Thorn had made it back to the boat and regained some strength. As soon as he felt strong enough, he took the line and slipped back into the water to search for other survivors. He was not a strong swimmer, but any fears or exhaustion gave way to duty.

Alone in the water, William Johnston had swallowed a lot of gasoline. He had vomited until his stomach quivered, and he was shivering like a dog climbing from freezing water. He heard Thom yelling at him to swim for the boat, but he had little energy. A few kicks and he would rest. And then the idea of death began to comfort him. He passed out.

“Come on, Bill,” Thom said, upon reaching him, “we’re going back to the boat.”

“Boat?” Johnston said weakly.

Thorn grabbed his life vest and started to drag him back to safety.

Raymond Starkey was alone.

His hands and arms were burned, and he could feel the heat through the water. Minutes later, the current carried him close to a dark outline in the water. He listened and could hear voices.

“Ahoy,” he yelled.

“Over here,” voices answered.

Paddling closer, he could see Kennedy in the water near the wreckage.

“Climb onto the wreck,” Kennedy said.

Starkey managed to slip up onto what remained of the stem, then collapsed.

Just then, Kennedy began to call out the names of the crew. Kirksey and Marney did not answer.

Hours passed while the sky began to lighten. As the sun rose, the situation was grim.

That morning, Reg Evans built a small fire, warmed some water for tea, and then began to scan the water of Blackett Strait with his binoculars. Noticing wreckage on the water, he concentrated his telescope on the area. It looked like a Japanese barge, and he reported it to his base in New Georgia as such. Three hours would pass before Evans was notified that PT- 109 had been lost the night before.

For the men on PT-109, at first the rising sun brought a sense of relief. The warm glow on the main mountain of Kolombangara Island allowed the men to see one another and their surroundings, and that brought a sense of reality back to an otherwise unreal situation. They were alive, at least most of them, and they were glad.

But these feelings were quickly replaced by a different reality.

The men of PT-109 were floating smack dab in the middle of enemy territory.

“If the Japs come,” Kennedy asked, “what weapons do we have to fight with?”

After a count, the crew found they had six .45-caliber side arms as well as Kennedy’s .38. This was augmented with two knives and a pocketknife — hardly an arsenal.

Just before lunch, Reg Evans radioed that the hulk was still on the water and floating off Gizo in Blackett Strait. He was now aware that an American PT boat had been lost the night before, and he carefully watched the wreckage to see if he could make out what it was. It might be a PT boat, he thought to himself. But his telescope and binoculars were not strong enough to allow him a defined image. He continued to scan the water and report the movement of the wreckage.

Just past lunchtime, the wreckage of PT-109, which had been riding bow-down, turned turtle. The hull was filling with water, and it seemed that the boat might sink at any moment. Kennedy had been studying the nearby islands all morning. The wreckage had drifted closer to Gizo Island, making Kolombangara Island a distant swim. There were more Japanese on Gizo, but there were also a few small islands and coral atolls that might be uninhabited. Kennedy made his choice.

“Men,” he said, “we’re going to swim for that small island over there.”

He pointed to a small sand-ringed island sprouting coconut palms a few miles distant.

“Thom,” he ordered, “you and Ross remove the plank we lashed to the thirty-seven-millimeter gun.”

Now that the bow was upside down, the gun had broken the lashings and dropped to the ocean floor two thousand feet below — but the plank used to wedge her in place still remained. Thom cut it loose, and he and Ross floated it over to Kennedy.

Pappy McMahon stared at the blistered skin on his floating arms. He was in shock from the bums and weak from exposure.

“Lieutenant,” McMahon said to Kennedy, “you’d better leave me here — I think I’m done for.”

“No, Pappy,” Kennedy said forcefully, “you’re going to make it.”

The crew assembled on each side of the plank and awaited the order to begin kicking.

“Thom,” Kennedy said, “you and Ross keep the men together. I’m going to tow Pappy.”

And with that, the crew of PT-109 began to paddle slowly toward the distant island.

Hours passed as they painstakingly made their way. Kennedy had cut one of the straps of McMahon’s life vest and clutched the canvas strap in his mouth. Slowly, using a breast-stroke, he towed the delirious man to safety.

Four men were on each side of the plank, with Ensign Thom rotating back and forth to even the paddling. Kennedy was towing McMahon. Eleven men in total — deep in enemy territory.

Lieutenant John F. Kennedy was feeling an exhaustion that ran through his entire body.

To the west the sun was just dipping below the top of Gizo Island, as he slowly paddled the last few feet into shallow water alongside Plum Pudding Island. He was barely able to rise to his feet Once standing, he teetered unsteadily for a few seconds until he got his land legs, then whispered down to McMahon, who was floating lightly on his back.

“Pappy, I’m going to check for the enemy,” he said quietly. “I’ll be right back.”

“Be careful, Skipper,” McMahon said weakly.

Kennedy walked through the coral rocks and sand onto shore, then entered the foliage and disappeared. With his .38 revolver in his hand, he crept through the bush and trees. The island was about the length of a football field and half again as wide. Palm trees were scattered about, but the primary fauna seemed to be some form of long-needled, pinelike tree, along with bushes dotted with bird droppings. There was no sign of habitation save for the thousands of land crabs that scurried about, and a single bat that Kennedy flushed from sleep.

He walked back through the island, rubbing his aching jaw. The canvas strap he’d used to tow McMahon was a little moldy, and Kennedy had swallowed a great deal of seawater. Suddenly, he felt his stomach roil, and he vomited the salty waste into the bushes at the edge of the beach. When he was finished, he raised his head and stared into Blackett Strait.

The rest of his crew was entering the shallows near the island, and the taller men were finding footing beneath the water. The water was studded with coral outcroppings, and it tore into their feet. Stumbling through the uneven subsurface, the nine men made their way ashore.

Kennedy helped Pappy to his feet, and the eleven survivors stumbled into the brush.

Upon learning of the fate of PT-109, Reg Evans had alerted his native scouts to search for survivors. He could still see the wreckage, but now that the currents had changed, it was drifting north toward Nusatupi Island. Earlier he had requested an aerial search, and his last transmission of the night was to seek the results. So far he had received no word. Evans settled in for the night.

As night came on August 2, the crew of PT-109 began to understand their precarious situation. Only moments after taking cover in the bushes, a Japanese barge had slowly passed from south to north less than seventy-five yards out into Blackett Strait. The men kept quiet and the barge passed, but it confirmed just how close to the enemy they were.