Trial by Fire

by P. T. Deutermann

  A quartermaster came out and asked him to come join the navigator for a final departure track briefing in the chart house. As he stepped back into the pilothouse, he heard the four bells on the 1MC announcing the captain’s return. George told the OOD to set the special sea and anchor detail and make all preparations for getting under way.

  Three hours later the ship had rounded Diamond Head and was now pointed fair for the Panama Canal. The captain had sat in his chair during the entire sea detail, leaving oversight of the sea detail to George. He was uncharacteristically quiet, as if preoccupied with something. Once the pilot had disembarked, things on the bridge quieted down and the ship settled into her 5,000-mile voyage across the Eastern Pacific. Three escorting destroyers were spread out in a wide fan ahead, although PacFleet Intel considered the submarine threat to be minimal. George walked over to the captain’s chair.

  “The ship is secured for sea and the regular underway watch has been set,” he announced. “I’ve set Condition Three modified.”

  “Very well,” the captain answered. “We’re almost five thousand miles from Okinawa now and we’ll be getting farther away each day. The Canal is what, ten thousand miles from Japan?”

  “Yes, sir, about that. I just figured it would be good to keep the troops on a wartime watch rotation.”

  “Yes, indeed,” the captain said. “Absolutely right. You’re probably curious about that sudden come-around up at Makalapa.”

  “Me, curious?” George said. “Why, Heavens, no.”

  “Hah,” the captain said. “He had two things to talk about. One, the Navy Department is going to fully repair Franklin. I asked him if he’d been apprised of the scale of the damage. He said yes but that there were some larger issues bearing on the problem. He said the war in Europe was just about over and that senior Nazis were reaching out to Eisenhower to talk about an armistice.”

  “A cease-fire?!” George exclaimed. “Not again. That’s what got us Hitler.”

  “Not a chance,” the captain said. “Ike told them his terms were unconditional surrender. But now there’s a new wrinkle—the Soviets. They’re advancing on Berlin by leaps and bounds and evidently intend to occupy as much of Germany as possible before the war ends. That’s not necessarily in our best interests or those of our European allies. Anyway, the Navy isn’t ready to demobilize just yet, especially with the Japs showing no signs of giving up. If the first days of the Okinawa invasion are any indication, we’ve got a hard slog ahead of us. Well, I guess not us. So—rebuild Franklin, and keep producing more carriers.”

  “And the second item?”

  “Well, he directed me, and through me, you, to concentrate on lining up awards for those people who earned them. While everything is still fresh. We need to decide who’s going to be recommended for what, and then get the write-ups done by the time we get to the Canal. We’ve been limited to fifteen knots, so we’re looking at a two-week trip. I have my own ideas, and I’m sure you have yours. The surviving department heads know who the heroes were—hell, I’m hearing stories of cooks stopping little fires from becoming really big fires. You personally will need to interview each man recommended for a medal, and then get corroboration if possible. The awards board is a stickler for evidence.”

  “So I’ve been told,” George said. “But there’s an elephant in the room, Captain.”

  “Yes, of course,” the captain said. “Put that business aside for now, but just for now. PacFleet wants priority to go to the awards. The folks back home want to hear about heroes. We have all the time in the world to deal with that other issue. Between you and me, I think the brass is worried about the Navy getting a black eye when we least need one, know what I mean?”

  George struggled to control his face. “Yes, sir, that makes perfect sense. I’ll get right on that. There were some amazing things done out there. It will be a pleasure to recognize each and every one of them.”

  “Don’t be stingy,” the captain said. “Go for the big medals where you can. The board will cut some back—they always do. But make them do it. And don’t forget Father Joe.”

  “Who could forget Father Joe,” George said. “Certainly none of those guys he bent over on the flight deck right in front of the end of the world behind him will ever forget Father Joe.”

  The captain nodded, then gave him a long, silent look. George read the acknowledgment in that look. There weren’t going to be any court-martials and the captain was telling him that he knew that, too. That must have been a really interesting office call, George thought. He wondered if the captain knew about his own office call on the Fleet Jag. If he did, he wasn’t letting on.

  The captain blinked and looked away. He seemed to have nothing more to say. He settled back in his smoke-stained captain’s chair and gazed out over the vast Pacific Ocean. George quietly left him to it. He grabbed some coffee and wandered out onto the starboard bridgewing. Nobody seemed to want to go out onto the port bridgewing anymore. The quartermaster called him to report the ship’s position. George asked him how many miles away was the Brooklyn Navy Yard. That took the navigators a few minutes to compute, but then they came back and said 12,650 miles.

  Not far enough, George thought. Not hardly far enough.

  He stared down at the wake foaming along Franklin’s battered starboard side while deliberately not looking aft. He tried not to think about what lay ahead, but that was too hard. Once the ship went into the yards he’d be transferred, as would most of the crew. He tried to think of what he might want to do next. Command? It was possible. It would be a natural next step—from XO to CO, probably of new construction. He could just see it: four stripes, a brand-new ship, bands playing at the commissioning, a brand-new crew, all calling him “captain.” But—having had a taste of command at the bloody and fiery opposite end of commissioning-day celebrations, he wondered. He’d seen a number of Franklin’s surviving crew walking around with thousand-yard stares. He suspected, no, hell, he knew he was one of them. The thought of taking command and then going back west to do it all over again appalled him.

