The Sea Hunters Part 27

To Hesse it looked as if two-thirds of Leopoldville was already under water. The bow had risen until they thought they were in the clouds.

Hesse looked at his men, including Alex Yarinosh, Ed Riley, and d.i.c.k Dutka, and said, "Let's go. Every man for himself."

They all stood on the railing, waiting for Brilliant to rise within jumping distance for what was perhaps the last time. As the smaller ship lifted on the next wave, they jumped together, all six of them.

Every man landed safely. To Hesse, it seemed like he was leaping off the Empire State Building.

British sailors, armed with axes, cut away the lines and Brilliant backed away from Leopoldville. Commander Pringle planned to head for Cherbourg and disembark the survivors he had saved before returning for another evacuation. He did not believe that Leopoldville would be on the bottom of the English Channel before he could leave the dock.

The big rescue tug A.T.R-3 arrived and pulled along the opposite side of the doomed troopship. Skipper Stanley Lewandowski was cussing up a storm at the waves already closing over the stern of Leopoldville.

He was d.a.m.ned mad.

Twice he had attempted to maneuver alongside before the ship sank, but was stopped by the davits of the lifeboats that hung out and down.

Had the Belgian crew remained a few minutes more and loaded the lifeboats properly, the davits would have been retracted and Lewandowski could have pulled his boat abreast of the railing.

His radio man, Seaman First Cla.s.s Hugh Jones, tried to contact the Leopoldville, but received no reply. Lewandowski had been equally frustrated by a group of two hundred men standing at attention on the bow. Entreaties for them to jump aboard went ignored. Later, as he pulled them from the water, he was told an officer wouldn't allow them to jump. Now the Belgian ship was disappearing before his eyes.

"Pull them poor kids aboard!" he shouted to his crew as he clutched the spokes of the helm and threaded his ma.s.sive tug into the sea of heads floating in the wreckage. Three of his crew jumped overboard to help heave exhausted and freezing soldiers onto the deck of the tug.

There were many heroes that night who gave their lives saving others.

One was Colonel Ira Rumburg,. whose widow did not know how her husband died until Staff Sergeant Jerry Crean told her fifty years later.

Rumburg, a huge man at six feet eight inches, who weighed in at 250 pounds, had fastened himself to a rope. For over an hour as the ship slowly sank, he was lowered into the hold again and again, coming up with one man under each arm every time. Crean believed the colonel made over ten trips before Leopoldville slipped stern first to the bottom, taking Rumburg with her.

Captain Hal Crain died as a legend. Struggling through the oily water in the darkness deep within the demolished holds, Crain saved man after man, diving into flooded compartments, pulling out the halfdrowned and the injured. Dozens of men gave credit to the officer for rescuing them. Hal Crain did not live to be thanked by those he saved.

His posthumous Soldier's Medal was awarded to his widow and baby son.

Crean was also awarded a Soldier's Medal for his work in saving lives that night. Leading a dozen of his men down a rope ladder, he struggled for two hours, swimming around keeping everyone together.

He found duffel bags and debris in the water and made his men hold on to anything that could float. He has never forgotten the few who simply gave up and drifted away into the darkness.

PFC Steve Lester of K Company sacrificed his own life to save four others who were trapped around him in the gla.s.s-enclosed area on the deck as the ship sank. He smashed the windows with his hands and lifted his buddies through the shattered openings. The last to go, he didn't make it. The Soldier's Medal was awarded posthumously to his wife and three small children.

British Gun Layer Bill Dowling helped pull men trapped below through a hatchway. Those who were injured were carried to the infirmary by Dowling and his mates.

Sergeant Albert Montagna had the distinction of helping both Rumburg and Crain bring a score of men out of the h.e.l.l below before he found himself floating in the icy water beside the ship.

In the infirmary, the doctors and medics remained working over the injured. Stretcher cases were carried out and laid on the deck. A few were lowered onto the Brilliant. Many were literally thrown onto the decks of tugs and a Coast Guard corvette. A few stretcher cases were washed off the deck as the ship began her plunge to the bottom. They sank like stones, with their occupants helplessly strapped aboard.

The heroism of those who went down into the stricken hold to pull up the wounded, the stories of those who leaped into the water and were rescued by the efforts of men on the rescue vessels can never be forgotten by soldiers of the 66th who still live.

Except for their heroic efforts in saving the injured and those trapped below, none of the officers made a command decision. They were untrained for such a disaster and were as lost and helpless as their men.

