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  Text originally published in 1963 under the same title.

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  OF MEN AND WAR

  BY

  JOHN HERSEY

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Contents

  TABLE OF CONTENTS 4

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR 5

  INTRODUCTION 6

  SURVIVAL 8

  THE BATTLE OF THE RIVER 19

  NINE MEN ON A FOUR-MAN RAFT 33

  “BORIE’S” LAST BATTLE 40

  FRONT SEATS AT SEA WAR 51

  REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 64

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  John Hersey was born in Tientsin, China, in 1914 and lived there until 1924, when his family returned to the United States. He attended Hotchkiss School, was graduated from Yale in 1936, and then went to England to study at Clare College, Cambridge, for one year. Upon his return to this country, he was private secretary to Sinclair Lewis for a summer. Hersey has been a writer, editor, and war correspondent for Time and Life, a writer for The New Yorker and other magazines. Since 1947 he has been devoting most of his time to fiction.

  INTRODUCTION

  The stories in this book describe some of the sensations of what has come to be called “conventional warfare.” This refers to all those forms of war that do not involve the use of atomic weapons.

  In another book, Hiroshima, I have given an account of what happens to those on whom atomic warfare is waged. Nearly everyone agrees that the most urgent strivings of the world’s statesmen must be toward the goal of prohibiting atomic warfare forever—for in it, if it occurs, there will be no victory for anyone, only general disaster for all mankind.

  There are some who feel that “conventional” wars not only will be fought in future but even can be justified. I am not one of them. The stories in this volume may help readers to see why warfare, “conventional” or otherwise, cannot be justified as a means of settling disputes between nations, for these are stories of what common men, not necessarily leaders or heroes, feel as they wage war—and their feelings are inevitably reduced, in the end, to what men cannot help feeling about their worst crime, which is murder.

  The terrain, the weapons, and the races of war vary, but certainly never the sensations, except in degree, for they are as universal as those of love.

  On the surface the sensations of war, as these stories reveal them, may not all seem to be sensations of suffering, pain, discomfort, and guilt. Some seem to be wildly pleasant sensations. I will point to only one example: the strange, giddy elation of the men on the bridge of the U.S.S. Borie when they have their adversary, a German submarine, pinned beneath their ship in a kind of death grip. But I would suggest that this is a glee of briefest duration, for it combines two guilty elements: relief at the thought that the other human being, not the self, is to die; and, far worse, an upsurging drive to destroy. This drive is present to some degree in all of us, but living in a world at peace most of us succeed in diverting it into acceptable and harmless outlets. One of the worst things about war is that it renders this destructive urge respectable and even, it appears, praiseworthy. Men have been known to get medals for displaying it.

  It is true that warfare does also provide men with occasions for selfless generosity toward their fellows, of a sort that we call heroic sacrifice. The concern of young Lieutenant John F. Kennedy for his wrecked crewmen, in the now-famous episode of the survival of the youth destined to be President of the United States, and the gentle but costly care of Jim Hosegood for his delirious friend, in the story of the aviators crowded on a too-small rubber raft at sea—these are examples of human love at work under harrowing circumstances. But occasional sacrifice does not justify widespread pain; a hundred heroes do not restore one life unjustly lost.

  War does ask courage of men, but so does peace. Indeed, I hope that this book—showing instances of courage and cowardice, of heroism and utter selfishness, of love of life and disgusting bloodlust—will help readers to make a leap of imagination, to arrive at this fact of our time: peace is a far sterner challenge than war. War is the easy way out, the primitive resort to rage and killing. Peace, whether national or personal—the solution of problems without recourse to fighting, yet without compromising principles—requires of us greater stamina, greater sacrifice, greater forbearance, greater endurance, greater patience, greater resourcefulness, greater love, and even greater physical courage, by far, than giving vent to violence.

  SURVIVAL

  This is the story of a crucial episode in the life of John F. Kennedy, who, seventeen years after these events, became President of the United States.

