July 30, 1945
Tommy crosses the flight deck for his noon shoot as cap 2 assembles in the prep lane. And here, throwing him a smile and a salute that Tommy is too dumbstruck to return, is a ghost. Tommy stands and stares.
Ensign Ander. They told me you were dead.
Nossir! Come close though!
Last time I saw you, you were Trigg’s wingman. They said you’d been shot down.
Yessir, friendly fire. Nobody’s fault.
You got the Myrt? The one that hit Big Ben?
Killed ’im dead, sir. Locke blew off his tail, but I had mah blood up. Dropped unnerneath an’ shot up his belly.
Waste of ammo when he’s had it, Ensign.
Yessir, but real satisfyin’. Anyway, plane’s belly opens and the pilot drops out.
Good God. You didn’t shoot him in the air?
Ander looks shocked. Nossir! Cain’t do that, ’gainst rules. Cain’t say I weren’t tempted, but no need. We was low and his chute didn’t open. Shark food.
I’m glad you got the bastard.
Me too, sir. Took eighteen or twenty mile but’s worth it. So we climb to find our cap and we run into a real ugly flak cloud. Locke’s through it, hole in ’is port wing but nothin’ fatal. Me, I took frag in mah engine an’ tanks. Plus Locke’s in a Hellcat, he’s wearin’ metal, and mah wings is made from ol’ tea towels.
Tommy stares at him. Ander grins; his Georgia thickens.
No spirit here, sir, ah’m real! Corsairs got self-sealin’ fuel tanks, flak tore me up some but didn’ cre-mate me. Still, ah’m alla sudden out’a power. Big radial engine jes’stop. Hardly had time to level off before ah ditched. Luckily there’s one of our destroyers nearby, hardly wet mah feet ’fore they picked me up. DD 793 Cassin Young.
Tommy frowns. But Ensign, that was weeks ago. Why haven’t I seen you before?
Jes’ got aboard sir, two-three hour ago. There was, um, negotiations.
Negotiations.
Yessir, ’twixt Young an’ Bataan. Went on a while, unofficial-like. Warrant officers mostly.
Negotiations for what?
Ice cream, sir.
Tommy’s staring again. He doesn’t have to say a word to show he’s listening.
Double-Ds is small, sir, an’ we’re big. We got freezers, they don’t. They do us a favor, they want one back. We got ice cream all the time. Only stuff they get’s by tradin’ pilots.
They kept you? Till they could ransom you for ice cream?
Yessir. Man spends his life wonderin’ what he’s worth, but I l’arn early. Six gallons a’ vanilla. Ensign Ander grins. ’Scuse me, sir, got some Japs to sink.
Tommy stands looking at Ander’s retreating back. Well, he thinks, not everybody’s gone.
August 6, 1945
It’s six a.m. and Tommy is deck officer. He’s scanning the horizon with his Zeiss, seeing nothing but clouds and U.S. warships. He turns at a sharp exclamation. The bridge radar operator is scratching his scalp. Tommy crosses to the station and looks over the yeoman’s shoulder.
What’s up, Bobby?
Look at this, sir.
Tommy looks and sees three blips, renewed twice a minute as the rf transceiver sweeps the sky. So?
B-29s, sir. Superfortresses, I know the signature. Equilateral formation, very high. Thirty-six thousand feet.
Weather planes, no doubt.
Nossir, pactemet sends singles. Don’t know what this is.
Where’d they come from?
Judging by their flight path I’d say they’re out from Tinian.
Photo recon?
Not this time of day, sir. Light’s all wrong.
Light? Explain, Yeoman.
They take pictures dawn and dusk when the sun’s low, sir. Oblique light shows up targets.
It’s sunrise, Tommy says. Most oblique light there is.
That’s now, sir. Won’t be like that when they’re over Japan.
Hmmm. You’re right. You’re sure they’re ours?
Nothing else up there, sir.
At precisely 08:15:43 there’s a second snort of surprise. Tommy walks over.
Now what?
Listen to this, sir. The yeoman removes his headset, hands it to Tommy. Tommy listens: there’s nothing but a high-pitched hiss. He raises his eyebrows.
No other audio, sir, and nothing on my screen. Just snow.
