Adrian Marks Rescued 56 Survivors of USS Indianapolis

Written by Elbert L. Watson

Feb 27, 2008 at 12:00 AM

Fourth in a series of 14 articles Sitting at the controls of his trusty PBY and flying near the choppy waters of the Pacific, Navy Lieutenant Adrian Marks could hardly believe his eyes. Below him he could clearly see craven, despairing faces of men adrift in the Pacific Ocean. Who were they? What were they doing there? Hope for them appeared almost gone. Only a few hours earlier that day Marks had taken off from his base at Peleiu, following receipt of a scout plane’s report that men were in the water 300 miles up north. His orders were specific: fly up, take a look, drop supplies, and return home. He was forbidden to land his plane unless the waters were calm. The great ocean was definitely not friendly this day. His choice was clear: obey orders or disobey them and face a possible court-martial? It was that simple. As Marks continued to pass over the tragic scene, he thoughtfully considered his limited options. Could he afford to jeopardize his peerless Navy record that pre-dated World War II?  Still, here were men struggling to live. They appeared to be Americans, though he was not quite sure. To them he represented hope, even life, perhaps. The date was August 2, 1945. Adrian Marks of Frankfort, Indiana, was at a defining moment in his life. Secret Mission of the USS Indianapolis One can search the annals of U.S. Naval history and will find no greater tragedy than the unthinkable sinking of the heavy cruiser USS Indianapolis (CV 35). Commissioned on November 15, 1932, at the Philadelphia Navy Yard, the ship enjoyed a long and distinguished career prior to World War II, serving as President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s flagship during several "Good Neighbor" cruises to South America. During the war Indianapolis saw action in some of the hottest spots in the Pacific: Rabaul; Gilbert Islands; Marshall Islands; Tarawa, Makin; Kwajalein; Marianas Islands; Saipan; Philippine Sea; Iwo Jima; and Chichia Jima. She almost met her fate on March 31, 1945, when a Japanese Kamikaze plane off Okinawa smashed into the port side of her after deck, killing nine men, and blowing two holes in her bottom. Despite settling slightly to the stern and listing to port, the tough old girl reached a salvage ship for emergency repairs. From there she limped back across the Pacific to Mare Navy Yard 25 miles above San Francisco. Extensive repairs there made her almost as good as new. A proven ship was needed at that precise moment to carry out a top secret mission, so Indianapolis was dispatched down to a deserted Navy Yard outside San Francisco. Parked alongside her were two trucks. A large crate was removed from one truck and taken to the port hanger. Two army officers removed a three-foot by four-foot canister from the crate, and carried it to Admiral’s cabin, where it was welded to the deck. Though all of this looked a little strange to those who observed the operation, no one suspected that the lead cylinder contained the key elements (Uranium-235) necessary to arm and trigger the atomic bombs that would fall on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. On July 16, 1945, Indianapolis headed out for Tinian in the Marianas Islands. Captured from the Japanese back in August, 1944, Tinian, was home to the busiest airfield of the war. B-29 Superfortress bombers used its great runway to target Japanese sites in the Philippines, Ryukyu Islands, and even mainland Japan itself.   In command of Indianapolis was Captain Charles McVay, a veteran officer, who informed his senior officers: "I can’t tell you what the mission is. I don’t know myself but I’ve been told that every day we take off the trip is a day off the war." The mysterious cylinder was more important than human life, he said, and would be given priority in a boat ahead of any crewmember, even himself, should abandon ship become necessary. Indianapolis arrived at Tinian on July 26, delivered her unusual cargo, and was off to her final stop at Leyte Gulf in the Philippines, presumably to participate in the anticipated land invasion of Japan. Arrival time at Leyte was set for July 31. Unfortunately, Indianapolis’ good luck ran out at 12:15 a.m., July 30, while she proceeded on a normal course in moderate seas with fairly good visibility. Lurking just ahead was Japanese Submarine I-58, commanded by Machitsura Hashimoto. Peering through his periscope at what appeared to be a battleship coming on fast, Hashimoto saw an opportunity to strike a blow for his Emperor. Two of the sub’s torpedoes struck the ship on her starboard (right) side. Crewmen sleeping above deck were tossed aside like rag dolls as Indianapolis shuttered under the heavy blows. Damage Control lost all water pressure. Power and communications quickly failed, making it impossible for an SOS signal to go out. Twelve minutes later Indianapolis capsized over on her starboard side and was gone, taking with her 1,199 crewmen. Grabbing hold of life preservers and whatever flotsam drifted by, the men made the best of what they had to survive. It is estimated that at least 700 men survived the blast, many of whom could have been saved had not Leyte failed to note the ship’s non-arrival. How could such a fatal error occur? One reason given was that the "Movement Report System" never indicated that the ship was overdue. Atmospheric interference of the ship’s signal was also blamed. Meanwhile, men struggled to survive in the Pacific’s unforgiving waters. Hundreds became deathly ill from ingesting sea water and oil and soon perished, along with others who sustained serious injuries from the blast. Swarms of sharks attacked the survivors mercilessly.   