And yet the conduct of the troops on board Leopoldville for the two hours prior to its sinking went down in military annals as one of the finest examples of discipline ever observed. All stood in blind obedience awaiting orders that never came.

A deep rumbling sound came from within the hull of Leopoldville as the cold water reached and burst her boilers. Creaking and groaning, the bow lifted in the air and began a downward spiral as the ship began her final journey to the seabed. Bodies were seen to fall like leaves from her open decks. At 8:30 P.m with a mighty hiss of escaping steam, the troopship vanished under the black water stern first and was seen no more.

It was estimated that over a thousand men were left floating in water with temperatures as low as 48 degrees F. Many were sucked down with the Leopoldville, including Captain Limbor, whose body was never found.

Only now did panic set in as the men struggled to stay alive in the frigid water. Men who couldn't swim seized those who could and dragged them under.

It was as if a crowd at a football game gave out a great roar.

Hundreds of men were shouting, crying, begging for help from G.o.d.

Many pleaded for their mothers. Some cursed anyone and everyone responsible for their plight. A great number simply gave up and died by drowning or from exposure. Those who survived the horrible ordeal relived it for many years through their nightmares.

Vince Codianni of Company K was one of several men who were trapped under a gla.s.s pa.s.sengers' shelter as the ship lurched to port and began her plunge. Codianni was pulled under when his clothing caught on part of the gla.s.s shelter. A strong swimmer, he struggled free and gained the surface, but not without injury. His front teeth had been knocked out, his tongue slit in two, and his neck and arms badly gashed by shattered gla.s.s.

Incredibly, Codianni survived two hours in the frigid water, his clothes frozen to his body, listening to cries of help before they finally faded into the night. He was found and pulled from the sea more dead than alive by a French tug.

Private Edwin Phillips, headquarters Company, was pulled from the water and laid on the deck of a navy minesweeper. Thinking he was dead, a crewman gave him a nudge with his foot. "You can't be alive,"

he said.

"I am too," Ed murmured softly.

"That's good," said the crewman. "We're not supposed to pick up dead bodies."

Phillips went on to live a long and healthy life.

The crews of the tugboats, Coast Guard corvettes, and French fishing boats worked like madmen to pick up the ma.s.s of men fighting cold and waves and death. Hypothermia came quickly to those who didn't drown.

Cold and exhaustion sapped their strength along with the heavy waterlogged overcoats and boots most of them had failed to cast off.

Tired and numb to the point of unconsciousness, few had the strength to climb aboard the rescue craft on their own. Almost all were saved by sailors and fishermen who hoisted the half-dead soldiers over their boats' sides or jumped in the water to help them.

Lewandowski kept his tug on station. His men took on seventy survivors before the cries in the night faded and he reluctantly turned his boat back to the harbor. The first boats to arrive in Cherbourg with survivors carried a few of the dead. The boats that returned later carried many more. As time went on, fewer and fewer of those picked out of the water were still alive, while the number of dead grew in staggering numbers.

On reaching the docks, a great number of the 66th's survivors were left to fend for themselves. Some were placed in tent cities or any barracks or building that offered shelter from the cold night.

Hundreds, suffering from exposure and shock, were taken to hospitals.

The dead were laid in rows along the dock. Medics went from body to body, checking to see if any were still among the living. They were accompanied by a priest who checked the dead's dogtags and gave last rites to the Catholics amid the dead.

Of Leopoldville's crew, Captain Limbor was the only officer to lose his life. The ship's carpenter and three Congolese also died.

Because the Admiralty still refuses to divulge information on the sinking, any loss among the ship's British contingent is unknown. The 66th Panther Division was decimated. Over 1,400 men were rescued.

Approximately 300 died in the blast from the torpedo, while 500 died later in the water.

The official death toll stands at 802.

It was a tragedy compounded by fate, miscalculation, blunders, and ignorance. If the evacuation of the ship had been carried out properly, hundreds of families would not have received telegrams notifying them of the loss of their loved ones.

The official investigations were varied but limited. Those back home were told only that their sons or husbands had died or were missing in action. Few ever became aware of the real truth behind their loss.

Leopoldville was swept under the carpet and the sinking buried in official files.

