They and the Lord

The big Douglas transport rocked with the concussion of bombs raining down on Henderson Field. Someone slammed the cabin door shut and the ship took off, fleeing from the hell of Guadalcanal. Aboard, besides the six-man crew, were 17 sick and wounded sailors, soldiers and marines who had to be evacuated to another island for hospitalization.

The transport had been dubbed "Lana Turner" by her Army crew. Lana had scarcely soared out of sight of Guadalcanal when it was discovered that the near-misses at the field had knocked out her radio and radio compass. By nightfall it was obvious that Lana had lost her way. By dawn she had left in her tanks only about one hour of gasoline. There was nothing to do then but crash land her into the sea.

Happily, Pilot C. E. Petty had spotted a submerged coral reef. He skidded Lana in toward the telltale white foam that marked the reef's outline, and there she came to rest, stuck on the reef with one wing partially submerged.

The sea gushed, waisthigh, into her shattered cabin. The crew rigged a spider web of parachute ropes and suspended the most seriously wounded, under the roof. A Marine lieutenant colonel was hoisted into the cockpit, his infected leg elevated to ease the pain. The rest of the men settled down amid the floating debris to wait.

They waited, day after day, stricken with malaria, stricken with pain from untended wounds. It rained and they caught some drinking water in their helmets. But slender food stocks were running low. Four days went by. The fifth was a Sunday.

Manny Torrente, private first class in the U.S. Marines, stared through a cabin window at the glittering and empty horizon. Nineteen-year-old "Buck" Torrente had two bullet wounds in his side, splinter wounds in his back and a case of malaria. Back home in Manhattan, Buck had been a fighter. He had even been a 136-lb. preliminary boy at the Garden. One of the jokes of the outfit was the way he had taken his first prisoner. He had his gun slung over his shoulder at the time. There was the Jap smack in front of him. Buck never thought of his gun. He just gave the little guy the one-two.

At that moment Buck would just as soon be back in New York. He observed out loud: "Gee! Sunday. I guess I'd be walking home from St. Veronica's about now."

In the silence of the cabin, Private Paul Beiswenger got up, found his sodden pack and pulled out a soldiers' and sailors' prayer book, which he handed to Ensign M. E. Herbst. "Will you conduct the service, sir?"

Ensign Herbst opened the book. In a high-pitched voice he read the prayers as they came. The men in the Lana's cabin bowed their heads. For 30 minutes Herbst read, until he came to a prayer for sailors in storms at sea: "Oh most powerful and glorious Lord God, at whose command the winds blow and lift up the waves of the sea, and who stillest the rage thereof . . . we cry unto thee for help. . . ."

When he said "Amen," Buck Torrente began a hymn: "Oh thou and the Lord. . . ." Some sang, some hummed. Marine Sergeant Steve Kupiec remembered the words of "Oh Lord, I am not worthy." Herbst closed the prayer book and announced: "That will be all until next Sunday."

But the little congregation in the Lana Turner did not hold next Sunday's church service on the reef. Ten days after their crash landing, a destroyer and three PBY flying boats picked them up. Last week 15 of them were in the Naval Hospital in San Diego. The rest were either on furlough or back on duty.

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