water and the skipper set a course for Rendova. As soon as the boat was gliding over the water at close to forty knots, a bottle of brandy appeared and the crew took a drink.

“Thank you,” Kennedy said to Biuku and Eroni.

Biuku smiled, but he could not resist the urge to kid with Kennedy. “You loosim boat, no find ever again, but you still a-number one,” he noted.

II I Have a Special Room in My Mind for You 2001

Craig Dirgo:

“You and Dirk go over there and see what you can find,” Clive said.

I was staring at a chart; the water showed two-thousand-foot maximum depth in the Strait.

“What do we use for a boat?” I asked wisely.

“Not to worry,” Clive said. “My son Dirk has been talking to the local dive shop owner. He has a few boats for charter.”

“What else?” I asked.

“I’d get a malaria shot if I were you,” he said, “and typhoid — just get whatever immunizations they have.”

It was late July 2001, and I was sitting on the back porch of Clive’s house in Colorado. It was all of about sixty degrees outside, we were discussing malaria and tropical breezes, and I was looking at a map of a series of islands halfway around the world.

“What exactly do you want us to accomplish?” I asked.

“Find out where it’s not,” he said, “and have some fun. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?”

Clive has a strange idea of fun.

A few days before, I’d flown from Fort Lauderdale to Phoenix, stayed the night with Dirk, Clive’s son and the president of NUMA, then rented a car and driven north. After editing what we had finished on this book, I was due to leave Clive in the morning to drive back to Phoenix.

“Anything else?”

“Stay out of the casinos in Australia,” he said, “and don’t believe Dirk’s system for blackjack. The house always wins.”

I left at first light for Phoenix. Somewhere in Arizona, I picked up a Navajo who was hitchhiking and dropped him at the hospital in Phoenix. Strangely enough, this was the same day that President Bush was awarding the Medal of Honor to some of the remaining code-talkers. It seemed fitting, so I asked him about Native American philosophy.

“There is a pace to everything,” he said.

“So what’s the key?”

“Must be pacing,” he said, just before he fell asleep.

The pace on July 28 was fast. We raced from store to store, trying to buy anything we felt we would not be able to find on Gizo, the island that would be our base in the Solomon Islands. Batteries, duct tape, tools, and trinkets. T-shirts for gifts, a portable depth sounder from Wal-Mart.

“What about rope?” asked Dirk.

“Buy it,” I said.

“Water purifier?” I asked, as we steered a cart through the discount store.

“But of course.”

“Check out these Planet of the Apes action figures,” I said, as we passed an end display.

Dirk’s girlfriend wanted us to take her to the opening tonight as a last celebration in civilization.

“We need those,” Dirk said.

Into the cart they went.

We bought a large wheeled plastic tub for storage.

The following morning, Kerrie, Dirk’s better half, arrived to drive us to the airport in her new Honda. She stared at the piles of equipment.

“No way,” she said.

We had managed to cram it all inside, but just barely.

Arriving in Los Angeles that afternoon, we retrieved our luggage, propped the bags on a pair of carts, then rolled them over to the international terminal and checked in with Air New Zealand. Later that evening, we were on our way. Our route was Los Angeles to Auckland, New Zealand, a short stop, then onto a different plane for the flight to Brisbane, Australia. We arrived at the airport in Brisbane, where we had a night’s layover before we caught one of the twice-weekly nights to the Solomon Islands, so we rented a car and set out.

Dirk drove us to the hotel, and we checked into our room.

Then we walked across the street to the casino.

The next day, a few hundred dollars lighter, we flew on a 737 to Honiara, the capital of the Solomon Islands. Honiara has all the charm of Manila after the fall of Marcos. Sporadic power outages and deserted buildings seemed the norm. The Solomon Islands had experienced a recent coup d’etat, and the U.S. State Department had a travel warning in place. We met with Ms. Keithie Sauders, the American consular officer, who filled us in on the situation. After assuring us we’d have no trouble, she wished us well and asked that we keep her up-to-date on our progress.