Except for those brought back for interment in the United States, the men whose bodies were recovered lie buried in the Omaha Beach Cemetery in Normandy. Inside the cemetery you will find a ceremonial colonnade called the Garden of the Missing which honors 1,557 American Gis whose bodies were never recovered. At the rear, engraved on the wall, you will find the names of the missing men who still lie at the bottom of the English Channel with the Leopoldville.

There are two endings to the tragedy the survivors of the Leopoldville would like to see before they join the hallowed ranks of their buddies, who pa.s.sed on ahead. One is a monument at Arlington National Cemetery, honoring the 800 who died with the ship. The second is a postage stamp dedicated to their memory.

Is it asking too much for our government to acknowledge their sacrifice?

The submarine that set the stage for the terrible tragedy, the U-486, was herself sunk by the British submarine Tapir four months later.

Oberleutnant Gerhard Meyer and his entire crew perished.

Only the battleship Arizona, sunk during the j.a.panese attack on Pearl Harbor, lost more men than Leopoldville. The troop transport was closely followed by the ill-starred cruiser Indianapolis, whose death toll came to 783.

Curses, Foiled Again July 1984 mes it is hard to separate reality from comic relieL Despite the best-laid plans of mice and Cussler, the second phase of the '84 North Sea Expedition developed and ended like a comic opera produced and staged by inmates from a mental inst.i.tution. If I'd known the fiasco the NUMA crew of Arvor III was about to encounter in Cherbourg, I'd have ordered Jimmy Fiett to keep right on going and steer a course for the harbor at Monte Carlo.

After finding and surveying U-21, we reached Bridlington, England, on a level sea under a bright blue sky-one of the few times I'd seen Bridlington without a cloud in sight. On my earlier visits during the Bonhomme Richard search projects, it rained incessantly. A workingcla.s.s resort town, filled with gaudy casinos and amus.e.m.e.nt centers, Bridlington is clean, the people friendly. The homes along the side streets in the old section of town exude a rustic Edwardian charm.

I've seen entire families strolling along the beach promenade through a torrential downpour, with matching rain slickers on mum and dad as well as the children, including babies in strollers and the family dog.

They were going to enjoy their vacation, by G.o.d, come rain, sleet, or fog. Considering England's too frequently dismal weather, I've always been amazed by the humorous disposition of the Brits. Unlike residents of Seattle, who sit under bright lights during ninety straight days of gray skies to keep from falling into fits of depression, the English, Scots, and Welsh endure with a grin and remain incredibly cheery.

Arvor III probed her bow into the small man-made harbor at Bridlington and settled her wide beam against the south quay. Bill Shea, several pounds lighter, rose from the dead and stared through the door at the serene harbor and fishing boats moored to the docks.

"I knew it, I knew it," he said, shading his eyes from the sun.

"I've died and been sentenced to spend eternity in Bridlington for my sins."

"At least it isn't raining," I replied.

"Give it another five minutes." Bill looked at me with a you poor fool look. "Don't you know that at the instant of death you always pa.s.s through a tunnel into a bright light?"

What could I say? Bill's theory was flushed down the drain after we experienced clear skies for the next four days.

We took advantage of the good weather and calniseas by spending a couple of days searching a grid area marked by a pair of psychics for the remains of the Bonhomme Richard. The record of our magic department remained unbroken. Five straight strikeouts. Nothing of interest was seen. The seabed was as clean as a toilet bowl at grandmother's house.

Bill and I welcomed an invitation by Manny and Margaret Thompson of Bridlington, our good friends and supporters during the Bonney d.i.c.k search projects. Splendid people with a pair of broad-shouldered sons, Manny and Margaret own and operate amus.e.m.e.nt centers that are popular in Britain. After three weeks aboard Arvor III, we thought their lovely home looked to us like a five-star hotel, solidly planted in the ground with no inclination to pitch and roll. We had to clutch our bed headboards the first night while our internal workings acclimated to a stable position.

I called home and wished my wife, Barbara, a happy birthday. I do believe it was the only time in forty-one years I missed being with her for the occasion.

Margaret Thompson is one of the loveliest women in the whole of Yorkshire. She stands out among the other ladies of the coastal towns, and Manny is as generous and helpful as a saint. Well, maybe he's not quite ready to be canonized, but he's still one h.e.l.l of a great guy.

During the earlier Bonhomme Richard expeditions, our crew made jokes about the local girls, especially those over the age of twenty-five, who they swore took ugly pills. In all fairness, the women married early, usually fishermen, and went downhill. They were attractive in their teens but seemed to lose any interest in appearance once they bore children. The running joke was that Yorkshire held a beauty contest and n.o.body came. The crew then held their own contest.