Daring rescue at sea by Marks   And then a miracle occurred on the fourth day, August 2! Shortly after 10 a.m. Lieutenant  J.G. Wilbur Gwinn, piloting a Navy Ventura PV-1 Bomber, was on a routine anti-submarine patrol. As he unsuspectingly flew over the scene of horror, his plane lost weight when the navigational antenna got disconnected and began flapping in the air. Turning the controls over to his co-pilot, Gwinn crawled back through the aircraft to repair the antenna. As he leaned out of the plane to guide the wire into place, he spotted  a long oil slick. Returning to the cockpit, he flew down to investigate and saw, instead, the faces of delirious, ecstatic men in the ocean trying to get his attention.   Gwinn dropped an inflatable life raft and radioed back to his base at Peleiu that he had found "many men in the water," and gave his latitude and longitude. More precious time was lost when the bureaucracy, in disbelief, failed to respond immediately. Stationed on Peleiu was a handsome, savvy 28 year PBY pilot named Adrian Marks who had flown hundreds of missions. He was tapped to fly up and find out what was going on. With his eight man crew, Marks revved up his trusty PBY and lumbered down the runway about 3:30 that afternoon. Deep in his gut he felt that something was terribly wrong. Who were the men in the water as reported by Gwinn? How long had they been there? How could he rescue them if he was not permitted to land his plane? While pondering these thoughts, Marks flew over the destroyer USS Cecil Doyle and radioed the ship’s captain, W. Graham Claytor, of the unusual report. Claytor diverted his ship from its assigned destination at Leyte Gulf, and, headed, instead, up the route given him by Marks. Reaching the disaster scene, Marks dropped down to about 100 feet above the water’s surface, instructing the crew to toss out rafts and supplies. One member spotted several men under shark attacks. This was too much! Standing orders were put aside! Down Marks went! Landing his plane nose up between ocean swells, he taxied as close as possible to the survivors. Finding out that they were from Indianapolis, Marks frantically radioed for more help. When the plane’s  hull filled to capacity with exhausted, bone-tired men, Marks shut off his engines and started strapping survivors to the wings, securing them with a piece of parachute shroud line to prevent them from slipping off. In all, 56 men were lifted out of the jaws of death in one of the most daring rescue missions ever made on the high seas. As dark fell, it brought with it additional fears and uncertainties for the men still in the water. Marks kept the Doyle well informed of the worsening situation. Aware that men were hanging on by slender threads and needed hope, Claytor responded courageously. Years later Marks recalled observing Doyle’s approach to the scene: "And then far out on the horizon there was a light! No matter the warning of submarines. No matter the unknown dangers of the night, the USS Doyle turned on her big 24 inch searchlight and pointed it straight up to reflect off the bottom of the clouds 2,000 feet up in the sky. For hour after hour it shone as a beacon of hope in the sky." Marks, his crew, and the survivors transferred aboard Doyle where they joined other men picked by the ship. Six more rescue vessels arrived the next day. A thorough search was made over 100 miles of the sinking before any ship departed. Against all odds, 317 men of the original crew of 1,199 had been saved. There was one final casualty: Marks requested that Captain Claytor sink his P-BY, since it was no longer flyable and might be confiscated by the Japanese. The Doyle’s guns blasted gapping holes in the plane and it quickly slipped beneath the ocean’s surface. Marks never faced charges for his heroic action. After the war he returned home to open a lucrative law practice in Frankfort, and became a highly respected and influential community leader. Still, he never forgot the events of August 2, 1945, and his role in the mighty saga. Addressing the Indianapolis survivors in 1975, he spoke with deep feeling: "I met you on a sparkling sun-swept afternoon of horror. I have known you through a balmy tropic night of fear. I will never forget you." Adrian Marks died at age 81 on March 7, 1998. He must not be forgotten either. In the spring of 1986 I interviewed Adrian Marks in his Frankfort home. He was one of the most eloquent, gentle men I have ever met. This article, in a sense, is a special salute to a man who responded with alacrity to a tragedy that other men overlooked. -------------------------------------------- Elbert L. Watson is a retired military historian who specializes in World War II and the War Between the States. He can be reached at