By now, the long flight was catching up with us, and we tumbled into bed for a few hours’ sleep. The next morning, we gathered our gear, took a cab to the airport, and caught a DeHavilland Otter turboprop to Gizo Island. The flight was uneventful.

From the air, the Solomon Islands look like the tropical paradise that people always imagine. Blue and green waters lap at small tree-clustered islands. The sand ringing the islands forms a white outline, while small boats and canoes form gentle wakes when viewed from the air.

The pilot brought the DeHavilland down on the grass runway, and we rolled to a stop.

The airport for Gizo is located on Nusatupi Island just across the water from Gizo. It consists of little more than a cement block shack, a tank for refueling, and a path that leads to a dock where small boats transfer arrivals across the water to Gizo. We climbed out of the plane and looked around. A man who looked like the cartoon character Yosemite Sam walked over.

“Dirk, Craig?” he asked.

“You must be Danny Kennedy,” Dirk said.

Danny has a great story. He worked as an electrician involved in the construction of Disneyland, then took his money and set out to travel the world. After a short stint as a dive instructor in Hawaii, he started to wander throughout the South Pacific, landing in the Solomon Islands in the early 1980s. Finding the people and diving to his liking, he decided to stay. Now he’s an institution. I think it’s safe to say that most people visiting Gizo will at one time or another bump into Danny. An eternally optimistic and friendly man given to repeating bad jokes and local legends, he proved to be a valuable ally. He lives above town in a beautiful house, with his Australian wife Kerry and their teenage daughter, who was born in the Solomon Islands. Danny knows the history of PT-109. In addition, he knows the waters around Gizo like the nose on his face.

“How was the flight?” he asked.

“Not too bad,” I answered.

“You’re lucky,” Danny said. “A couple of weeks ago, the pilot came in too low and hit a dugout canoe on approach — luckily, the islander saw him coming and jumped over the side. He was aggro, though, I can tell you that.”

“Aggro?” asked Dirk.

Danny speaks a strange combination of English, Australian slang, and pidgin, the local language.

“Aggro,” Danny said, smiling, “aggravated.”

Grabbing some bags, he started for the dock.

After loading the luggage aboard a small boat, we crossed the short span of water and docked in front of the Gizo Hotel. We checked in and stowed our luggage, then walked through the town to Adventure Sports, Danny’s dive operation. Gizo is not a large town, and the main business district is clustered along the waterfront. Directly in front and to the left of the hotel is an open-air market. To the right is a concrete pier, where the local island tramp steamer docks. There is a strip of pocked, potholed pavement left over from the time the Solomon Islands was a British protectorate, but for the most part the roads are packed dirt.

This is not a tourist-tainted town.

The few stores in Gizo are owned by Chinese traders, and entering them gave me the feeling that I had arrived through a time warp into a northern California gold-rush hamlet after the vein had run out. The selections ran from tin tubs for washing to bolts of cloth. Food choices for lunch included coconut flour crackers, canned tuna flavored with curry, and cookies.

The town has three restaurants. The one at the Gizo Hotel we quickly grew tired of; the Nest, midway through the town, had an actual television hooked to a satellite receiver so the customers could watch CNN; and the PT-109 restaurant, which featured the best food.

The PT-109 is an open-air affair attached to a two-story home that operates as a lodge for divers. Danny’s dive boats moor just outside, and his shop is just across the street. If you want to eat there, you need to call ahead — it is open only when there are customers, and since the coup, that’s rare.

In general, Gizo is unspoiled by the trappings of capitalism. As a tourist spot, it would have probably dropped off the map save for a few important items. The first is the water — it is a wonderland of undersea beauty. Corals of all types, fish of so many colors that you’d need a prism to duplicate the beauty, temperatures that are perfect.

The second is the people — the Solomon Islanders are some of the friendliest you could ever encounter. Eternally patient, always smiling, they make you feel welcome. With the economy on the skids, the locals make their way as best they can, but times are tough right now. I can only hope it improves soon. The island has a lot going for it.

Gizo Island and these people would be our home for the next two weeks.

