Once the barge was safely out of sight, Kennedy motioned to Ross and Thom. Walking a short distance away, the three of ficers held a conference.

“Okay,” Kennedy asked plainly, “how are we going to get out of here?”

The men discussed their choices, but in reality there were few. All agreed that as soon as night fell, the other PT boats in their squadron would return to search for them, but how would they be able to intercept the rescuers in the black of night?

“Our only hope is for one of us to try to swim out in the channel with the blinker,” Kennedy said finally, “and since I’m the strongest swimmer, I’ll go out tonight.”

The three officers nodded slowly. They knew the waters around the Solomon Islands contained sharks. That, combined with the Japanese nearby, the strong currents in the water, and the fact that Kennedy was exhausted, made the idea about as risky as borrowing money from an angry loan shark.

“Jack,” Ross said, “I don’t think this is wise.”

“What other choice do we have?” Kennedy said quietly.

It was a question without answer.

After a few hours of fitful sleep, Kennedy awoke and stared out at the water. It was a black, limpid pool of the unknown. In the last twenty-four hours, his boat had been run down by a Japanese destroyer and lit aflame. To add insult to injury, he and his crew had been forced to swim to a deserted island deep in enemy territory. They had no food, no water, and very little with which to defend themselves. Kennedy was as scared as the others, but he was also their leader. If there was any chance for rescue, he would take it, even if it meant a nighttime foray into shark-infested waters.

With his .38 on a lanyard around his neck, he waded into the water and began to follow an underwater reef to the south toward Ferguson Passage. On the northern edge of the passage lay Nauru Island, bordered with a thick coral plate that caused the waves to crash at heights of up to ten feet. The sound of the breakers made it hard to hear the sound of boat engines, and Kennedy struggled to listen. Hard knobs of coral cut his feet and ankles. In places he could walk on the reef at chest depth; other times the coral receded and he would plunge into the black water and swim for a distance. Slowly making his way south, Kennedy awaited the rescue ships he knew were coming.

Hours passed as he stood in the water, waiting.

Once he thought he heard a boat, and he signaled with the blinker. But it was nothing. For hours he stood, with only the blackness of the water and the feeling of marine life brushing his legs. Once the sun rose, he struggled onto a small island south of Plum Pudding and collapsed.

He was out in the open on the sandy beach, but he was too exhausted to move.

A few miles away, a pair of Reg Evans’s Gizo Scouts, Biuku Gasa and Eroni Kumana, were awakening on Sepu Island. During the night, the Japanese had landed several hundred more troops on Gizo Island, and the two scouts wanted to report this development. Sliding their dugout canoe into the water, they began to paddle toward Kolombangara Island.

While the men were not large by Western standards, just a shade over five feet tall, they were lean and strong. As their canoe paddles bit into the water, they began to chant. It was a song of the sea in their native language, and the cadence carried them forward. Finding some floating debris, they stopped and placed it in the dugout. Implements for shaving, a few olive-drab pieces of cloth, and a letter they could not read. They continued on.

The sun was roasting Kennedy as he awoke on the sandy shore. He tried the blinker and found that he had left it on and the battery was dead. Tossing it outside, he stared to the north. He was about a mile south of Plum Pudding Island, and he began to walk and swim toward the other men.

Ensign Thorn had posted night guards, but they reported no sign of Kennedy. Thorn feared his friend had been swept away or eaten by sharks, but there was little he could do. He could only tend to the crew as best he could. McMahon’s bums were festering. Thorn ordered some coconuts felled and then hacked them open with a knife. He tried to rub the oil on the wounds, but it did little to alleviate the suffering. Harris tried to use the coconut oil to lubricate their handguns, but the experiment proved a failure. The oil gummed up the slides, and Harris was forced to strip all the weapons and clean them. Just then, Maguire saw someone in the water.

“Someone’s approaching,” he said, pointing.

Ross waded into the water and helped Kennedy to his feet. Taking a few steps, Kennedy stopped and vomited up seawater. He was barely coherent as he struggled ashore. Collapsing in a clearing just off the beach, he managed to croak, “Barney, you take it tonight.”

“Okay, John,” Ross replied.

The day passed, waiting for a rescue that did not come.

Johnston and Starkey passed the time trying to catch fish. Zinser tried bathing his burned arms in salt water, but it did not help. Whenever he felt sorry for himself, he had only to look at McMahon. The older man was obviously in pain, but he suffered his discomfort without complaint.

That night Ross waded out into the passage, but again no boats were seen.

REG EVANS HAD explained to Biuku and Eroni about the wreck of PT-109 and asked them to keep an eye out for any survivors. They stayed at Kolombangara to rest before beginning the long trip back across Blackett Strait the next morning.

Kennedy had regained his strength by the time Ross returned early the next morning.

“Nothing, Jack,” he said disgustedly. “I don’t think they’re looking for us at all.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Kennedy said to Ross and Thorn, “that we should move to that island.”

He pointed south to an island named Olasana located about two miles away.

“It’s closer to Ferguson Passage, as well as larger,” he said. “Maybe we can find something to eat there. If not, at least we wouldn’t have to swim as far on our nighttime journies.”

Thom was not a strong swimmer, but he was game.

“It looks like the reef runs there,” he said. “We should be able to walk a lot of the distance.”

“Then it’s agreed,” Kennedy said. “I’ll tell the crew.”

Tonight would mark the fourth night of the ordeal, but the men took the news well. The tension was taking its toll, and the crew was glad to be doing something. Just waiting for rescue or capture was stressful; doing anything about their situation was preferable. They set off for Olasana Island. Hours later, the crew struggled ashore and made their way into the trees. The currents had proved stronger than expected, and everyone was tired.

That night no one swam into Ferguson Passage. Help would have to find them.

Biuku and Eroni were flying across the water. The sea was slick, and the day’s rest had given them strength. Mr. Evans had shown them the wreckage of a vessel through the spyglass. It had washed ashore on the south side of Nauru Island, where the breakers crashed on the coral reef. They decided to check it out on the way home — maybe there was food or fuel aboard.

“Sitting here doing nothing is killing me,” Kennedy told Ross. “Let’s swim over to Nauru.”

“Our planes should be flying over,” Ross agreed. “Maybe there’s a clear spot of sand where we can write a rescue message.”

Leaving Ensign Thom in charge, the two men made the short swim to the southernmost island bordering Ferguson Passage. Because of the islands’ strategic location directly on the passage, Kennedy and Ross figured that the Japanese might have a post there, but they found no sign of habitation. Walking through the trees to the southern side, they stared out on the passage and noticed the wreck of what appeared to be a Japanese barge. A few boxes had washed ashore, and Ross pried one open and found it filled with hard candy. After eating their fill, they decided to return to the others and share the windfall. Walking along the shore, they came upon a pair of dugout canoes and tins of fresh water. The canoes had been stashed by the scouts, but Kennedy and Ross had no way to know that.