  The time of these occurrences was August, 1943. I wrote the account a few months later, when Kennedy had been returned to the United States for recuperation and for separation, in due course, from the service. He told me the story one afternoon when I visited him in the New England Baptist Hospital, in Boston, where the disc between his fifth lumbar vertebra and his sacrum, ruptured in his crash in the Solomons, had been operated upon; and I asked if I might write it down. He asked me if I wouldn’t talk first with some of his crew, so I went to the Motor Torpedo Boat Training Centre at Melville, Rhode Island, and there, under the curving iron of a Quonset Hut, three enlisted men named Johnston, McMahon, and McGuire filled in the gaps.

  IT SEEMS that Kennedy’s PT, the 109, was out one night with a squadron patrolling Blackett Strait, in mid-Solomons. Blackett Strait is a patch of water bounded on the northeast by the volcano called Kolombangara, on the west by the island of Vella Lavella, on the south by the island of Gizo and a string of coral-fringed islets, and on the east by the bulk of New Georgia. The boats were working about forty miles away from their base on the island of Rendova, on the south side of New Georgia. They had entered Blackett Strait, as was their habit, through Ferguson Passage, between the coral islets and New Georgia.

  The night was a starless black and Japanese destroyers were around. It was about two-thirty. The 109, with three officers and ten enlisted men aboard, was leading three boats on a sweep for a target. An officer named George Ross was up on the bow, magnifying the void with binoculars. Kennedy was at the wheel and he saw Ross turn and point into the darkness. The man in the forward machine-gun turret shouted, “Ship at two o’clock!” Kennedy saw a shape and spun the wheel to turn for an attack, but the 109 answered sluggishly. She was running slowly on only one of her three engines, so as to make a minimum wake and avoid detection from the air. The shape became a Japanese destroyer, cutting through the night at forty knots and heading straight for the 109. The thirteen men on the PT hardly had time to brace themselves. Those who saw the Japanese ship coming were paralyzed by fear in a curious way: they could move their hands but not their feet. Kennedy whirled the wheel to the left, but again the 109 did not respond. Ross went through the gallant but
futile motions of slamming a shell into the breach of the 37-millimetre anti-tank gun which had been temporarily mounted that very day, wheels and all, on the foredeck. The urge to bolt and dive over the side was terribly strong, but still no one was able to move; all hands froze to their battle stations. Then the Japanese crashed into the 109 and cut her right in two. The sharp enemy forefoot struck the PT on the starboard side about fifteen feet from the bow and crunched diagonally across with a racking noise. The PT’s wooden hull hardly even delayed the destroyer. Kennedy was thrown hard to the left in the cockpit, and he thought, “This is how it feels to be killed.” In a moment he found himself on his back on the deck, looking up at the destroyer as it passed through his boat. There was another loud noise and a huge flash of yellow-red light, and the destroyer glowed. Its peculiar, raked inverted-Y stack stood out in the brilliant light and, later, in Kennedy’s memory.

  There was only one man below decks at the moment of collision. That was McMahon, engineer. He had no idea what was up. He was just reaching forward to wrench the starboard engine into gear when a ship came into his engine room. He was lifted from the narrow passage between two of the engines and thrown painfully against the starboard bulkhead aft of the boat’s auxiliary generator. He landed in a sitting position. A tremendous burst of flame came back at him from the day room, where some of the gas tanks were. He put his hands over his face, drew his legs up tight, and waited to die. But he felt water hit him after the fire, and he was sucked far downward as his half of the PT sank. He began to struggle upward through the water. He had held his breath since the impact, so his lungs were tight and they hurt. He looked up through the water. Over his head he saw a yellow glow—gasoline burning on the water. He broke the surface and was in fire again. He splashed hard to keep a little island of water around him.

