Medford mail tribune., May 08, 1960, Image 38

JamjJy Weekly May t. mo
W
FROM A LOST DIARY:
THEY FOUGHT THE
PACIFIC AND WON
By PEER J. OPPENHEIMER and
When the crew of a United States Navy patrol
plane from the carrier U.S.S. Kearsarge
spotted a derelict landing craft lurching in heavy
seas some 900 miles off Midway Island in the
Pacific, the final chapter of a great survival story
was about to be written. It is a story of undeniable
faith and courage, just as it is an object lesson in
how two opposite ideologies weigh the value of
a human life.
The tiny boat was so rusted and weather-beaten
that for a moment the pilot wondered whether his
eyes were playing tricks or whether what he saw
was a phantom ship, a modern "Flying Dutchman"
that somehow had been buffeted about the ocean
since World War II. As he nosed his S2F "Tracker"
down for a closer look, he was startled to see four
men, gaunt and heavily bearded, silhouetted
against the superstructure.
The pilot radioed information of his puzzling
discovery back to the Kearsarge 15 miles away. In
less than an hour, a rescue helicopter had trans
ferred the scarecrow crew to the carrier. The four
men boys, really; the oldest, 21 were Soviet
soldiers. The date was March 7 this year. But the
story had begun seven weeks before, hundreds of
miles from that lonely patch of sea.
It was on Jan. 17 off Etorofu-To, one of the
Kurile Islands north of Japan, during routine Rus
sian amphibious maneuvers that Sgt. Victor Zy
gonschi, 21, Pvt. Anatoly Kryuchkovsky, 20, Pvt.
Philip Poplavsky, 20, and Pvt. Ivan Fedotov, 21,
began their grim struggle for life.
The sea was running high, and it was bitterly
cold. The crews griped about the weather and
talked of crackling open fires and red-hot pot
bellied stoves in their native villages. Conditions
were rugged in that lonely ocean outpost, but the
crew of the landing craft was accustomed to such,
and talk helped pass the time.
That night the temperature plummeted to IS de-
6 Family Wttkly. May I. I9M
For 49 days, tieir smaJ crat
drifted helplessly in swelling seas;
food gave out even hope
yet these four Russians survived;
now, in an exclusive interview, they
re-create their adventure-filled log
BOB DRISCOLL
grees below zero. A sudden gale sprang up and
battered the awkward-looking landing craft.
Like a toy tossed by a mischievous child, the ill
fated craft, constructed only for close-to-shore
operations, was ripped loose from its moorings and
driven into the open seas. Salt water cascaded over
the decks and froze. The four miserable young men
huddled together in coarse military blankets in a
cell-like 8-x-lO cabin that formed the superstruc
ture of the boat. A cooking stove did little to warm
the air as the craft pitched and rolled.
Dawn was leaden-gray and uncompromising,
but the storm had abated enough so that Ser
geant Zygonschi could open the cabin hatch
cautiously and step out on the deck. Fine, wind--whipped
ocean spray settled on his eyebrows and
eyelashes and quickly froze in a white haze.
The horizon was empty.
San Francisco's Mayor George Christopher
Sgt. Victor Zygonschi
WE were among the first reporters to talk
with these four young soldiers in San Fran
cisco and later in New York. All had lost more than
30 pounds and clearly showed the strain of their or
deal. Even after shaves, haircuts, hot showers, and
more than five days of good food and comfortable
quarters, the horrors of their voyage haunted them.
"We hated to leave our boat," Zygonschi told us
through an interpreter. (The craft had been cast
adrift by our Navy.) "In spite of all we have gone
through on it, we think of it as a kind of home.
And when the helicopter rescued us, I left behind
a diary. Everything is so unclear to me now, as if
it were just a nightmare. I wish I had it so that I
could always remember those 49 days exactly as
they happened."
We attempted to re-create this lost diary in talks
with the four boys. Had it been saved, it would
presents each of the Russians with a key to the city.
Pvt. Anatoly Kryuchkovsky
undoubtedly be one of the most moving documents
in seafaring history. It not only recorded the phys
ical predicament of human beings under the most
elemental conditions, but, by reading between the
lines, it told a tale of primitive hope and despair,
of human emotions tested to the limit
During the first few days, Zygonschi told us, the
diary was basically a military log, impersonal and
precise. All four of them believed they soon would
be rescued or find their way to shore. Their log
told how they drifted out to sea, their efforts to
get back; it recorded their communications with
a shore radio station (they were in touch by radio
until the second or third day), the procedures they
were taking to stretch their limited supplies. It
reported, buoyantly and certainly, that rescue was
inevitable, although as the days turned into weeks
and the first month ran over into the second, the
tone became one of hope rather than certainty.