Dirk and I had decided that our best course of action was to see if we could first locate the wreckage that had been reported by Reg Evans on the reef off Nauru Island. Our vessel for the search would be one of Danny’s dive boats. The boats are narrow-beam affairs with a PVC tube canopy over the top and twin benches along each side, with holes to place tanks. Approximately twenty feet in length and powered by single or twin outboard motors, they are perfect for small diving groups but a little too exposed to the weather for search operations. Danny supplied a folding wooden chair that fit amidships, and we sat the large plastic tub in front. On the tub we placed the gradiometer, which we took turns operating. For navigation we had a handheld GPS.

The setup was as far removed from the extravagant search boats you see on the Discovery Channel as we were from a Hard Rock Cafe. This search was on the low end of the high-tech scale. The first few days, the winds and currents were favorable, and we were able to work along the surf line just off the ledge of coral off Nauru Island. Other than a single target of promise, the area under the water was bare of magnetics. The operation went like this: In the morning we would eat breakfast at the Gizo Hotel. This consisted of toast, a few slices of mango or pineapple, and maybe some cold cereal. Then we would carry our tub of equipment the half-mile to Danny’s shop. Sometimes the restaurant would make us lunch — egg-salad sandwiches — but usually we would stop at the Wing-Sun store for cans of tuna, crackers, and bottles of fresh water. Lunch in hand, we’d continue on to the shop. Then we’d load the equipment in the boat. Once we were situated, one of Danny’s boat drivers would join us and we would set out to search.

Once clear of the dock, we would lower the gradiometer probe into the water and allow it to calibrate itself, a process that usually took a half hour or so. For weight on the probe itself, we used a rock attached to a thin line designed to break away if we struck the bottom — something that happened at least a dozen times — and to keep the cable clear of the propellers, we propped it off the side, using an old oar that stuck from the starboard side.

It was all jury-rigged, but it seemed to do the job.

Once the gradiometer was calibrated, we would pull it back in, then set out for the search area. That usually required a half hour or so in transit. Once on-site we would begin to drag, using the GPS to make straight lines. Then we would drive back and forth, seeking a target. Around noon we would pull over to the closest island and climb off the boat. After a quick bite to eat and a few moments spent watering the palm trees, we’d climb back in the boat and start another line. Afternoons usually brought rain — since we were basically out in the open, we’d try to shelter the gradiometer as best we could. If the rain was prolonged or heavy, we’d head back to Gizo and wait it out.

By the end of every day, we were exhausted. The constant noise from the outboard motor a few feet from our heads, the rocking of the small boat, and the relentless humidity took their toll. After returning to Gizo, usually around 5 P.M., we’d walk the half-mile back to the hotel, take a quick shower, and change clothes. Then, if it was Monday, Wednesday, or Friday, we could read the Solomon Islands paper, which was six to eight pages in length and chock-full of interesting misspellings. A typical headline read “Pregnant Snake Found Under House,” with a picture of the finders holding it in their hands. The paper was a constant source of amusement.

Dinner was served starting at 6:30. Waiting to eat was usually passed by playing endless hands of gin rummy or blackjack. The menu for dinner rarely changed. Kingfish with rice and a tiny salad, or chili crab with rice and a tiny salad. There were also a few mock Chinese dishes.

A few divers showed up the two weeks we were in town. Five or six Australians arrived on the plane with us and stayed a few days. They had come to dive the wreck of the Japanese transport Toa Maru, a pristine wreck still full of cargo that draws people to Gizo.

Then, a few days after we arrived, more tourists showed up. We’d asked Danny not to mention to anyone what we were doing, as over the years we had found that this just complicates things, but the town was so small and the tourists so few that within hours of arriving, I think everyone knew the score.

A few days a week, Danny has a picnic over on Plum Pudding Island (now called Kennedy Island by everyone) where his workers cook fresh fish and rice over a campfire. The fish is usually eaten as a sandwich with fresh bread, and it is served on a leaf hacked from a nearby tree. Primitive but fun. A week after we arrived, we headed over to the island at lunchtime to hook up with the divers. Along with a group of fifteen to twenty teenagers on a discovery trip of the South Pacific were three new divers. Danny mentioned they were from Arizona, so I walked over to say hello to some fellow Americans. After introducing myself, I said:

“Danny says you live in Arizona.”

