Hoover flashed a visual signal to Fletcher to resume screening. Wylie and Cole returned to their chart house to work on their reports and finish off the whiskey, but the whiskey was gone. Some alert quartermaster or signalman had seen his chance. Neither officer replaced the drink.

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On Helena, Hoover was taking additional action. A Boeing B-17 swooped down to check on the fuss, and Hoover sent it a visual signal, "Ship down…send rescue." The B-17 flew off to Henderson Field. Hoover’s shrunken force headed south but did not toss rafts or boats over the side. There seemed no point.

But Hoover was wrong. About 100 Juneau sailors were bobbing in the water, including Heyn and George Sullivan. Many of those men were severely burned and afloat in a thick layer of oil. Three life rafts had popped to the surface, and the men headed for them. By nightfall, the rafts were hooked together.

At first, the survivors were not worried. The American-held island of San Cristobal was visible, and they were sure, since they had been sunk among friends, that help would soon be on the way.

But it was not. Hoover did not break radio silence. The B-17 landed on Guadalcanal, but the information did not get past the base operations staff. No help arrived the next day. Or the day after that. Or the day after that. The survivors suffered sunburn by day, chill by night. The sea rubbed salt into wounds and washed away improperly secured food and water. The food ran out in three days. Men weakened and died.

Heyn, together with signalman Lester Zook and George Sullivan, squatted forlornly in a raft. Then one night, Sullivan, exhausted and delirious, took off his clothes to take a bath. He jumped away from the raft and was instantly pounced upon by a shark. The lieutenant in command struggled to maintain discipline, but collapsed himself, swimming off in a delirium into the sharks.

Meanwhile, Hoover’s force arrived at Espiritu Santo in the New Hebrides Islands on the 14th, and Hoover passed the word on Juneau’s loss. Navy rescue planes got to work, but, based on erroneous reports, searched the wrong sector.

Seven days after Juneau went down, a U.S. plane spotted some survivors by chance and hurled rafts into the sea. Two days after that, Heyn, Zook and eight other survivors were pulled out of the water. Along with four men who had left Juneau before she was sunk, there were only 14 survivors of the ship. Some 683 sailors had perished.

Hollywood reacted in typical fashion, making a movie about the five brothers. The Sullivan parents toured war plants and shipyards, urging workers to increase production. Mrs. Sullivan launched a new ship, USS The Sullivans, a Fletcher-class destroyer named after the five. One of the boy’s uncles, 43-year-old Patrick Sullivan, served aboard her.

That ship, after two years of service in the Pacific during World War II, ultimately became an enduring monument to the five brothers. It is now a museum, permanently moored in Buffalo, N.Y. One of her compartments is a memorial to the Sullivan brothers.

The Sullivans have left another legacy in Navy regulations. Brothers are no long allowed to serve on the same ship.

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