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This is how they looked just after their rescue dazed, dog-tired, and ravenously hungry.
THEY FOUGHT THE PACIFIC AND WON
( Continued)
about home because they could think of
nothing but their gnawing hunger. .
Sometimes they read from the four nov
els they had aboard. One of them was Jack
London's classic, "Martin Eden," which
contains this line: "The food he ate must
have been worse than what a sailor gets
on the worst-feedin' deep-water ships, than
which there ain't much that can possibly
be worse."
Their deep-water ship knew worse by
that time. On Feb. 24, Zygonschi made an
other entry in the diary: Ate the last of our
food. What now?
They boiled their shoe leather (cowhide)
and tried unsuccessfully to fry it in engine
oil. The leather of the accordion was eaten
next (lamb's hide). There were times when
they joked feebly about their "varied diet"
of lamb and beef.
Like the food, their water, which they
had rationed to a spoonful a day, gave out.
So they drained the water, rusty but drink
able, from the cooling system of the engine
and, when that was gone, caught rain water
in tarpaulins. Once, high seas contaminated
their meager supply with salt, but they
drank it anyway.
Indicative of their high morale is the
way they stretched their food an extra
day. They had decided by mutual consent
to have a "party" on Feb. 23, Soviet Army
Day, at which they would eat-their last po
tato in celebration. But at the last moment,
they decided to give up their ration and
have a cigarette instead (cigarettes had
been rationed as carefully as everything
else). They felt that as Soviet soldiers their
duty was to stay alive; saving the potato for
one more day might help their chances.
February passed. Premier Khrushchev
had toured India; President Eisenhower
had visited South America; Queen Eliza
beth had borne her third child only a few
days before Princess Margaret announced
I Family Weekly, May , 1960
her engagement to a commoner; the air
craft carrier Kearsarge plowed through the
Pacific to meet an unexpected date with
fate; an infant, christened Alexander Fedo
tov, was born in a Siberian village called
Bogorodckoe; and a youth, who no longer
looked young, scrawled in a water-stained
book: 49th day. When we wake up after we
have slept, we are surprised to be alive.
Then came rescue.
Before fate, in the guise of the U.S.S.
Kearsarge, delivered Victor Zygonschi,
Anatoly Kryuchkovsky, Philip Poplavsky,
and Ivan Fedotov, it was to taunt them
cruelly. Sea gulls, to the seafaring man a
sign of nearby land, circled their tiny craft
continuously, squawking as if mocking them.
Only a few days before their rescue, their
hopes had soared when they spotted a ship
scudding through the heavy seas. But hopes
were dashed when towering swells obscured
their boat. Two more ships passed them
while they vainly tried to signal.
Navy doctors later estimated that they
could have survived for only five or six
more days.
The four soldiers have returned to Rus
sia. It's doubtful that we will hear of them
again. Their language is different, the doc
trines they are sworn to defend are a threat
to our country. Yet every American can
certainly admire their titanic 49-day strug
gle against the sea.
And as Americans, we might wonder why
it remained for the U.S. Navy to write the
happy chapter that closed the lost" diary.
Since there was radio contact between the
landing craft and shore, why hadn't an in
ternational call for a massive search gone
out from Moscow? That's where the differ
ence in ideology comes in. In America, we
stress the importance and dignity of each
individual, no matter how inconsequential
he might seem. The Communist mind works
in a different fashion one that we'll never
be able to understand fully.
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