He held the stick between his knees, so that he could pull both of the canopy jettison rings simultaneously. If you didn't do that, the canopy might well jam on the remaining pin, trapping you in the cockpit; or else it might drag off into the airstream and hang there like an air brake, making control difficult or impossible.
The canopy blew off without trouble. All he had to do after that was unfasten his seat and shoulder harness, and climb out.
That turned out to be harder than he thought it would. He'd been a pilot for a long time, but he was still surprised at the force of the slip stream when he lifted his head and shoulders above the windscreen.
He went over the left side, bounced on the wing, then fell free. He watched the tail assembly flash over his head, alarmingly close, and then he pulled the D-Ring.
A moment after that, there was a dull flapping, thudding noise, and then a hell of a jolt as the canopy filled with air and suddenly slowed his descent.
For a while there was still some horizontal movement. When he bailed out, he was probably making right about a hundred knots. So when it opened, the parachute had to stop the forward motion before it started to lower him to the water.
He swung like a pendulum for maybe twenty seconds under the parachute, and then he looked down and saw the water. For a moment, it looked very far away, but the next it rushed up at him with alarming speed. Then he went in.
He remembered, at the last possible instant, to close his mouth. He even tried to get his hand up to hold his nose, but there wasn't time.
All of a sudden, he was in the water. It was like hitting hard sand. It wasn't at all cushiony, like water is supposed to be.
He remembered to get out of the parachute harness as quickly as he could. He worked the quick-disconnect mechanism and made sure he was free of the straps before swimming to the surface.
If you got tangled in the parachute harness, the shroud lines, or the parachute canopy itself, you could drown.
When he was on the surface, and sure that he was away from the parachute, which was floating on the surface of the water, he fired the CO2 cartridge and inflated his life vest.
The sea moved in large, gentle swells. Nothing at all was in sight, not even aircraft in the distance. Using his hands, he turned himself around. He could see no land on the horizon. He was therefore at least seven or eight miles from any land-and probably a hell of a lot farther than that. In any event, he was too far away to try to swim anywhere, even if he knew where he should go; and he didn't.
He never felt so alone in his life.
He told himself they would probably look for him, either airplanes from his squadron, or Catalinas, or maybe even with Navy ships. But then he told himself that was wishful thinking.
If anyone watched him go down, they would have seen he was in bad trouble, and they'd probably figure he died in the crash.
He was in the water about an hour when the wind picked.up and started making white caps. That seemed to put the cork in the bottle. He was a tiny little speck floating around in the great big ocean. It was difficult, but possible, for someone to spot the brilliant yellow life preserver against a calm blue sea; there was no chance anyone-from four, five thousand feet-could make out a couple of square feet of yellow among the white caps.
When darkness fell, Charley told himself that with a little bit of luck, he would be asleep when the shark-sharks- struck. That would be a better way to go than putting the.45 in his mouth, or of being sunburned to death when the sun came up again in the morning. He was already desperately thirsty, and that could only get worse, not better.
He went to sleep thinking of Caroline. They were in the marble walled shower of the Andrew Foster Hotel in San Francisco, with the water running down from the multiple shower heads over them.
(Seven)
USN PATROL TORPEDO BOAT 110
160 DEGREES 05 MINUTES 02 SECONDS EAST LONGITUDE
09 DEGREES 50 MINUTES 14 SECONDS SOUTH LATITUDE
0505 HOURS 25 AUGUST 1942
At 0400, Ensign Keith M. Strawbridge, USNR (Princeton, '40), relieved FT 110's skipper, Lieutenant (j.g.) Simmons F. Hawley III, USNR (Yale '40); but Hawley elected to remain on the bridge.
Ensign Strawbridge wasn't sure whether Lieutenant Hawley was staying because there was no sense trying to go below and get some sleep; or because he didn't really trust him to assume command of the boat; or whether-despite the heat, it was a pleasant night, reminding both of them of sailing off Bermuda-he just decided to stay for the pure pleasure of it.
After all, he was the captain. PT 110 was, in the law, a man of war of the United States Navy; and Sim Hawley was therefore invested with the same prerogatives of command as the captain of the Aircraft Carrier USS Saratoga.
If he wanted to stay on the fucking bridge of his man of war and play his fucking harmonica, there was no one to say him nay.
Having just asked his executive officer if he thought bathing the harmonica in fresh water would be a good idea, to combat the rust from the salt spray, Captain Hawley was startled and somewhat annoyed by a report from Motor Machinist's Mate 3rd Class James H. Granzichek (Des Plaines, 111. Senior High '41).
"Hey, Mr. Hawley," he called. "Check out whatever the fuck that is on the left. The yellow thing."
Hawley did not like being addressed as "Hey, Mr. Hawley." He preferred to be referred to as "Captain," but thought it would be rather bad form to suggest it, much less order it. He also could not see where it was necessary for the men to use "fuck" every time the proper word did not immediately come to mind. And there was a proper Naval term for "on the left." Granzichek should have said, "to starboard." Or was it, "to port"?
But he looked for the yellow thing. First with his naked eyes, and then, when that didn't work, through his binoculars. The boat was shaking so much he couldn't hold the binoculars still.
"All engines stop," he ordered.
MMM3 Granzichek hauled back on the throttles that controlled the twin Packard engines of PT 110. She slowed, and then began to move side to side in the swells. This action tended to make Ensign Strawbridge feel a bit queasy, but it permitted Captain Hawley to see through his binoculars.
"Good God," he exclaimed. "It's a man in a life jacket."
"No shit?" MMM3 Granzichek asked, reaching for the binoculars. A moment later, he reported, "I think he's dead. He's not moving or waving or anything."
"May I have a look now, please?" Ensign Strawbridge asked, a trifle petulantly. Granzichek handed him the binoculars.
"How would you say, Granzichek," Captain Hawley asked, "would be the best way to take him on board?"
Granzichek, Captain Hawley reasoned, had been aboard PT 110 for three and a half months. He himself had assumed command only last Monday. Experience tells.
"Pull up alongside him, catch him with a boat hook, and then get a line on him," Granzichek said.
"Very well, then let's have a go at it," Captain Hawley ordered.
URGENT
CONFIDENTIAL FROM PTSQUADRON-30
TO COMMANDING OFFICER VMF-229
VIA CINCPAC
1. PT 110 OF THIS SQUADRON RECOVERED AT SEA AT 0530 THIS MORNING CAPTAIN CHARLES M.
GALLOWAY, USMCR.
2. CAPTAIN GALLOWAY IS SUFFERING FROM EXPOSURE AND DEHYDRATION BUT IS OTHERWISE IN GOOD
HEALTH. HE HAS BEEN TRANSFERRED TO HOSPITAL SHIP USS CONSOLATION