  Johnston, another engineer, had been asleep on deck when the collision came. It lifted him and dropped him overboard. He saw the flame and the destroyer for a moment. Then a huge propeller pounded by near him and the awful turbulence of the destroyer’s wake took him down, turned him over and over, held him down, shook him, and drubbed on his ribs. He hung on and came up in water that was like a river rapids. The next day his body turned black and blue from the beating.

  Kennedy’s half of the PT stayed afloat. The bulkheads were sealed, so the undamaged watertight compartments up forward kept the half hull floating. The destroyer rushed off into the dark. There was an awful quiet: only the sound of gasoline burning.

  Kennedy shouted, “Who’s aboard?”

  Feeble answers came from three of the enlisted men, McGuire, Mauer, and Albert; and from one of the officers, Thom.

  Kennedy saw the fire only ten feet from the boat. He thought it might reach her and explode the remaining gas tanks, so he shouted, “Over the side!”

  The five men slid into the water. But the wake of the destroyer swept the fire away from the PT, so after a few minutes Kennedy and the others crawled back aboard. Kennedy shouted for survivors in the water. One by one they answered: Ross, the third officer; Harris, McMahon, Johnston, Zinsser, Starkey, enlisted men. Two did not answer: Kirksey and Mamey, enlisted men. Since the last bombing at base, Kirksey had been sure he would die. He had huddled at his battle station by the fantail gun, with his kapok life jacket tied tight up to his cheeks. No one knows what happened to him or to Mamey.

  Harris shouted from the darkness, “Mr. Kennedy! Mr. Kennedy! McMahon is badly hurt.” Kennedy took his shoes, his shirt, and his sidearms off, told Mauer to blink a light so that the men in the water would know where the half hull was, then dived in and swam toward the voice. The survivors were widely scattered. McMahon and Harris were a hundred yards away.

  When Kennedy reached McMahon, he asked, “How are you, Mac?”

  McMahon said, “I’m all right. I’m kind of burnt.”

  Kennedy shouted out, “How are the others?”

  Harris said softly, “I hurt my leg.”

  Kennedy, who had been on the Harvard swimming team five years before, took McMahon in tow and headed for the PT. A gentle breeze kept blowing the boat away from the swimmers. It took forty-five minutes to make what had been an easy hundred yards. On the way in, Harris said, “I can’t go any farther.” Kennedy, of the Boston Kennedy’s, said to Harris, of the same home town, “For a guy from Boston, you’re certainly putting up a great exhibition out here, Harris.” Harris made it all right and didn’t complain any more. Then Kennedy swam from man to man, to see how they were doing. All who had survived the crash were able to stay afloat, since they were wearing life preservers—kapok jackets shaped like overstuffed vests, aviators’ yellow Mae Wests, or air-filled belts like small inner tubes. But those who couldn’t swim had to be towed back to the wreckage by those who could. One of the men screamed for help. When Ross reached him, he found that the screaming man had two life jackets on. Johnston was treading water in a film of gasoline which did not catch fire. The fumes filled his lungs and he fainted. Thom towed him in. The others got in under their own power. It was now after 5:00 A.M., but still dark. It had taken nearly three hours to get everyone aboard.

  The men stretched out on the tilted deck of the PT. Johnston, McMahon, and Ross collapsed into sleep. The men talked about how wonderful it was to be alive and speculated on when the other PT’s would come back to rescue them. Mauer kept blinking the light to point their way. But the other boats had no idea of coming back. They had seen a collision, a sheet of flame, and a slow burning on the water. When the skipper of one of the boats saw the sight, he put his hands over his face and sobbed, “My God! My God!” He and the others turned away. Back at the base, after a couple of days, the squadron held services for the souls of the thirteen men, and one of the officers wrote his mother, “George Ross lost his life for a cause that he believed in stronger than any one of us, because he was an idealist in the purest sense. Jack Kennedy, the Ambassador’s son, was on the same boat and also lost his life. The man that said the cream of a nation is lost in war can never be accused of making an overstatement of a very cruel fact....”

