U.S.S. Indianapolis Narrative

U.S.S. Indianapolis Narrative

*written for my English class

My feet clanked on the floor as I shoved myself down the walkway, the smell of hot smoke in my nostrils mingling with the wafts of burning flesh and rubber. I held a burned hand over my mouth and nose as I groped with the other through the red haze that had obscured everything into abstract shapes I no longer recognized. This is ridiculous, I thought.  What hit us? I could feel the ship taking on water through my legs, even as the whole platform underneath me steadily tipped to the side. “Abandon Ship!” I cried, “Abandon Ship!” Other sailors echoed my call, red lumps stumbling in the close distance. A few bumped hard into me, one sending me sprawling across the second deck just as I reached it. I rushed around, trying to find a means to jump off. The engines were still going down beneath me, churning the ship into carrying more and more water. Around me people were screaming, rushing to find a kapok lifejacket, or anything that could possibly hold them in the Philippine Sea.

 I studied my surroundings. Somehow I would have to be able to jump into the water and avoid getting hit by anything on the way down. My eyes settled dimly on a large iron hook. I grappled my hands onto it, the throbbing of my burning hands rejecting the idea with a burst of pain. But there was no time for other actions, so I tensed my muscles and pushed off the ship as far as I could go. For a moment I saw the dense moonlight illuminate the dark horizon, and then I plunged down into the abyss of night water, watching the surface rise up to meet me. Like a fool I thought only of what the water would feel like. The water smacked me as hard as a punch in the stomach. It was luke-warm. My lungs expanded reflexively, and I rose to the surface coughing and sputtering. The salt-water I had swallowed did not compliment the fuel oil taste at all. I swam away from the sinking ship, feeling like I was crawling as slow as a toddler. I wiped my face with my blackened hand, only succeeding in smearing the oil there into streaks across my cheeks, nose and forehead. Through the stars in my vision, I narrowed my eyes out towards sea to try and find someone else. The only light was the fire reflecting on the waters, and the moon above me. But I finally spotted a dark shape bobbing a few yards away from me. I paddled forward, calling out to him. “Cox?” he asked, “is that you?”

“Yeah, is that you Josey?” I answered, squinting at the figure in the darkness.

“Yeah, um, I’m hurt pretty badly.”

I could barely see his face in the meager light, but as I looked, even I could see it was pale.

“Oh,” I registered quietly, not having anything to offer him. I turned around and watched the ship sink deeper and deeper into the ocean. Behind me I could feel Josey watching to. Its aft end was up, and men were still jumping off of it into the sea. The propellers were still spinning in their endless circles like a pair of broken merry go rounds.

“There she goes,” he whispered.

                Someone shook me in the darkness. “Cox,” the sailor said, “Cox!” I popped open one eye only to see Woody with his beloved boatswain’s pipe hanging about his neck. He never let go of that thing, I thought, not even to take a shower. “Yeah, I hear ya,” I grumbled, wiping the sleep out of my eyes.

“It’s your watch,” he said, wavering about to make sure I got up.

“Yeah, yeah,” I said, flipping open the cot covers and stuffing my already socked feet into boots. I was already dressed, which was the way I went to bed; thinking I could get a few extra winks.

“You always sleep in your uniform like that?” Woody asked.

“Mmmm,” I said, not in the mood for conversation.

“I couldn’t do it,” he replied. He led me to the door, waved me out, and shut it behind me. The brightly lit hallway pierced my eyes like a two-edged sword. I waved Woody goodbye as he headed down the opposite way. Rubbing my eyes, I plunked my feet up into the bridge. My fellow midnight watchers were already there, and Newkirk had taken over the steering.

“You’re the engine phones,” he said, pointing. I made my way over, but just as I was about to put them on over my head, an explosion rang out and I was ripped up into the air about five feet. Without knowing what was happening, I came down hard on my belly and had the wind knocked out of me. Struggling for breath, I scrambled up and tried to get my bearings. Debris was falling on top of us, heat and fire mixing together. It was hard to breathe.