“Yes,” said the man.

Dirk was approaching.

“What city?”

“Phoenix area,” said one of the two women.

“Small world,” I said. “Dirk’s from there.”

“Actually, Paradise Valley,” the other woman said, with a trace of haughtiness.

Dirk nodded. Paradise Valley is a tony area where Clive, the late Erma Bombeck, and rocker Alice Cooper reside, along with a host of other celebrities. So do some smart people who bought their homes years ago.

“Where in Paradise?” Dirk asked.

“Do you know the area?”

“Yeah,” Dirk said, with perfect timing, “I live there.”

It turns out they were neighbors and lived only a few miles away. Halfway around the world in the middle of nowhere, and we meet someone from Dirk’s hometown. The trio turned out to be a gas. Ted and Sally Guenther were husband and wife. Ted’s sister, Chris, was along for the ride. The three were taking a month off from the Arizona summer heat and were traveling through the South Pacific, diving up a storm. For most of the rest of our time in Gizo, they would be our dinner companions and would prove to be good friends.

Near the end of the trip, we also met an Australian couple, Catherine and George Ziedan, whom we would see again in Australia on our way home. Nicer people are hard to find. Upon hearing we were stopping in Surfer’s Paradise, they located us at our hotel, then came and picked us up and drove us to their home in the hills above town for an old-fashioned Australian barbecue. The steaks were a size that would shame a Texan, and the shrimp were the size of sausages. I would return to Australia just to visit George, Catherine, and their two teenage children, Georgie and Toby. George is a character straight from a gonzo novel. He attacks life with a zest I’ve rarely seen. He designed and built the beautiful house where his family resides — clearing the brush with a tractor, digging the ponds with a backhoe, and rigging a cable affair from the house down the steep hill to the pond where you can drop into the water.

But back to the search.

The days began to run together as we scanned the shallows off Nauru, Olasana, and Kennedy islands. Other than the single target off Nauru, which the weather was preventing us from diving, we were finding nothing. Not only that, Dirk and I had yet to dive.

It might be time to address a statement I always hear: “I’d love to go with you.”

No, you wouldn’t — at least ninety-nine percent of you. The idea most people have of a search is a series of fine days of sport diving interspersed with finding a wreck and reaping untold glory. The reality is hour after hour of being tossed about in small boats, listening to the increasing squawk of a balky electronic instrument, combined with lack of sleep and having to wash your underwear in a motel-room sink. Then you rise in the morning and do it all again. I would guess diving is less than five percent of the equation.

This reminds me of a story a friend named Jedd Ladd told me in Colorado. Jedd had been at Woodstock, and I asked him about the experience. “Don’t believe all the hype about fun and free love,” he said. “It was a muddy mess, with no food and lots of rain. I lived in a tent that leaked, and the toilets were a hole in the dirt.”

“Wow,” I said.

“The music was great, though,” he said.

The same thing applies here. The work is monotonous, but you have a chance to make history. We always say in NUMA that if it were easy, someone would have already done it. Persistence is the key, repetition the norm. Dirk and I dug in — day after day we scanned the waters in a direction from Ferguson Passage north. We weren’t finding anything that resembled a wreck.

About ten days into the search, we were talking to Danny about PT-109, and we mentioned Biuku and Eroni, the natives who rescued Kennedy.

“You want to talk to Biuku?” Danny asked.

“What?” said Dirk.

“Biuku is still alive,” Danny said. “He’s a friend of mine. He lives down near Vonavona.”

“Let’s go,” Dirk said.

“Living history,” I said. “Call him up and see if we can visit.”

“He doesn’t have a telephone,” Danny said, “but if we take one of the boats down there tomorrow, we can probably find him. He’s getting old, and he doesn’t stray far.”