Weather somewhere? Electrical storm? Sunflare maybe?
Nossir. No storm I know of would block sound and visual, too.
Sensor malfunction, then.
Not anything I’ve seen. It’s like the whole system’s overwhelmed.
What would do that, Bobby?
No idea, sir. New Jap weapon maybe.
They learn the answer twelve hours later when President Truman broadcasts shore-to-ship.
An atom bomb, says Captain Schaeffer. Harnessing the basic power of the universe, he said.
Tommy sighs. I wish Mason were here, sir. He’d tell us what to make of it.
Make a joke of it, I suspect.
Of course, sir. He’d still know what it meant.
Silence on the bridge. Then: If it’s any help, Tommy, I miss him, too.
Yes, sir. Thank you.
Tommy doesn’t mention the worst part: that it’s already started to hurt less.
The next month is filled with great events. Admiral Nimitz tags Tommy to lead his task group into Tokyo Bay. It’s the supreme official stamp on his navigation skills. Tommy stands at his bridge station in a welter of mine charts, between a polite Japanese pilot and an equally well-mannered interpreter. Tommy hopes they haven’t planned a glorious accident for Bataan. He brings cvl-29 to a stop in open water. Four hours later, USS Missouri drops anchor alongside.
Sir? Says Yeoman Graves next morning. Whaleboat’s ready.
Mm, says Tommy, not looking up from his ephemeris. Ready for what.
Goin’ over to Missouri, sir. Shootin’ the surrender.
Yes. Whom are you going to shoot?
Oh! Gen’l an’ ever’body, sir. Nips in they tie ‘n’ tails. Quite a sight.
General? General who?
Gen’l MacArthur, sir. sucosowespacofo.
Tommy looks up for the first time. What, he says, is that.
sucosowespacofo, sir. Supreme Commander South-West Pacific Occupation Force.
Tommy makes a face. New title, I assume.
Yessir, just announced.
And you’ll be close to him?
Sir?
Uncle Dougie. The man who put the F.O. in sucosowespacofo.
Uh . . . sir?
General MacArthur, I mean.
Yes, sir! Right beside ’im, close enough to touch.
Good. Ask him why he left his air force on the runway for the Japs to shoot up. Why he sat on his ass after Pearl Harbor and gave away the Philippines. Why he wasted half a million lives. Ask him for Feathers. Ask him for me.
Yeoman Graves goggles at him, terrified. Can’t, sir, he says, and exits at a run.
History in the making, Tommy thinks. Why am I not impressed? He’s listening through ship com to a live feed of the surrender ceremony. He looks about the officers’ mess and sees his colleagues transfixed. But Tommy stands apart.
Yes, it’s a great event. It will affect many millions. But there are other great events that affect one, two, ten people in ways that are overwhelmingly intense. Compared to those, Uncle Dougie’s posturing is a dog and pony show.
Paradoxically, MacArthur will rule Japan with astonishing greatness of soul. Ensconced in the Yamanoue, a stone’s throw from the fortress where the generals planned their last stand, Uncle Doug will show the world what it means to be magnanimous. By the time he’s done, even Tommy will admire the old ham.
Just no
t today.
September 20, 1945: Pearl Harbor again. Fruit and vegetables that don’t come out of a can. Tommy stuffs himself and at Chapel offers up heartfelt thanks for his blessings. As an afterthought, he adds a petition for deliverance from heartburn. He’s pretty sure God understands.
A month later they drop anchor in New York. Tommy has dismissed the pilot and is gazing at the famous skyline when he notices the ship is listing five degrees. He cranes out an open bridge window, sees a mass of crewmen tight against the port rail, and does a lightning-fast mental computation. A thousand men times a hundred and sixty pounds average weight is eighty tons. Multiply that by one half ship’s beam and you get a bending moment of five million foot-pounds. Multiply that by Bataan’s vertical centerline chord . . .
Good God almighty! Tommy thinks. They’ll roll the ship! The crew have put an eleven-thousand-ton carrier in danger of capsize!
Without waiting to consult the xo, Tommy snaps the squawkbox toggle and cranks the dial to Flight Deck. All hands, all hands! Emergency, emergency! This is the deck officer! All hands on the flight deck with surnames beginning A to M inclusive, move to starboard side now, repeat now! I say again . . .