“Captain!” Newkirk yelled. Captain Mcvoy struggled up out of the next room.

“Captain, we’re sinking,” the control officer said, hard on the dials, “we’re about to roll. Awaiting orders.” The captain hesitated for a moment.

“Abandon ship, then,” he cried, “Spread the word!” He spun his way down the ladder to the next deck, all of us following in a less than orderly style.  “Abandon ship! Abandon ship! Abandon ship!”

“Abandon ship, abandon ship, abandon ship, abandon ship,” I echoed, “abandon ship, abandon ship, abandon ship.”

My own voice startled me out of my dream, and I opened my eyes to the trembling reflections of dusk on the oil surfaced sea. It was beautiful, yet ugly, like a renaissance painting. It took me a while to remember where I was. Josey was floating next to me, his eyes clouded over with a fine mist. He hadn’t lasted very long. I sighed, and touched my hands to his face, closing his eyes. He was dead-cold. I pulled off his kapok life-jacket and handed it to another sailor who didn’t have one. I held him up for a while, staring at his face, trying to etch it into my memory. Then I let go, and he plunged into the waters, gone forever. I knew where I was now. It had been the third day since the ship sank, and everyone was at their wits end. The dream was so real that I could almost still feel the explosion knocking me to the ground. I could see in the men’s faces that they had mostly given up. We had figured that since we had been scheduled to arrive in the Philippines in only a day, that rescue would not be long on its way. But it had been long hours since the dusk of the first day, and still no sign of rescue had come. Planes had flown by us overhead, but despite us flashing mirrors at them, none of them had spotted us.

                It had been the second day when we had first noticed the sharks. You could see their fins striking the water surface like blades. The water was crystal clear, and you would see them, gliding through the water like a type of sea dragon ready to send us to hell. We all bunched together into groups, seeing the singles go first. In the daylight we held ripped pieces of cloth around our eyes to keep out the fierce daylight, and when it got all quiet, you knew what would happen next. Suddenly, a man would scream out, and if you peeked out from behind the blindfold, all you would see was the scarlet color of blood seeping into the oil black renaissance painting, creating a sickening montage. I tried not to look. But I imagined it all the same. And in some strange way, I envied the dead. It was already over for them. I looked at the sharks, and imagined what their teeth would feel like, wrapped around my body like a million needles.

                The thirst was unbearable. My mouth was numb with it, and I constantly was exploring the crevices of it with my tongue to find the smallest portion of wet. Despite knowing it was wrong, I sometimes sucked up salt water and rinsed my mouth with it. But whenever I spit it out again, my mouth was left feeling dryer than ever. It was so hot in the daylight, that it felt as though I was shriveling up like a raisin. At night it was so cold that you would forget you were thirsty, and simply yearn for the sun to rise again. And when it did, the cycle would start over again. No doubt the best time was dusk, when it was neither hot nor cold, just warm. But it was dusk when the sharks attacked the most. Though funnily, the sharks were the least of my worries. I was mostly wary of the men, my fellow sailors.

“Sir,” one of the men said to an officer next to me, “The ship isn’t sunk; it’s just below the surface. You can’t see it, but if we swam over we could get a drink of fresh water, and maybe even get an ice-cream from the Geedunk.” His eyes were full of disillusionment, and the officer’s patience was thin.