  He thought about Karen. Theirs was a typical wartime romance, with most of it conducted by lifesaving letters from halfway around the world. They’d grown close, but now what? He’d get thirty days’ leave when they got to New York, and of course he’d go to Portsmouth. And then? He was very fond of her, but at the same time he knew that his picture of her was partially a figment of his own imagination. What would it be like to see her every day? Had she found somebody else? There were countless stories of women back home continuing to write wartime lovers mostly out of sympathy while getting on with their lives with someone else, and who could blame them? What would she think of this somber naval officer who’d aged fifty years since she’d last seen him?

  He looked forward all the way to the eastern horizon, where a flat blue line merged with a gray-white, cloudless sky. He took a deep breath. One day at a time, he thought. You’re still the XO. Enough with the navel-gazing; it’s not like you have nothing to do. As if to reinforce that idea, a bridge messenger called to him from inside the pilothouse.

  Turn to, he thought. Recommence ship’s work. “XO, aye,” he replied.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  When my father, Vice Admiral H.T. Deutermann, USN, retired from active duty in 1965, he sent me two large boxes via the cargo arm of the Greyhound bus company. In those days Greyhound offered the most cost-effective shipping service in the country. I had no idea when I picked them up what was inside. I had just come off my first sea tour in a destroyer and was living in Newport, Rhode Island, while attending Destroyer Department Head school.

  The boxes contained two ship’s navigational running lights, one with a red lens and one with a green lens. Red for port, green for starboard. They were big, much bigger than the running lights on my destroyer, and they’d obviously seen some wear and tear, with visible welds in their steel sides. Each had a single black, three-wire cable hanging from the bottom; inside, their glass bu
lbs, each about eight inches high, appeared to be intact. A plate on the bottom announced that the lights were powered by 440 volts, which seemed to me to be extreme for running lights.

  At the time, my father was serving as the commander of the Eastern Sea Frontier, headquartered at 90 Church Street in Manhattan. He had two other “hats,” as the expression went: head of the UN Military Staff Committee, an organ of the UN Security Council, and also commander of the US Atlantic Reserve Fleet. It was in this latter capacity that he received the running lights. A chief petty officer over in New Jersey, who’d served under my father some time past, called his office with sad news: Big Ben’s going to razor blades; would the admiral like to have a souvenir? Dad said yes, which is how I eventually became the owner of the last physical vestige of USS Franklin, her emergency running lights. Dad included a note to me, which said simply: There’s an incredible story behind these lights. Not so much the lights, but the ship, which had indeed been brought back to the Brooklyn Navy Yard in 1945, completely rebuilt, and then immediately transferred to the mothball (Reserve) fleet. She never went to sea again.

  I kept them for the duration of my own naval career, and they eventually landed in my workshop at our farm in Georgia. Heavy, awkward to move around, and more substantially made than just about any Navy equipment I’d seen during my twenty-six years in the Navy, they gathered dust until one day I decided to see if they still worked. I, of course, didn’t have 440 volts available in my workshop, so I decided to see if 120 volts would bring them to life. A neighbor watched me set this up and commented that I was certainly brave. Not very smart, mind you, but definitely brave.

  Undeterred, I made the connection, and there, in my workshop, those lights shone dimly, red and green, after nearly half a century in the mothball fleet. The last vestige of a famous ship, which had suffered the most awful damage and loss of life during the entire Pacific war, exceeded only by the USS Arizona, flickered defiantly to life. By then, of course, I’d read the story. We instinctively took our hats off and just stood there for a moment, trying in our very small way to pay some respect.

  I am indebted to the author and historian, Joseph A. Springer, who wrote a book called Inferno, the story of the Franklin’s ordeal off the coasts of Japan in 1945. In a genius move, he tells the story of the ship’s immolation through the eyes of men who went through it. The book is eminently readable, accurate, and most of all, heartbreaking.

  I also used the official US Navy after-action damage report. Interestingly, the report begins with the words: “This will be a long report.” Given the normally antiseptic tone of formal US Navy after-action and damage reports, that line was quite telling. The findings are nothing short of appalling. I’ve tried to faithfully depict the horror of what happened without the reader needing to put the book down because it’s too awful to contemplate. But I think it’s a story well worth telling. I also think anyone who aspires to be a naval officer should know this story, if only to absorb a realistic appreciation for what he or she might be getting themselves into. An Army formation can move forward against an enemy, encounter overwhelming strength, and, if necessary, retreat. It is the nature of war at sea that when you do finally come to grips with the enemy, it’s a fight to the finish. The option of tactical retirement in naval warfare is usually a bloody illusion.

