Charles B. McVay
Halfway through July, the American authorities gave the crew of the Indianapolis a top-secret mission. They should leave straight away for the air base at Tinian, in the Mariana Islands. Charles quickly said goodbye to his family and travelled to California, hoping to receive more information in the port of San Francisco. But nothing was as he expected. On the morning of the 16th, several agents and members of the military police appeared out of nowhere and surrounded the ship. They ordered a series of vast lead containers, marked ‘Dangerous Goods’, to be carried on board. Nobody had said anything to Charles about this.
‘What kind of cargo is that?’ Charles asked the soldier who seemed to be in command.
‘That information is confidential. Your order is to transport the cargo to the air base at Tinian, at top speed and without an escort.’
‘Without an escort? I’m in charge of this ship. There’s no way I’m taking an unknown cargo on board, marked “Dangerous Goods”, let alone sailing without an escort across the Pacific – which, as you well know, is crawling with Japanese.’
The soldier stared at Charles.
‘Come with me,’ he said and started walking.
He led him on board, where a general was coordinating the positioning of the lead containers. Charles felt awkward about the situation. These men were parading about his ship without even asking permission or providing authorization. It amounted to a lack of respect.
‘General Groves,’ said the soldier, ‘Captain McVay would like to talk to you.’
Leslie Groves was tall, stocky, and had white hairs in his moustache.
‘Captain McVay, this ship must cast off this afternoon,’ the general informed him with a touch of arrogance, keeping his eyes on the containers that his men had almost finished loading on to the ship. ‘Inform your crew so that they are ready.’
Charles started to lose his patience.
‘Who are you?’ he asked a little tetchily.
‘Leslie Richard Groves, the general in charge of a secret mission called the Manhattan Project. I’m sorry I can’t give you any more information,’ he added, looking into Charles’ eyes for the first time. ‘Everything that concerns this cargo, its origin, is strictly confidential.’
‘I am responsible for everything on board this ship,’ replied Charles. ‘The crew and the contents. If I have to transport a cargo, pushing the boilers of this ship to the limit, I understand I should know what kind of cargo it is.’
‘I believe you haven’t understood,’ remarked the general, stroking his moustache. ‘This is the final phase in the Manhattan Project. These containers are above your crew, yourself and me. It is not allowed to ask about their contents or to go near them. If any of the crew disobeys this last order, my men will execute them on the spot. Should the ship sink in safe waters, the cargo comes first; it is above the life of the sailors. Should it sink in enemy waters, the soldiers will immediately throw the cargo overboard, even before saving themselves. Do you understand now, Captain McVay?’
‘I presume these orders come from the top,’ muttered the captain with obvious discomfort.
‘That’s right. Straight from Henry L. Stimson, Secretary of War, and Harry S. Truman.’
Charles had to swallow his pride. He explained the conditions to his crew. No questions about the cargo, no going near the containers, no escort. They would travel as fast as the boilers allowed to the Mariana Islands, without asking any questions.
That afternoon, the USS Indianapolis cast off and steamed out of the port, surrounded by a halo of mystery and silence. None of those travelling on board knew that they were transporting the parts needed to arm the deadliest bomb ever conceived. And just as Hunter Scott suspected, the only reason for choosing that ship was its availability. It was simply the closest free ship to hand.