  WHEN day broke, the men on the remains of the 109 stirred and looked around. To the northeast, three miles off, they saw the monumental cone of Kolombangara; there, the men knew, ten thousand Japanese swarmed. To the west, five miles away, they saw Vella Lavella; more Japs. To the south, only a mile or so away, they actually could see a Japanese camp on Gizo. Kennedy ordered his men to keep as low as possible, so that no moving silhouettes would show against the sky. The listing hulk was gurgling and gradually settling. Kennedy said, “What do you want to do if the Japs come out? Fight or surrender?” One said, “Fight with what?” So they took an inventory of their armament. The 37-millimetre gun had flopped over the side and was hanging there by a chain. They had one tommy gun, six 45-calibre automatics, and one .38. Not much.

  “Well,” Kennedy said, “what do you want to do?”

  One said, “Anything you say, Mr. Kennedy. You’re the boss.”

  Kennedy said, “There’s nothing in the book about a situation like this. Seems to me were not a military organization any more. Let’s just talk this over.”

  They talked it over, and pretty soon they argued, and Kennedy could see that they would never survive in anarchy. So he took command again.

  It was vital that McMahon and Johnston should have room to lie down. McMahon’s face, neck, hands, wrists, and feet were horribly burned. Johnston was pale and he coughed continually. There was scarcely space for everyone, so Kennedy ordered the other men into the water to make room, and went in himself. All morning they clung to the hulk and talked about how incredible it was that no one had come to rescue them. All morning they watched for the plane which they thought would be looking for them. They cursed war in general and PT’s in particular. At about ten o’clock the hulk heaved a moist sigh and turned turtle. McMahon and Johnston had to hang on as best they could. It was clear that the remains of the 109 would soon sink. When the sun had passed the meri
dian, Kennedy said, “We will swim to that small island,” pointing to one of a group three miles to the southeast. “We have less chance of making it than some of these other islands here, but there’ll be less chance of Japs, too.” Those who could not swim well grouped themselves around a long two-by-six timber with which carpenters had braced the 37-millimetre cannon on deck and which had been knocked overboard by the force of the collision. They tied several pairs of shoes to the timber, as well as the ship’s lantern, wrapped in a life jacket to keep it afloat. Thom took charge of this unwieldy group. Kennedy took McMahon in tow again. He cut loose one end of a long strap on McMahon’s Mae West and took the end in his teeth. He swam breast stroke, pulling the helpless McMahon along on his back. It took over five hours to reach the island. Water lapped into Kennedy’s mouth through his clenched teeth, and he swallowed a lot. The salt water cut into McMahon’s awful bums, but he did not complain. Every few minutes, when Kennedy stopped to rest, taking the strap out of his mouth and holding it in his hand, McMahon would simply say, “How far do we have to go?”

  Kennedy would reply, “We’re going good.” Then he would ask, “How do you feel, Mac?”

  McMahon always answered, “I’m O.K., Mr. Kennedy. How about you?”

  In spite of his burden, Kennedy beat the other men to the reef that surrounded the island. He left McMahon on the reef and told him to keep low, so as not to be spotted by Japs. Kennedy went ahead and explored the island. It was only a hundred yards in diameter; coconuts on the trees but none on the ground; no visible Japs. Just as the others reached the island, one of them spotted a Japanese barge chugging along close to shore. They all lay low. The barge went on. Johnston, who was very pale and weak and who was still coughing a lot, said, “They wouldn’t come here. What’d they be walking around here for? It’s too small.” Kennedy lay in some bushes, exhausted by his effort, his stomach heavy with the water he had swallowed. He had been in the sea, except for short intervals on the hulk, for fifteen and a half hours. Now he started thinking. Every night for several nights the PT’s had cut through Ferguson Passage on their way to action. Ferguson Passage was just beyond the next little island. Maybe...