The next morning, Dirk, Danny, Smiling John the boat driver, and I climbed into a boat, crossed Blackett Strait, then proceeded on through the channel toward Vonavona. The journey was a trip through paradise. Clear water and tree-lined passages, like passing down a lazy river, would give way to outcroppings of white sands and colorful reefs just below the surface. The trip to Biuku’s home took about an hour. We slid up to a pier made from coral rocks and shells and climbed from the boat. Walking through the trees, we came upon a few wooden homes set up from the ground on pilings. A garden was to one side, and chickens roamed freely, squawking at our imposition.

A woman clutching a baby in her arms sat on the porch of a home, puffing on a corncob pipe.

“One of Biuku’s daughters,” Danny said, as he plopped down the large bag of rice and the betel nut we had brought as gifts.

In pidgin, he inquired as to Biuku’s whereabouts and learned he was down at Munda. One of his children was sick, and that was the nearest hospital. We set off for Munda, another forty-five minutes by boat, and splashed ashore. The night before, I had talked with Dirk about what we could give as a gift. This was the man who had rescued one of our presidents, and for the most part the act had gone unnoticed. I had a pair of binoculars — pretty good Tascos — and we figured he’d like those. Danny went inside and found Biuku and brought him outside.

Biuku is small, a shade over five feet tall and slightly stooped from his seventy-eight years. Danny explained in pidgin what we were doing, then helped seat Biuku next to me on a log under the shade of a large tree. Unrolling a chart of the area, we questioned him, using Danny as a translator. The primary question we needed answered was if by chance the wreck he and Eroni had climbed aboard off Nauru might have been PT-109. It was six decades ago, but by his descriptions we began to realize that the wreck was probably Japanese. After inquiring about any other wreckage he might have seen around the same time, and learning of none, we thanked him.

I took the binoculars out of the case.

“Danny,” I said, “can you tell him this? We wanted to thank you for your brave actions in saving the man who became president of our country and ask that you accept this as a gift from the American people.”

Danny translated, and I could see Biuku smile. I handed him the binoculars, and he placed them around his neck and glanced around the hospital grounds.

“Ah,” he said, “spyglasses.”

Then we got ready to leave and began to say our good-byes. We started to walk away, then Biuku called to Danny.

“I have a special room in my mind for you, Danny,” Biuku said in English.

Obviously, the gifts had gone over well.

The expedition was winding to a close, and we were both beginning to feel that the wreck was in deeper water. Our searching had failed to locate anything in the shallows. Our hopes for the wreck off Nauru were dashed by Biuku’s revelations that it was a Japanese barge, as well as the fact that on the last day the weather cleared and we could dive the target we had located. It was a strange coral-encrusted protrusion about the size of a large engine block. We tried to clear a small spot to see what was inside, but to little avail. The area could use a better analysis in the future to determine what it actually is, but our best guess is an old anchor or something that was encrusted over time. When we return, we’ll check it further.

We began to analyze what we had accomplished. We’d done what we’d set out to do — find where the wreck was not — and in the process we had managed to cover all the shallow water in the high-probability areas. All the waters surrounding Nauru, Olasana, and Plum Pudding Islands, as well as a large block to the north, had been scanned to a depth of around two hundred feet. PT-109 was not there. There were some areas inside the reef that we had missed, but they were low-probability and outside the parameters of reason. PT-109 was in deeper water, and that was good — it meant it has a better chance of being preserved.

It was time to take our leave and head home. We climbed aboard the turboprop, thoroughly exhausted and welcoming civilization. After a couple of nights in Surfer’s Paradise to decompress, we jumped on a flight for the United States via New Zealand.

A few days after I got back to Fort Lauderdale, I spoke to Clive on the telephone.

“Well,” he said, “what do you think?”

I’d been saving a line to use for years — it comes from the movie Jaws.

“I think we’re going to need a bigger boat,” I said.

“So, you two know where it’s not?” Clive asked.

“Yep,” I said, “and we have a pretty good idea where it is.”

So stay tuned — NUMA will be back.