  The captain’s attempt to court-martial a large percentage of his own crew is a true, if embarrassing story. The captain was Captain Leslie Gehres, USN. He’d risen from enlisted ranks to command of an aircraft carrier, a first in the Navy’s history. He looked and acted as I have described him; in short, he was a first-class bully. The executive officer, Commander Joe Taylor, USN, was the officer truly in command throughout the bulk of the ordeal. My research encountered some serious murk when I tried to find out who finally calibrated Captain Gehres and quashed the whole sorry court-martial enterprise. Gehres was ultimately awarded the Navy Cross for bringing Franklin home. He’d been nominated initially for the Medal of Honor. As the story goes, it was Fleet Admiral Chester Nimitz himself who said, no, make it the Navy Cross. It’s the nation’s second highest military honor, so it was hardly a slap in the face. Still.

  The 704-Club business caused no end of distress over the years, as Springer makes clear. Once the war was over and the crew reunions began, there were always two: one led by Captain Gehres and the 704; the other held by the bitter outcasts. Given that a big part of ship reunions has to do with remembering shipmates, this distasteful and wholly unnecessary schism rankled members of both groups.

  The characters portrayed by Gary Peck and J.R. McCauley are based on real junior officers whose repeated acts of heroism resulted in a Medal of Honor for one and a Navy Cross for the other. It is doubtful that Franklin could have gotten away from Japanese waters without their efforts. The Catholic chaplain, Father Joe O’Callahan, was also awarded a Medal of Honor. He was first recommended for a Navy Cross for his continuing heroics on the flight deck in the first four hours of the fire, but was reluctant to accept the award, as he didn’t think chaplains ought to receive military awards for valor. According to Springer, when President Truman got word of that, he bumped the award up to the MOH, which even O’Callahan couldn’t decline. Those of you who are students of World War II in the Pacific will remember that amazing picture of a helmeted chaplain kneeling over a downed crewman on the flight deck, administering the last rites, with all those volcanic explosions going off only 300 feet away.

  The intelligence estimates regarding how many military aircraft Japan still had were wildly off the mark, based more on wishful thinking than cold hard facts. The intelligence community assumed that, once Japan’s carriers were no more, so were their aircraft. The problem was that the Japanese had thoroughly dispersed their warplane manufacturing infrastructure and never stopped making them. Since there were no operational carriers, they just warehoused them throughout the country against the day when the Americans invaded. The official estimates were that they had hundreds left. The truth was that they had thousands left.

  Making pilots was a whole different problem, unless of course all the pilot had to do was take off on a one-way suicide mission. Following the Kyushu strikes and the subsequent withdrawal of the carriers back to Ulithi, the next two operations firmly and finally removed any Pollyanna notions that the end was going to be swift and soon. Those operations were the invasions of Okinawa and Iwo Jima. For the first time in the long, bloody slog of island-taking, the Navy lost more people killed and wounded than the Army and Marine divisions which landed on those two islands, mostly to kamikaze attacks. The high command was shocked, especially when they began to think about the consequences of invading Japan itself. By definition, an amphibious operation required a concentration of hundreds of ships off the target coast. I think the decision to employ the atomic bombs was driven in part by the realization that the kamikaze was unstoppable. It only took one plane to remove an entire carrier from the board.

  In 2011 the Naval Supply School was moved from Athens, Georgia, to Newport, Rhode Island. Due to a lack of space in their new building, the school’s World War II museum artifacts were gifted to the Navy’s Historical Collection, and are now packed away somewhere in a large warehouse in Suitland, Maryland. I may try to get them back one day.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am in debt to the author Joseph A. Springer, whose remarkable book, Inferno, inspired me to create this novel. He had the genius idea to tell the Franklin’s story through the eyes of several air group pilots and aircrewmen, ship’s officers, chiefs, and enlisted men, interspersed with a thoroughly researched narrative of what was happening that day off the coasts of Japan. I must also acknowledge the copious and user-friendly resources of the Naval History and Heritage Command in Washington, D.C. And finally, I want to thank my father, Vice Admiral H.T. Deutermann, USN, who first introduced me to USS Franklin and her incredible story.

  ALSO BY P. T. DEUTERMANN

  THE CAM RICHTER NOVELS

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sp; The Cat Dancers

  Spider Mountain

  The Moonpool

  Nightwalkers

  THRILLERS

  Red Swan

  Cold Frame

  The Last Man

  The Firefly

  Darkside

  Hunting Season

  Train Man

  Zero Option

  Sweepers

  Official Privilege

  SEA STORIES

  The Hooligans

  The Nugget

  The Iceman

  The Commodore

  Sentinels of Fire

  Ghosts of Bungo Suido

  Pacific Glory

  The Edge of Honor

  Scorpion in the Sea

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  P. T. Deutermann is the noted author of many previous novels based on his experiences as a senior staff officer in Washington and at sea as a Navy captain, and later, commodore. His works include Pacific Glory, which won the W. Y. Boyd Literary Award for Excellence in Military Fiction, Sentinels of Fire, The Commodore, Ghosts of Bungo Suido, The Iceman, and The Nugget. He lives with his wife of fifty years in North Carolina. You can sign up for email updates here.

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