The commander said in a strong voice, “Commander Jameson and Lieutenant Flannigan reporting as ordered.” He then opened a briefcase, pulled out a brown regulation envelope, and handed it to the admiral.
Admiral Bridges looked at the envelope, murmuring to himself, “I wonder where they want me to go next?” He pulled out a single page and immediately saw the name of King at the bottom and the name of Roosevelt in the body of the letter. His interest quickly increased when he read the letter in its entirety. Looking to the commander, he asked, “Commander, do you know the contents of this letter?”
“Yes sir, I am familiar with the details and the individual that is the focus of these orders.”
“Commander,” the admiral said, as he passed the letter to his aide, “am I to believe Admiral King wants me to go over to the Recruit Training Base and pull a seaman recruit out of training and ensure that you and the lieutenant get him back to D.C.? Am I reading this right?”
“Sir, you are correct. We need to get this young man out of recruit training immediately and get him safely to Washington. I know it is a strange set of orders, but I can promise the young man in question is vital to the war effort.”
The admiral’s aide handed the paper back to Admiral Bridges, then with a silent okay from the admiral asked, “What is so special about this person? Is he the son of a top political donor or something?”
“No sir. If it were that simple, the president would not direct the commander in chief of the U.S. Fleet to ask you to do this. The young man in question is only eighteen but holds a Doctorate in Applied Physics, owns at least a dozen patents in the new field of electronics and is considered by the president’s science advisor to be the smartest person in the United States. He joined the navy to serve his country. He evidently did not want to be locked away in a science lab for the duration, which is exactly what would have happened.”
The admiral, now intrigued, leaned forward for more information. “So, you know this young man?”
“Yes sir, I met him a few years ago at Princeton where he was touring the advanced physics lab that Professor Einstein runs. He was only fourteen at the time and had finished a Master’s degree in Mathematics. Einstein was taken with him as was every other person he met, not only for his brilliance but his lack of bravado evidenced by his small-town boy persona. He spoke fluent German with Professor Einstein, and I understand he speaks very good Italian with Dr. Fermi who he studied with at Columbia.”
The aide asked, “Who is this Dr. Fermi?”
The admiral smiled at his young aide and stated, “I met Fermi a year or so ago when he left Italy for the US. I think he is a Nobel Prize winner. Is that correct, Commander?”
“Yes sir, Fermi is one of the leading scientists in theoretical physics. I have worked with him on and off for the past year before my recall into the service.”
“So, Commander,” eyeing an academy ring, “You were an Academy man and then left the service?”
“Yes sir, I was the class of ’21, and the billets were getting small, so I was encouraged to pursue advanced education but stay in the reserves, where I’ve served for the past twelve years. I have a Ph.D. in Mathematics and serve on staff with the science advisory team reporting to the vice chief of staff.”
“Well, this is all good and wonderful, but why do I need to be the one to pull this guy out of recruit training? Why all the fuss, just order the base to transfer this young man to D.C.” The admiral knew this was more complex than cutting a set of orders. People would ask lots of questions and if this kid was so valuable, special care was needed.
“Sir, Admiral King considered that but wanted to make sure Seaman Recruit Brand was removed promptly and securely taken to Washington. That is why I am here as well as Lieutenant Flannigan.”
“I was wondering why you had a marine with you. Why all of the security for this operation?”
The commander spoke with great authority, “Sir, it was deemed appropriate to ensure the movement of Brand with a higher level of security than would be given a normal individual. As I have said, we do not know how long this will take, and we want to make sure he is safe. As I understand it, Admiral King has plans for this young man. Those plans have not been revealed to me, but I was told by Director of War Plans Admiral Turner to be ready to assist him in any way and on any project, that may come up involving the scientific aspects of the war effort.”
“All right,” said the admiral. “I guess I have my orders and you have yours, and we do our duty, whatever that may be. So, what do you propose?”
“Sir,” Commander Jameson said, “I have three marine non-coms along with the lieutenant and two staff cars. I recommend we depart as soon as possible for the Recruit Training Station, then head directly to the commanding officer’s office, get our man, and get out as soon as possible. I have a set of orders in my possession transferring him to Naval Barracks, Washington, D.C., in my care.”
“Commander, you have most of the bases covered so let’s get on with this mission, and spring a kid from the clutches of navy training, which, I have a feeling, he might not appreciate.”
Admiral Bridges, in full winter blue uniform with gold braid shining in the midday sun, and his aide step toward the first car driven by a gunnery sergeant, who looks like he was the original marine. As the admiral approaches, the sergeant jumps to attention and snaps to a parade ground salute the commandant would be proud of. The admiral returns the salute and gets in the car. The aide rushes around to the other side as does Lieutenant Flannigan. The second car was driven by a staff sergeant and accompanied by a corporal. Each of these non-coms have at least twelve years in the corps with the gunnery sergeant showing a sleeve full of hash marks indicating over twenty-eight years of service and a chest full of ribbons or as he describes, “been-there badges.”
