All morning they watched for the plane which they thought would

Hear the solemn words of John Hersey, who wrote of men in desperation: “All morning they watched for the plane which they thought would be looking for them. They cursed war in general and PTs in particular. At about ten o’clock the hulk heaved a moist sigh and turned turtle.” In these lines, he gives voice not to glory, but to futility. The watching for the plane, the curses of soldiers stranded, and the final sinking of their craft capture the essence of war’s cruelty: that men may wait in hope, only to be met with silence, and that machines of battle, once proud, may collapse with a sigh, leaving their keepers adrift upon the indifference of sea and sky.

The meaning of this passage lies in its stark contrast between expectation and despair. The soldiers look to the heavens for rescue, convinced that their suffering will be seen, that their comrades will come. But no plane arrives, and as the morning advances, hope turns bitter. Their anger shifts not only toward the PT boats that carried them into peril, but toward war itself, that monstrous engine which consumes men’s bodies and faith alike. The sinking of the vessel—described almost as a living creature exhaling one final breath—symbolizes the collapse of both machine and morale.

The origin of this wisdom is not bound to one war or one sinking ship, but to the eternal story of conflict. Since the dawn of battle, men have placed their trust in weapons and in leaders, only to find that both may fail. The chariots of Troy, the galleys of Rome, the steel of modern fleets—all eventually yield to rust, fire, or wave. Hersey, chronicler of human endurance, sought not to glorify the clash of arms but to reveal the human heart laid bare when weapons fail and survival hangs by a thread.

Consider the story of John F. Kennedy, who as a young lieutenant commanded PT-109 during the Second World War. His boat, struck and split by a Japanese destroyer, left him and his crew stranded in hostile waters. For days they clung to life, swimming miles, hoping for rescue. Some cursed their fate, others clung to faith, and Kennedy himself towed an injured comrade through the sea with a strap clenched in his teeth. That episode, like Hersey’s words, reveals the brutal indifference of war, yet also the endurance of men abandoned to its storms.

The lesson is sharp: war devours illusions. It strips away the banners, the anthems, the promises of swift rescue, and leaves only men, their will to live, and the silent sea. In life, too, we must not trust wholly in others to save us, nor in machines or systems to bear us up. When the hulk sinks—and it always does—we must rely on courage, on endurance, and on the will to press forward. Cursing fate changes nothing; but steady faith, cleverness, and discipline may carry us to shore.

Practical actions follow. Do not place your hope only in the external—whether in wealth, power, or structures built by men. Know that they may crumble in a moment. Instead, cultivate inner strength, for when the hulk turns turtle in your own life—when plans collapse, when help does not come—you will not sink with it. Train your body in discipline, your mind in patience, and your spirit in endurance. In this way, you prepare for the storms that come to all.

And so, child of tomorrow, remember Hersey’s tale. The warship sighs, the vessel sinks, but the men remain. Their anger, their waiting, their despair—these are the truths of war, but also of life itself. The lesson is not to despair when the world’s structures collapse, but to endure, to rise above the silence of abandonment, and to seek survival through courage. For in the end, the measure of a man is not whether the ship holds, but whether the spirit swims when the ship is gone.