None of the survivors can remember the exact
entries in the diary; they're not even sure of
the sequence of events after the first few weeks.
They remember generally what was written, and
sometimes perhaps, what they think should have
been recorded and wasn't.
One of Zygonschi's first entries noted that they
had enough fuel to last them for several days:
We could not live if it were not for the heat of the
engine. We take turns lying on it so that we might
keep warm. We have been in contact with the
shore operator over our two-way radio. He in
structs us how to return to land, but it is futile at
this time. We cannot steer the boat in these heavy
seas. We try, but it is useless.
Two or three days later (none of the four is sure
of the time interval), there was another, more
ominous entry: We can still hear the shore oper
ator, but we can no longer transmit- The wind
blows in the opposite direction from which we
LLlv
Pvt. Philip Poplavsky
should be heading, and our engine is not power
ful enough to counter the drift. It is not as cold as
the first night, nor is the storm as fierce, but it
shows little sign of letting up.
There was hardly time to get over the disap
pointment of losing contact with shore when Zy
gonschi reluctantly made another entry on what
he believes was the fourth day, Jan. 21: Our engine
has stopped. There is no more fuel. It is foolish
to doubt that we are drifting far away from the
Kurile Islands. We have enough food for about 14
days if we ration ourselves carefully. Surely a
Russian ship will pick us up before that.
The small landing craft was provisioned with
only three cans of meat (beef and pork), one can
of margarine, a loaf of bread, 10 to 12 pounds of
potatoes, and enough coffee and tea for two or
three days.
On the 16th day, as closely as Zygonschi can
calculate, another' significant entry was made in
the diary: Today we finished the beef and pork.
Still have potatoes and will make soup. Storm has
let up a little, but from the look of things, it's a '
temporary lull.
When the meat supply ran out, they agreed to
conserve the few potatoes left by eating only on
alternate days. Inevitably, they grew weaker, but""
they did all they could to keep up their morale.
Anatoly Kryuchkovsky often played an accordion.
Later the accordion proved to be even more valu
able than it was as a morale-builder.
Often they talked of the things dear to them.
Ivan Fedotov, who had been in service for only
eight months, was the shyest of the four. He spoke,
self-consciously at first, of his Siberian village,
Bogorodckoe, on the Amur River; how he had met
Irena at a dance there during the time he was
working on a river boat with his father. For a year
he had courted her, and in 1959 they were married.
When he had been called up for service, she was
- .PaJskt aailussaBaBael
lnMa 1 M WH
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Pvt. Ivan Fedotov
pregnant. He was proud he was going to be a
father, but he worried now because Irena's time
was due, and he couldn't be with her. They had
decided that they surely would have a son and
name him Alexander.
So Ivan Fedotov, age 21, had much to think about
while he lay in, his narrow bunk as waves threat
ened to dash the flimsy craft to pieces.
Victor Zygonschi's thoughts, too, were of home,
and he spoke fondly to his companions about his
village, Shentala, near the Volga River, east of
Moscow. He told them how he had been a "trac
torist" in a machine-tractor station. His eyes soft
ened when he spoke of his mother and father. With
great pride, he recounted how his older brother
Michael worked in a hospital and how his 27-year-old
sister Nelly had become a nurse. And there
was Valja. She taught school in Shentala. Some
day, if he got out of this, he would ask her . . .
There was little time for such thoughts. During
the whole voyage, there were only five days of
clear weather, so much of their time had to be
spent pumping water out of the well deck. At
other times, they had to tear up the door boards
no mean task for men in their weakened condi
tion to use as fuel for the stove. Then, after the
floor boards had been burned, they used their cork
life preservers.
Sometimes their blankets got wet, as did the
whole inside of the cabin when storms were espe
cially severe. Shivering in soggy, cold blankets
was hardly conducive to nostalgic reminiscences.
And then, for long hours, they forgot their pri
vate thoughts end doubts while they tried to kill
sharks, which sometimes followed the boat, or
to catch fish with a hook fashioned from a piece
of wire and a spinner improvised from a bright
piece of metal.
There were many times, too, when they forgot
(Continued)
Family Vttkly. May I. ItSO 1
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