The third day was the charm. Clear sky and calm seas. We arrived at the proper coordinates and began searching. We quickly began to record debris scattered around the seafloor eighty feet under our keel. The divers went down and found a galley stove from the dirigible, as well as twisted duraluminum beams. No more were we broken and saddened souls.

I had to fly out the next morning to begin a tour for my latest book. The crew, bless them, then went out again with Zeff Loria running the sidescan, and found the aircraft’s lower fin lying on the bottom. Divers searched a small part of the seven-hundred-foot debris field and found piles of twisted beams and support frames half-buried in the seafloor. No aircraft were visible, since none were aboard when Akron crashed into the sea. There were few intact artifacts left from the great zeppelin, whose hull was only a hundred feet shorter than Titanic. Her career was short, but she and her sisters had made a lasting impression on the history of lighter-than-air aircraft. It was sad and unfortunate that the great airships could not have been a major stepping-stone into air transportation, but most all met with tragic fates. Now the graves of Akron, Macon, and Shenandoah are all accounted for. I wish that someday professional archaeologists would return to Akron, retrieve her artifacts, and put them on display in the museum at Lakehurst, New Jersey.

One final note on a very strange story related to Akron. Not long after she was launched, the dirigible was scheduled to fly over a football game in Huntington, West Virginia. The date was October 10,1931. As thousands watched, a huge zeppelin cruised over the Ohio River and approached the stadium at only three hundred feet. Then, to the spectators’ horror, it suddenly crumpled and crashed to the ground. Several men were seen to escape in parachutes. After a thorough search, however, rescuers were stunned to find no sign of the Akron. No victims or wreckage could be found. Later investigation revealed that the flight by the navy dirigible over the stadium had been canceled. Not only had Akron not crashed in full view of a horde of sworn witnesses, but she had been over a hundred miles away at the time, and no other lighter-than-air craft were reported missing.

The eerie apparition has never been explained.

It was another day of tropical heat and humidity, the type of smothering air that brings on a festering malaise of listlessness and diminished expectations. Even the fact that the crew of PT 109 was due a night in port was doing little to add enthusiasm to what had become an endless war against sweat and insects. The crew was battle-weary and dulled by exhaustion.

They dreamed of home fires and cool breezes.

“Maybe we can scrounge up some bread,” said Raymond Albert.

Albert was from Akron, Ohio, twenty years old and always hungry.

“To make some Spam sandwiches?” radioman John Maguire said dubiously.

“No more Spam,” Albert said. “Perhaps we can shoot a few fish and have fish sandwiches.”

Just then the sounds of an approaching shore launch filtered into the cove where PT-109 was moored. Seated behind the bosun’s mate was a slim, sandy-haired man who usually sported a broad smile. This afternoon, however, no smile was visible.

“Maybe Kennedy’s brought some fresh rations” Maguire said hopefully.

“If he had fresh food,” Albert said, “he’d look happy. He doesn’t look happy.”

PT-109 looked used and abused, but it was not the result of a long life. The trim eighty-foot vessel had first met water in July 1942, just over a year before, in the polluted waters near her factory in Bayonne, New Jersey. Constructed of plywood by ELCO, the Electric Boat Company, she had first been assigned to the PT Boat Training Center in Melville, Rhode Island, before traveling through the Panama Canal on a transport ship. Eventually reaching Noumea in the South Pacific, she had been towed to the Solomon Islands and joined the fighting near Guadalcanal. Powered by three twelve-cylinder Packard engines and sporting a total of four torpedo tubes, she was finished in a dark-green paint scheme that allowed her to hide under a canopy of foliage when not on patrol.

After training at Melville, John F. Kennedy assumed command in April of 1943.

The base for PT-109 was named Todd City in honor of Leon E. Todd, the first PT-boat crewman based at Lumberi to die. The island where Lumberi was located was named Rendova. To the east of Rendova was the Solomon Sea; to the west, New Georgia Island. To the north lay Gizo Island and the Japanese base at Gizo Town, which fronted Blackett Strait. West of Gizo was the tall, tree-covered mountain named Kolombangara that formed the opposite edge of the strait. Rendova was almost uninhabited until the navy base was established, and the jungles nearby were still wild. Brightly colored parrots flitted from one coconut palm to another, while lizards climbed atop the rotting coconuts at their bases. Flies and winged beetles took to the air. When the sun was setting, bats and night birds could be seen taking Hight. The waters near Rendova were warm and teeming with life. Coral reefs poked up through the crystal-clear water, and tropical fish abounded.

It could be considered paradise, save for the war raging nearby.

Lieutenant (Jg) John Fitzgerald Kennedy climbed from the shore launch, clutching a folder holding orders and operational information. A handsome man at twenty-six years old, he had been raised with privilege. After a childhood in Massachusetts, he had attended boarding school at Choate, followed by graduation from Harvard University. Son of the former ambassador to the Court of St. James, Joseph Kennedy, he had little in common with the men who served under him.

Still, his crew had found their well-heeled skipper both friendly and approachable.

A stem taskmaster when that was warranted, he also showed leniency with regulations he found arbitrary or unsound. And while he was tasked with maintaining at least a reasonable sense of navy decorum, he was more concerned with matters that pertained to crew readiness and operations. There was one other thing that endeared him to his men — there was no job he would not do himself. When cargo needed to be loaded, he helped. When the boat needed scraping or painting, he reached for a tool.

Those who had served under other PT-boat skippers rated Kennedy a favorite.

“Gather ‘round,” Kennedy said as he climbed the gangplank. “I have our orders.”

Ensign Leonard Thorn from Sandusky, Ohio, the second in command, shouted down to the sailors in their bunks. Thorn was a large man with light hair and a blond beard. Built like a football player, he had an eternally positive attitude that flowed forth like waves of warmth. Once the crew filtered abovedecks and stood milling on the stern, he turned to Kennedy.

“Men are assembled, sir.”

Kennedy glanced around and nodded.

“We’ve been ordered to go out tonight,” Kennedy said, staring at his men.

“Damn,” someone said under his breath.

Grumbling could be heard as the men scattered, but all in all they took the news surprisingly well. There was a war in progress, and war demanded unusual measures. Personal desires gave way to sacrifice, weariness to preparation, fear to duty. They had a job to do — and they’d do it.

Still, not a single man could envision the horror they were about to face.