(This article originally by John Andrew Prime appeared in the July 2018 issue of Military Officer, a magazine available to all MOAA Premium and Life members. Learn more about the magazine here; learn more about joining MOAA here.)

This month marks the 73rd anniversary of the U.S. Navy’s second-most-deadly warship loss of World War II: the July 30, 1945, sinking of heavy cruiser USS Indianapolis (CA-35) by a Japanese submarine.

With a casualty roster of 880, the tragedy bookends the war, with the loss of 1,177 on USS Arizona (BB-39) at Pearl Harbor the other — and deadliest — loss.

Arizona, however, had never fired a shot in anger. Indianapolis is the U.S. Navy’s deadliest loss in combat and at sea, and it played a significant role in the Pacific theater, earning 10 battle stars.

“Most people look at the final mission and the losses,” says Jack Barnes, a retired Navy chief from Texas who is leading efforts to secure the Congressional Gold Medal for the ship and its crew. But you must look at what the Indianapolis accomplished during its service and for three years during the war. It took part in 10 major battle campaigns. It was the flagship of the president of the United States. It was the flagship of Admiral [Raymond] Spruance.

“And yes, it was selected to take those atomic bomb parts — the Navy’s most secret mission ever — to Tinian at flank speed, a record that still holds today,” Barnes continues. The crew did that. They deserve this medal. They’ve earned it. If the Indianapolis is not deserving of this medal, nobody\ in the history of World War II is deserving.”

The Path to Infamy

Indianapolis’ war record began in 1942 with the Bougainville and Salamaua-Lae raids supporting Guadalcanal operations and the 1943 support of Kiska and Attu action in the Aleutians, followed by Gilbert Islands operations that same year. The next year, 1944, was full of action for the ship: engagements at the Marshall Islands, the Kwajalein and Majuro atolls, and the Eniwetok and Asiatic-Pacific Raids; Yap, Palau, Ulithi, Woleai, and the Battle of the Philippine Sea; the capture of Saipan, Guam, and Tinian; and operations in the Western Carolina Islands.

In 1945, in the months leading up to its loss, the Indy” participated in Japanese home islands raids, Honshu and Nansei Shoto, and the invasion of Okinawa. On March 31, 1945, during the Battle of Okinawa, Indianapolis was severely damaged by a kamikaze. A bomb holed the hull, bent a propeller shaft, and killed nine sailors, wounding 26 others. It steamed on its own power back to Mare Island, Calif., for repairs, setting the stage for its final mission.

After receiving extensive repairs, Indianapolis was tapped for a secret mission: to transport the atomic bomb to Tinian Island, where it would then be flown to Japan to be dropped on Hiroshima. No one on board — not even Capt. Charles McVay III, the ship’s skipper — knew why Indianapolis, a treaty” heavy cruiser whose displacement and power allowed it to slice through the water faster than just about any in service, was chosen. They were ordered to travel at fl ank speed, making the 7,500 mile passage to Tinian in 10 days at an average speed of 29 knots, setting a record that still stands.

“Obviously, the crew were aware of the rush in preps and the actual transit,” says Capt. John Woolston, USN (Ret), 93, a MOAA Life Member and Indy survivor who lives in Hawaii. I think that almost everyone connected our speed with the guarded boxes in the port hangar. I saw the bomb parts come aboard but did not see where they took it.”

After delivering the guts of two atomic bombs, the ship was ordered to the Philippines for routine gunnery practice. Instead, it sailed into destiny. Halfway to the Philippines, Indianapolis encountered the Japanese submarine I-58, which fired six torpedoes. Two struck the starboard side; the first tore off its bow, and the second detonated near a magazine and a fuel bunker. The ship sank in 12 minutes, taking around 300 men with her.

The almost 900 who survived — many clad only in skivvies or waterlogged life jackets — went into the Pacific, where they suffered for almost fi ve days before rescue. Burns, exposure, delirium, salt-water ingestion, and shark attacks claimed the lives of at least 500 more men. In the end, only 316 made it home.

The Fight for Recognition

Capt. Bill Toti, USN (Ret), has written articles on the loss of the ship and the actions of its crew and skipper, McVay, who was turned into the scapegoatfor the loss.Hewas court-martialed,the only suchship’s commanding officer so punished, and itwas only in 2001, after strenuous and vocal action by survivors, crewfamilies, andhistorians,thathis record was cleared. That was 33 years too late for McVay, who committed suicide in 1968.

