ONLY THREE

Wanganui Chronicle, Volume 76, Issue 106, 8 May 1933, Page 9

ONLY THREE

SAVED FROM AKRON CLINGING TO PETROL TANK "NEVER MIND ABOUT ME" SAN FRANCISCO, April 6. The world’s greatest air horror stirred all America to tho depths by reason of the heart-rending details of the of the giant dirigible Akron. A dramatic story came to light of how four members of the crew oi the Akron struggled in the black waters of the Atlantic immediately after the crash; how they recognised each other by lightning flashes as they clung to a petrol tank; and how finally one of them —Lucian Rutan, machinist’s mate — slipped into the sea to his death before the eyes of his companions. As the four men swam about blindly in the murky, foggy night they reached out and touched something hard and cold—but buoyant. It was a gasoline tank! Four sets of fingers pulled four heads over the edge of the tank. Four hearts skipped a beat or two, and four souls sent up a prayer of thanks. They looked over the edge of the tank, and recognised each other. One was Boatswain’s Mate Richard E. Deal, another was Metalsmith Moody E. Irwin, a third was Robert W. Copeland, chief radio operator, and the last was Rutan. “Hello,” they said to each other and Deal asked: “Any others?” Their eyes searched the tossing, icy waters and they looked back at one another’s eyes. Dawning horror gripped

them and they shook their heads. “Good God,” uttered Irwin. They looked again, fading before the surface they saw the ghostly hulk that had been the coffin for three score men and ten —it was the only sign on all the tossing, dead gray, wet expanse. “Hang On.” Their eyes went back over the flat top bf their floating gas can. “All gone,” muttered Rutan. His hands, and those of Irwin were red, raw, bloody, where the skin and flesh had given away over burns and cuts. His fingers started, to slip. “Hang on, boy,” Deal told them, and Rutan looked back and forced a wistful sort of smile. “As long as I can,” he answered. Copeland’s head sank forward, and it seemed ho was about to slip off. Irwin reached across a corner of their floatinggas can and caught Copeland’s sleeves. They were locked across the corner of the can. Rutan’s fingers slipped again, he barely managed to get a fresh hold. “Hold it, buddy,” said Deal. “I’m coming over to you.” An inch at a time Deal started to edge his way along the slippery 'tank. There could be no sudden movement, for that might dislodge Copeland and Irwin, grimly draped across that opposite corner. Slowly —slowly. Then Rutan’s eyes caught those of Deal. The wistful smile came again to Rutan’s eyes. “Never mind, buddy,” he said. “Never mind about me.” The fingers relaxed their grip and Rutan dropped out of sight. There were but three remaining on the floating can then, and they hung on grimly. Copeland was completely “out,” and Irwin’s burned and lacerated hands were nothing less than torture. They decided to shift positions. Deal took one of Copeland’s arms and one of Irwin’s. Irwin took one arm of Copeland’s and one of Deal’s. A triangle of arms held the three over the surface. Perhaps it was minutes, perhaps hours. Then: “Look,” said Irwin, nodding toward the north. Deal looked, but Copeland could not look, for he was unconscious. “Lights,” said Deal. “Man, can you pray?” asked Irwin. “Good God, don’t let them miss us,” came from the lips of Deal. Searchlights Find Them. The lights grew bigger and brighter and nearer through the fog, over the waves that lifted them up and dropped them down. “A ship,” said Deal. “A ship,” echoed Irwin. They gripped their fingers tighter on the sleeve of Copeland, who could not hope for himself. A searchlight sliced the night. It picked up their bobbing gas can and centred there. Then there was the sound ’of hoarse shouting in guttural German. Then a hail, and weakly they called back. Desperately and fiercely they locked their hands tighter. A boat bobbed over the top of the waves and they saw a second boat put out. They were taken by the collars and hauled aboard, everything going black to them. At last they awakened in the cramped quarters of the tanker Phoebus. “Where’s Irwin?” Deal asked. “0.K., buddy,” said Irwin, on another bunk. His hands were bandaged, his eyes glassy, but he answered to his name. “And Copeland?” asked Deal, but there was no answer now. “And Copeland?” Deal repeated. “He died,” said Irwin’s voice. Silence followed, except for the washing of the waves on the Phoebus’ side. “Any others?” asked Deal. “Lieu-tenant-Commander Wiley,” answered Irwin. “Alive?” asked Deal. “0.K.,” said Irwin. “He’s in the skipper’s cabin.” One of the German sailors brought a hot drink and Deal and Irwin drank. •‘Orders Are Orders.” This story came out in the naval hospital in Brooklyn, as Lieutenant-Com-mander Wiley, Irwin and Deal wore being taken to Washington to testify before the inquiry into the Akron holocaust. It came from George Small, of Toms River, New Jersey. He, with the wife and father of Deal, w r ere allowed to visit Deal for over an hour. Deal and Small were schoolmates together in Pennsylvania. Deal told Small all about it. And Small came out mistyeyed with Mrs. Deal and Deal’s father. And later Small retold tho story of the horror night, word for word, as Deal had told it to him. While they stood outside the hospital the authorities came to take Irwin and Deal away and then it was that Deal’s wife broke into tears. “Deal’s got to fly to Washington,” Irwin said. “Do you wonder that she hates to think of his ever leaving the ground again?” But suddenly those tears dried, her head camp up—again she was the navy wife: “He’s got to go. Of course he’s got to go. Orders are orders.” And when Deal, in an automobile, waved r kiss to her and smiled, she waved goodbye.