Against
the Odds
It
was the summer of 1942. I was nineteen years old and a signalman third class on
the USS Astoria stationed in the South Pacific.
One
hot night in August, we found ourselves skirmishing with the Japanese for
control of Guadalcanal, gearing up for the bloody battle that soon followed. At
midnight, I finished my duty on watch. Still wearing my work detail uniform of
dungarees and a T-shirt, and only pausing long enough to unstrap my
standard-issue life belt and lay it beside me, I fell into an exhausted sleep.
Two
hours later, I was awakened abruptly by the sound of an explosion. I jumped to
my feet, my heart pounding. Without thinking, I grabbed my life belt and
strapped it on. In the ensuing chaos, I focused on dodging the rain of enemy
shells that were inflicting death and destruction all around me. I took some
shrapnel in my right shoulder and leg, but by some miracle, I avoided being
killed.
That
first battle of Savo Island lasted for twenty minutes. After the enemy fire
ceased, the men left standing helped with the wounded, while others manned the
guns.
I
was making my way toward a gun turret when suddenly, the deck disappeared. My
legs windmilled beneath me as I realized that an explosion had blasted me off
the deck. My shock was immediately replaced by a stomach-clenching fear as I
fell like a stone—thirty feet into the dark, shark-infested water below.
I
immediately inflated my life belt, weak with relief that I'd somehow remembered
to put it on. I noticed between ten and thirty men bobbing in the water in the
area, but we were too far away from each other to communicate.
I
began treading water, trying to stay calm as I felt things brushing against my
legs, knowing that if a shark attacked me, any moment could be my last. And the
sharks weren't the only danger: The powerful current threatened to sweep me out
to sea.
Four
agonizing hours passed this way. It was getting light when I saw a ship—an
American destroyer—approaching. The sailors on board threw me a line and hauled
me aboard.
Once
on the ship, my legs buckled and I slid to the deck, unable to stand. I was fed
and allowed to rest briefly. Then I was transported back to the Astoria, which,
though disabled, was still afloat. The captain was attempting to beach the ship
in order to make the necessary repairs.
Back
on board the Astoria, I spent the next six hours preparing the dead for burial
at sea. As the hours passed, it became clear our vessel was damaged beyond help.
The ship was taking on water and finally, around twelve hundred hours, the
Astoria began to roll and go under.
The
last thing I wanted to do was to go into that water again, but I knew I had to.
Filled with dread, I jumped off the high side of the sinking ship and began
swimming. Although I still had my life belt on, it couldn't be inflated a
second time. Luckily, I was soon picked up by another destroyer and transferred
to the USS Jackson.
Against
all the odds, I had made it—one of the lucky men to survive the battle of Savo
Island. We were issued Marine uniforms, and I spent my time, in between visits
to the ship's doctors for treatment of my wounds, sitting on the deck of the Jackson, waiting for our transport to San Francisco's Treasure Island and the
leave that would follow.
Though
it felt odd to wear the unfamiliar uniform, I wasn't sad to lose my old
dungarees and T-shirt. The one thing I found I didn't want to give up was my
life belt. I hung on to the khaki cloth-covered rubber belt, studying it
sometimes as I sat around on the Marine ship.
The
label on the belt said it had been manufactured by Firestone Tire and Rubber
Company of Akron, Ohio, which was my hometown. I decided to keep the belt as a
souvenir, a reminder of how lucky I'd been.
When
I finally took my thirty-day leave, I went home to my family in Ohio. After a
quietly emotional welcome, I sat with my mother in our kitchen, telling her
about my recent ordeal and hearing what had happened at home since I went away.
My mother informed me that "to do her part," she had taken a wartime job at
the Firestone plant. Surprised, I jumped up and grabbed my life belt from my
duffel bag, putting it on the table in front of her.
"Take
a look at that, Mom," I said. "It was made right here in Akron at your plant."
She
leaned forward and, taking the rubber belt in her hands, she read the label. She
had just heard the story and knew that in the darkness of that terrible night,
it was this one piece of rubber that had saved my life. When she looked up at
me, her mouth and her eyes were open wide with surprise. "Son, I'm an
inspector at Firestone. This is my inspector number," she said, her voice
hardly above a whisper.
We
stared at each other, too stunned to speak. Then I stood up, walked around the
table and pulled her up from her chair. We held each other in a tight embrace,
saying nothing. My mother was not a demonstrative woman, but the significance of
this amazing coincidence overcame her usual reserve. We hugged each other for a
long, long time, feeling the bond between us. My mother had put her arms halfway
around the world to save me.
Elgin
Staples
(c)2000
Elgin Staples.
All rights reserved. Reprinted from Chicken Soup for the Veteran's Soul by
Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Sidney R. Slagter. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a
retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the written
permission of the publisher. Publisher: Health Communications, Inc., 3201 SW
15th Street, Deerfield Beach, FL 33442.
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