Half the skirt-sick fools drift starboard and Bataan regains her trim. Tommy shakes his head. We survive the ugliest war in history, he thinks. We come through Zeroes and kamikazes and our own damn aa shells, and we nearly sink because we’re drooling at America. Tommy can hear, literally hear, Feathers howl with laughter: the tall, dark, handsome, elegant, rich, dead son of a bitch has moved into his live friend’s brain. For the first time since April Fools’ Day, Tommy smiles.
Welcome aboard, he murmurs.
Tommy takes Bataan into Providence Harbor on October 26. Their layover is brief. He’s taking them north to Boston through the Cape Cod Canal.
As if Panama weren’t enough, says Feathers in his head. What’s our clearance here, inches?
Two feet abaft each beam, Tommy murmurs. Two-six under the keel.
Gosh, a whole yard nearly. And vertically?
Negative, old son. Zero less delta.
Tommy looks down to the flight deck. He’s reassigned his gun crews. Now they wield Y-poles to lift overhead wires as Bataan slides underneath. So far they’ve managed not to electrocute themselves.
On October 30, they dock at the Navy Yard in Charleston, Massachusetts. Bataan has steamed the equivalent of seven times around the world. She has consumed eighteen million gallons of bunker oil at an average speed of seventeen knots. She has fired ten thousand rounds of forty-millimeter and two thousand rounds of twenty-millimeter ammunition at twenty-five enemy planes, making nine confirmed kills and twelve assists. Through all this, she has completed twenty-one thousand plane launches and landings. Bataan’s war is over. She can rest.
Fore, aft, and midship cables wrap dock bollards. The screws slow, stop. Tommy orders sy1c Mitzuk to stand down boilers and hears Mitzuk choke up as he tries to acknowledge. Tommy faces Captain Schaeffer and salutes.
Sir! 1304 hours Eastern Standard Time, 2104 hours gmt, United States Light Carrier Vehicle Twenty-Nine docked and secure. Request permission to debark.
Granted, the captain says. Tommy? I know your wife’s down there with a son you’ve hardly seen. But could you — Lieutenant Commander, would you do me the honor of sharing a drink with me? I won’t detain you more than a minute.
All the time you like, sir. Tommy’s anxious to go, but he’s also curious. He follows Schaeffer to his cabin.
Sit, Captain Schaeffer says, gesturing. I remember the last time you were here. It was when Feathers took on Kraweski.
The morning after, sir. I was sure you were going to cashier me.
The captain frowns. Cashier you? What for?
I thought you thought I’d set Kraweski up.
What? Nonsense. I did. Feathers and I.
Tommy gapes. What?
Kraweski was a time bomb, an incompetent bullying drunk who would have destroyed a lot of innocents before he destroyed himself. We had to get rid of him. Feathers and I came up with a way. Naturally, this is not for attribution.
You knew Feathers could box?
Knew! I was his coach. He didn’t tell you? He was an undergraduate at Harvard when I was commandant here at the Yard. Feathers was my star pupil. Don’t stare, Commander. Ice?
Straight up, sir. The mad bastard, he thinks. And Feathers: Yup!
I’ll come to the point, Tommy. I want to talk about your future. You’ve done a superlative job for me, and if you stay in the Navy you’ll rise high. I’ve never seen a better navigator. And the men like you. That’s rarer than it should be.
All I do is listen to them, sir.
That’s what makes you exceptional. All officers give orders, few communicate. You know what they call you? Mister Christian.
Tommy blinks. I haven’t been to Chapel —
No, no. Fletcher Christian. HMS Bounty. Sided with the mutineers.
Wow! I’m not sure that’s a compliment.
You’re damned right it’s a compliment. I saw what you did with your aa crews. They’re the reason the two of us are sitting here with a full complement of limbs and eyeballs. Have you given thought to staying in the Navy? Things will be tight for a while but good people will move up again soon. Cassidy and I could get you back into Ann Arbor if you like. Uncle Sam needs the Navy and the Navy needs officers like you.
Well, ah, no, sir. Or rather yes, sir, I have given it a lot of thought.
And decided?