“Shut your hallucinated yap,” he said, and gave the man a wallop in the face. This started another of the many fist fights, and in the end the hallucinated man was lying face down in the water, drowned and dead. But even so, some of the men believed his story and swam over to where the ship sank. Only a few of them made it back, and without any fresh water. Even though I had known it to be a lie, some part of me had believed the dead man, and I was angry when they returned empty handed. I gave the man nearest to me a wrestle, and this started another fight. By the end of it, I had bruises all over, and my skin stripped hand was bleeding. We were scattered all over. But when night came, we all located each other and bunched together in a tight mass to try and get warm. Sometimes at these times, I would close my eyes, and almost dream a little. I would dream of my life back on the Texas farm, with my brothers and father and mother all smiling like. We would all sit at the large, sturdy wooden dinner table and I would binge on rolls, turkey, ham, potatoes, and soup while my family all laughed and sang happily. I would be drinking my fourth gallon of water when I snapped out of it and came to my senses. I would stare around at the sailors with their eyes closed in silence, breathing steadily, but not sleeping at all. We all looked the same with the black fuel oil covering our bodies and faces. I would think to myself that it didn’t matter if we all died, since we were all the same like. No one would be able to tell the difference between that dead man with his eyes clouded over, and that dead man over there with his head in the water. I would laugh at myself with these thoughts. And then I would scold myself for laughing. I knew I was going half-mad. Sometimes I would see ships in the distance, but they would turn out to be nothing but a figment of my imagination. The kapok lifejackets were getting soggy, and I thought that we would die soon. It would be a relief, I thought, to get away from here.

And then the plane came.

We didn’t think it had spotted us, but it circled around, and we knew we were seen. Something bottled in all of us suddenly released, and we were all limp with relief. A PBY came later and I could see it wrapping up men in the distance. I don’t know when exactly it was, but the Doyle came and the sailors dragged me aboard. It was daft, but through the whole four days, everything felt like a dream. It felt so good to walk on the platform of the ship that I almost forgot what it was like to be in the water.  A few days later I saw Woody, and a while after that I saw Newkirk and the Captain. But I remembered one thing that made it forever a reality. I would never see Josey Clifford again.

Jack London

*A research paper I wrote for my Evil English teacher. Even though I'm older....Well, I really liked reading about Jack London's life, so I guess I can forgive her.

Jack London Research paper

                When I first thought of Jack London, the titles of the books White Fang and The Call of the Wild came to mind. These were the books that I had read from him, after all. However, I had no idea of who this man was or what his lifetime was like. Yes, I chose to research him simply because I recognized his name, nothing more. But once I started to read about this strange, rambunctious author, I became engrossed in his tale. No doubt, his life is the most interesting story he weaved; not from paper or ink, but from his living breath and traveling feet. Jack London holds possibly the most interesting biography I have ever known.

                “Jack London was born January 12, 1876 at 615 Third Street, San Francisco, California. His parents were William Henry Chaney and Flora Wellman. However, W. H. Chaney left Flora after she got pregnant, and Jack never knew he was actually his biological father until he was twenty. Flora was also a strange mother, unfortunately obtaining Typhoid fever when she was young, which, along with weakening her physically, could’ve also changed her mentally. Flora married John London in September 1876, a widow who had had (because of financial difficulties) to scatter most of his previous children around. Because Flora could not nurse, she made an agreement with Jennie Prentiss, an ex-African American slave from Tennessee who had her child just die, to nurse him for her” (Jack London A Biography 1-4). Already we can see the family he is born into. It is a very poor family who mostly obtained money from ranching and farming, and a few piano lessons and séances here and there by Flora.

                When Jack London “graduated Cole Grammar school at 8’Th grade, he was immediately thrusted with different jobs to help; some canning and newspaper running mixed in with some other things” (13, 17). Because of their farming business, they would have to move plenty of times, though mostly in Oakland. Jack London, whose real name had changed from John Griffith Chaney to John Griffith London, spent his boy years reading like a devil, borrowing from Oakland Public Library. He remembers his boy years as boring, and therefore, his true adventure begins as a teen.