A bottle of fine scotch to the man who found and had his picture taken with the prettiest lady in all the Yorkshire counties over the age of twenty-five. Margaret was eliminated because she was born and raised outside the area before Manny married her.

I won the contest. mile returning to Arvor III one morning after buying a nautical chart of the coast, I was stopped on the pier by a photographer who was taking photos of people pa.s.sing by with girls dressed up like Miss Piggy- I promptly paid him for the privilege, and as soon as the pictures were developed, I claimed the scotch.

Surprisingly, none of the other guys protested.

A friend of the Thompsons gave Bill and me a tour through a Russian automobile distributorship. The cars were basically Fiats, manufactured just outside Moscow. I built better soap-box derby racers when I was a kid. Next to these heaps, Yugos looked like Bentleys.

None of the paint matched on the doors, the upholstery was patched together like a quilt, and the engine looked like a power unit out of a sc.r.a.pped s...o...b..ower.

I do believe Ronald Reagan studied one of these cars and came up with his scheme to break the Soviet Union by bluffing them into a technology race.

On the day we were to depart for Cherbourg and begin the search for Alabama and Leopoldville, Wayne Gronquist, who was supposed to arrive from Austin, Texas, failed to show up at the dock. We waited nearly an hour and still no Wayne. The tide, which rose and fell as much as ten feet and often left Arvor III lying in the mud, was dropping rapidly.

Jimmy informed me that if we didn't leave within the next few minutes we would become a fixture at the quay for the next twelve hours.

Demonstrating my talent for command decisions, I said to Jimmy, "You're the skipper. When you say we go, we go."

Jimmy clanged the engine-room bell and started the diesels as Colin and Bill cast off the mooring lines. Just as in the movies, here comes Wayne running madly across the quay. Jimmy shifted the engines into drive and never looked back. Bill and I were cheering and urging Wayne to run faster. He made amazingly good time considering he was carrying a huge tote bag.

I do believe Wayne set some sort of broad-jump record that day.

He sprang off the quay, tote bag and all, barely landing on the deck of Arvor III in the arms of Bill and me. "Why in h.e.l.l were you late?"

I demanded. "You knew we had to beat the tide or lose another day."

"Sorry," Wayne answered like a chastened collie. "I was buying a camera."

"You could have done that before you left Texas."

"I thought I could buy one cheaper here."

Bill stared at the camera slung around Wayne's shoulder. "You figured you could buy a j.a.panese camera cheaper in England than in Texas?"

"Don't they sell for less out of the country?" asked Wayne innocently.

"Nothing sells for less in England," Bill explained, "especially in Bridlington."

"Gosh, I thought I got a pretty good deal."

You could plumb the depths of Wayne's M#ld, but you'll never fathom his powers of reason. He shot almost fifty rolls of film in the next three weeks. After a while he became wise and never left his camera sitting around by itself At first he wondered why he only took five pictures, set the camera down to do something or other, and when he returned the roll was finished. Only when he developed the film after going home to Austin, Texas, did he find twenty shots of his breakfast eggs, twenty shots of his sneakers, twenty shots of a dead fish p.r.o.ne on the dock, etc.

As we left the North Sea and pa.s.sed through the Straits of Dover into the English Channel, Bill was in seventh heaven. The sea was a pond.

No waves rocked Arvor III. The trip was smooth and delightful.

Jimmy watched in detached amus.e.m.e.nt as Wayne performed his yoga on the foredeck. Thereafter, the Scots called Wayne Yogi Bear.

The cliffs above Cherbourg came into view and we slipped into the harbor past the breakwater, the old fort, and monstrous oil rigs on their way to the North Sea. Jimmy had radioed ahead for a berth in the yacht basin and we tied up not far from a nice hotel with a gourmet dining room. During innocent conversation with the dockmaster, we mentioned that we had come to Cherbourg to search for the Confederate raider Alabama. Inquiring as to when we were to launch the search, he was told the next day.

When the time came to make the effort, we never left the dock.

Six uniformed customs agents, red pillbox hats perched on their greasy heads, came aboard first thing in the morning and proceeded to tear the boat apart while asking a mult.i.tude of foolish questions. We all bit our tongues, dug our nails into our palms, and cooperated, wondering why we were singled out for such nasty treatment. Was this any way to welcome foreign visitors?