Against, sir. No slur on you or Bataan.
I suspected as much. What swayed you to the contrary, may I ask? Man to man, not subordinate to superior. You needn’t answer.
I’ll answer, sir. Though it’s hard to say exactly . . . It was Kraweski, I guess.
Kraweski? We deep-sixed him.
There are other Kraweskis, sir. Something in the service creates them. Or maybe not creates them, just —
Gives ’em a hidey-hole? Shelters ’em? Lets ’em breed?
Tommy locks eyes, nods. Exactly, sir. Then there’s the Negroes.
Captain Schaeffer looks puzzled. What? The boys that served our food?
Yes, sir, that’s who I mean. We didn’t have a single Negro in the regular Navy or Marines. Not one crewman, let alone an officer. They were kind and helpful and intelligent and hardworking and all they did was feed us.
That’s not insignificant, Commander. It’s not just the Army that marches on its stomach.
Yes, sir, but we could have used their talents in other ways. The first Jap plane shot down in the war was splashed by a Negro. Got the Medal of Honor for it, too. So some of them can shoot as well as cook.
Tommy pauses. The captain looks thoughtful but does not interrupt.
Sir, once I showed Feathers an article I’d read that called the Navy a master plan devised by geniuses for execution by idiots. And Feathers said, he said —
Go on.
Well sir, he said that was only half right. That the Navy was devised by idiots, too.
The captain half-smiles. And you agreed with him?
Did and still do, sir. Sorry.
The captain stands. I’m sorry, too, Commander. The Navy could use you. I could use you. I hope you think it over and change your mind. Contact me the instant you do.
I will, Tommy says, shaking hands. I’d stay if everyone were like you, sir. Afraid that sounds like kissing ass.
Tommy Asskissin’! Like that could happen. Go with God, son. Let me know what you do and where and with whom you’re doing it.
I will, sir. Thank you for everything. It’s been an incredible two years.
Captain Cassidy holds a farewell dinner for Bet and Tommy in his big brick house in Ann Arbor. Beyond the windows, a star-crowned avenue of elms stands silent. Inside are bright lights and a roaring fire.
Bet is newly pregnant and 1946 is fifteen minutes away.
Dad’s sorry you’re leaving us, says Frank Cassidy. Frank is a senior lieutenant, the captain’s eldest son, and like his father, he’s tall and bald and kind.
We’ll miss you, says Bet. But Arch is going back to his old job in Seattle. It’ll seem strange to be together as a family after all this time.
She glances over at her husband. Tommy’s talking to Mrs. Cassidy, using his hands to show how Trigg and Ander splashed the Myrt that hit Franklin. It’s late, Bet’s worried about the cost of the babysitter, and she leans across the table.
Admiral! she hisses. Hey, Admiral!
The captain’s wife looks at her, sad. He would have been, she says. If he’d stayed in the Navy.
Envoi
Of all music he knew, my father’s favorite was the Navy Hymn. Hearing it sung by the Naval Academy Choir never failed to move him to tears.
Eternal Father, strong to save,
Whose arm doth bind the restless wave:
Who bidd’st the mighty ocean deep
Its own appointed limits keep:
O hear us when we cry to thee
For those in peril on the sea.
To which I respectfully submit this twenty-first-century verse:
Almighty Father, harbor strong
For those whose oxygen is gone;
Thou final refuge of the just
When ship’s computers fail their trust:
O hasten with Thy saving grace
To those in peril deep in space.
The Navy voyages on.
William Illsey Atkinson
Toronto
December 6, 2012
Afterword
If ever there were a labor of love, it is this book. As long ago as 1995, when Dad was still an active 85-year-old, I had begun to sketch a fictional account of his life. When my agent found a publisher who liked a spec chapter and encouraged me to extend it, I had the impetus I needed to complete my project. This novel is the result.
As with all my fiction, I wrote to find out what happened; and what happened here surprised me. For instance, take “Feathers.” My only hard facts when I began to draft the story were a nickname, the real name behind it, and a set of family stories — a football game with a lone Crimson fan, a meeting with a former state governor, a prank that shut down streetcars in Massachusetts. But everything coalesced around Carrington “Feathers” Mason.
Tommy Page 14