“There’s no question these guys suffered enormously,” says Toti, who was the last commander of the nuclear attack submarine USS Indianapolis (SSN-697), which was decommissioned in 1998. (A dozen Indianapolis survivors attended.) “The government would say, ‘We do not give medals for suffering,’ and for years, the government used that as the excuse for not giving the ship and the crew the Navy Unit Commendation [award].

“The Navy said, ‘They were sunk and suffered, but that’s not what these awards are all about.’ But they earned 10 battle stars, and they delivered the atomic bomb. If it had never been sunk, [Indianapolis] would have merited that commendation [award]. A similar argument is being made today that the Congressional Gold Medal is for very special cases.”

Toti is quick to say the Navy has done a recent about-face with regard to the ship. “Since 2001, the Navy has been wonderful toward the survivors,” he says. I want to make that clear. The issue is whether the Congressional Gold Medal is appropriate as a remediation for 65 years of bad treatment. I would argue that it is.”

Survivors Look Back

In August 2017, the civilian research vessel Petrel, owned by Microsoft co-founder Paul Allen, located the ship’s hull more than 18,000 feet beneath the Pacific. The discovery of the wreck spurred Navy research into the sinking, reducing the total crew roster by one and also nudging the number of survivors down from the previously accepted tally of 317. Six years ago, there were 45 living survivors; as of press time, there were 16.

“The Navy don’t care very much for us,” says Cleatus Lebow, 94, who lives in Memphis, Texas, not far from Barnes. We had a … vice admiral speak at one of our reunions a few years ago, and he said ... ‘I hadn’t heard a word about the Indianapolis.’ ”

"Honoring the ship and its crew for wartime service would be a wonderful gesture,” says Edgar Harrell, who, at 93, still travels the nation to talk to civic groups and schools about the ship on which he served as part of its Marine detachment. He’s the last Marine from that group alive. He and his son, David, penned Out of the Depths: An Unforgettable WWII Story of Survival, Courage, and the Sinking of the USS Indianapolis (Bethany House Publishers, 2014), a memoir about the loss of the ship and Harrell’s ensuing spiritual voyage.

“It would indeed be an honor for the some 18 survivors still alive” — a number that has decreased by two just since Military Officer spoke with Harrell in March — plus the families of the [316] that survived,” Harrell says. [They] and the families of those lost at sea has been much rejuvenated since they have found the Indianapolis. Any medal, even after some 73 years, shows appreciation for the crew, whether survivors [or] those lost at sea, plus the many families of the 1,197 ship’s crew.”

Louis Erwin, 93, of Tennessee, said the discovery of the ship’s hull brings back memories of 72 years of the loss at sea, the lives of the men. I remember just about everything: I’d just come off the 8-12 watch on a five-inch open turret gun. I’d just laid down in my hammock slung under a 40-mm mount on the port side.”

Everything he owned went down with the ship.

“I kicked my shoes off, so the only thing I had on were my skivvies and my socks,” he recalls. Floating in the water for four days, under the beating sun, I’d take my socks off and put them over my eyes.”

When they finally were rescued, “the clothes were cut off you, and they turned the water hoses on us, because we were covered with oil.” He didn’t send any photos home from his earlier service, he says.

"My whole living room is plastered with stuff about the Indianapolis,” he says. But I have nothing from the ship. I lost my uniforms, everything.”

Adolfo Celaya, 91, of Arizona, didn’t speak about his experience for years. Not even his kids knew what he had gone through until they were teenagers and old enough to understand.

“I stayed pretty quiet for years,” Celaya says. “Most of the veterans who came out of it didn’t like to talk about it in the beginning.”

He was near where the second torpedo struck and went into the water without a life jacket.

“I was lucky to get out of there,” Celaya says. I was lucky to get out with a few burns.”

Lebow is one of the few survivors who has a photo from his time on Indianapolis — a November 1944 picture from when he was in San Francisco. The photo was safe on land when the ship sank.

“Everything else went down, including 69 silver dollars I got out of my locker to look at [before the torpedoes struck],” he said. "With the recent discovery of the ship, they said they’re not going to raise anything, so I guess they won’t be raising them any time soon.

“I don’t see how anything might have survived five days in the water like we did,” he says. They’d be ruined — everything from the men on up.”

John Andrew Prime is a freelance writer based in Shreveport, La. This is his first article for Military Officer.