                His first adventure was sailing. Borrowing his father’s skiff, he went out to the bay and learned by watching and doing. He would love sailing for the rest of his life. “Using Jennie Prentiss’s money, he bought the Razzle Dazzle and became an oyster pirate” (21). An oyster pirate, as you can imagine, does not steal treasure and cursed gold, but oysters belonging to different companies. They later sell them and earn money that way. Jack London and his crew were successful at it, but in the end there was a fire on his ship that destroyed the mainsail, making the boat completely useless. So he got a new job as part of the Fish Patrol, ironically the nemesis of the oyster pirates. A while later he joined the “Road-kids” – kids illegally jumping trains- and earned the Monica “Sailor kid” or “Frisco Jack”. He traveled this way for a while before going back home and “joining the Sophia Sutherland, a ship that went out far to harvest the hides of seals” (28). When he got home, he wrote about his seal-hunting experience, and won a contest in the newspaper Morning Call for the most descriptive essay. He traveled with the Road-kids again, but eventually got thrown in the “Erie Country Penitentiary in New York for a month”( 1).  After his time, he went back home, and soon took off again after General Coxey’s Army of the Unemployed, a protesting group. But since he “Couldn’t stand starvation”, he quit the “army” and hopped some more trains to view the Niagara Falls, but got thrown in jail for another month at Buffalo, New York. “He started school again, going back to High school at age 19 in grade 9. He dropped out after one year, and after three months of vigorous studying, passed the exam into the University of California. However, he was only in the University for one semester because of financial problems” (51).

                “In 1897 Jack London went out once again after the Gold Rush in Klondike, Alaska. He didn’t earn a single penny, and went back to Oakland after obtaining Scurvy”(77). He found that his father, John London, had died. Now he had the responsibility of the entire family on his shoulders, as the son. He started writing. He mailed short stories to newspapers and magazines, at first only earning failure. But as he continued, he got a few successes here and there. “From 1899 and onwards, Jack spent mornings writing 1,000 to 1,500 words”(110) every day. It was in the 1900’s, at the turn of the century, that he finally got his stories and books selling.

                About Jack’s marital life, he married twice and had two daughters. His first wife was “Bessie Maddern, the lady with whom his two daughters, Joan and Bess (but mostly called Becky), were born” (125). Their marriage was not one based on ‘Love’, but on the concept that they would work together well. In this way, Jack divorced Bessie in “1905 (though he still paid them an allowance) and married Charmian Kittredge”(150), whom he was with for the rest of his life.

                Jack London was an outspoken Socialist, and “toured the country giving speeches about it” (147). He traveled constantly, and even went to Korea, trying to get scenery of the Russo-Japanese war. This one did not work out though, after punching a Japanese citizen, and getting jailed so that Theodore Roosevelt had to get involved to free him. He even planned a “7-year sailing trip in his own crafted boat The Snark, although construction did not go as planned, and the boat only managed to get them around Hawaii” (167). After that trip, Charmian and Jack settled down in “Sonoma Valley, California, “The valley of the Moon” (185).  With the fortune of his success, he built Wolf Mansion, but it burned down after catching fire. Living in other houses he built, he owned ranches, and even built a “pig palace”; an easy kept building for the pigs. In such a way, he enjoyed his money.

                Jacks Literary style was “Real”, a style meaning that he took from real life experiences and put them into his stories. His themes would mostly be his experiences with sailing, and the Gold Rush in Alaska. Most people thing of jack London as someone who has animals as the main character, but the truth is that out of his 50 or so books, only 4 have that as true. People may think this because his most major works were The Call of the Wild, and White Fang, both books having canines as the main character. Some of his books are offensive to the generation today because of their racist touch (common back then), and are now out of print. Another major work of his is The Seawolf, a story that features a young man forced into seal-hunting on a ship. Although Jack London did not receive very much money for the Call of the Wild, it, along with White Fang, are still being read in schools today.

                Jack had an alcohol addiction throughout his life, and even wrote a book about it called John Barleycorn. The first time he tasted alcohol was when he was five years old. In the end, it killed him. Jack London died on” November 22, 1916 from Uremia and other various weaknesses” (203). His kidneys gave out. He was only forty years old. While he was still alive, he believed in cremation. “Cremation is the only decent, right, sensible way of ridding the world of us when the world has ridden itself of us.” –Jack London (206) It is a good thing then, that after his death, he was cremated. I think he would have been satisfied.

Bibliography

Dyer, Daniel. Jack London- A Biography. New York: Scholastic Press, 1997. Print.

“Jack London. Biography.” Bio. True Story. A+E Television Networks, LLC. Web. 28 Oct. 2012.

“Jack London.” Biography Center. Biography Center. Web. 28 Oct. 2012