As the cars start on the drive, Admiral Bridges inquires, “Lieutenant, why is your hand bandaged? And it appears you have a slight limp?”
Flannigan turns in his seat. “Sir, it appears I should have ducked before things started going bad.”
The admiral chuckled but the smile quickly leaves his face as he notes the scars on the lieutenant’s face. “Sounds more serious than that. What happened?”
Flannigan, knowing he couldn’t get away with any more flippant comments, said as matter of fact as possible, “Sir, I was at Cavite when the bombs began to fall. Got hit with shrapnel and doused by burning gasoline.”
Bridges is intrigued because he knows the situation in the Philippines and that few people escaped. “How did you get out?”
“Sir, I was attached to Admiral Hart’s staff, serving as a messenger between various locations of the Asiatic Fleet. Two other officers were the pouch carriers for various information between the Philippines and other U.S. outposts including Shanghai, Singapore, and Hawaii. I had been with the Fourth Regiment. When they were pulled to the Philippines in November my duties were supposed to be over and I was reassigned to a rifle platoon. Things did not work out well.”
The intrigue increased and the admiral asked, “When and how did you get out of the islands?”
“Well, sir, after I was injured and patched up the admiral ordered most of the ships dispersed from Manila Bay. We had lost a submarine in the bombing and most of our PBYs were either shot up or headed south for their health. Admiral Hart, concerned I would be unable to do my regular duties as a marine, arranged for me to go to Batavia, the planned HQ for the Asiatic Fleet. I got on one of the last ships and left Manila on December 14. In Batavia, I continued my courier duties, but the admiral saw I was still unable to walk well and ordered me to Australia then home to the U.S., carrying dispatches and Admiral Hart’s situation assessments on the Japanese attack and the immediate aftermath. I have been on temporary duty at the hospital here until last night when I was assigned to the commander.”
“Well,” Admiral Bridges said to his aide, “seems we have another point of reference for our project.” The lieutenant did n
ot reply but looked straight ahead as they drove toward the recruit station.
The office of the commander of the Recruit Training Base, San Diego, was a flurry of activity with sailors walking around with piles of files and other papers looking for someplace to put them. All the file cabinets were full as were most of the boxes stacked against the walls in every nook and cranny in the building. Since early 1941 the base had doubled in size with new buildings and new offices but never enough room for the influx of recruits and training staff. Building the navy would take time and time requires paperwork in triplicate.
The commander of the base was a navy captain named Bailey, who had been appointed only three months before. He was a regular who had been in navy supply and liked the routine duties. The recruit training job was right up his alley. He had the input of new recruits, he had boxes to put them in, and he had a way to ship them out. All very nice and neat but it required dealing with lots of people and constant interruptions. But, the navy had given him the fourth stripe last year, and after twenty-four years in the navy, this would be his crowning achievement. Do a good job here, he thought, and maybe I might make the admirals list in a few years.
As he thought of the possibility, his senior yeoman entered unannounced. Coming to attention he said, “Sorry sir, but there is an admiral at the front gate heading this way. I was given the heads up by the marine guard who said the admiral’s name was Bridges.”
The captain, knowing protocol, immediately told the yeoman to alert his entire training staff and to find his executive officer, Commander Blevins. He got up, adjusted his tie, made sure he was completely up to uniform regulations, and pushed the files on his desk into a drawer.
Outside the office in a small waiting room sat Lt. (jg) Dr. Hiram Feldman. He had been waiting to see the executive officer for an hour, and knew he was being put on the cooler because he was causing problems. He had shown his information on the Dugard case to his commanding officer who wanted none of the blowback from it. He told Feldman to take it up with the training officer, a reserve lieutenant commander, who had the same reaction of touching a hot rock with a bare hand. He told Feldman to take his concerns to the executive officer who controlled base discipline matters. Feldman had taken the time to make two copies of everything in case one got lost in the shuffle of bureaucratic inertia. Now he waited for a meeting that seemed to never come.
The sudden commotion of people trying to move boxes around and clean up the place, piqued Feldman’s curiosity. He found out when he heard in a bellowing voice, “Attention on deck, flag officer arriving.”
Feldman, like everyone else in the area, jumped to attention as a marine gunnery sergeant turned and stood at attention as an admiral entered the office followed by an aide, a full commander, and a marine lieutenant.
The commanding officer walked out his door and saluted. “Sir, I am Captain Bailey, base commander. How can I be of service to the admiral and his staff?”
The admiral noted the mess and chaos seemed to be duplicated throughout the navy as it struggled to grow. “Captain, I need a moment of your time.”
“Yes sir.” Captain Bailey responded. “If the admiral would follow me into my office, I would be most happy to be of assistance to you and your staff.”
“Thank you, Captain, and if you do not mind, I will ask that my aide, Lieutenant Haslett, and Commander Jameson to join us.”
“No sir, not at all. Would the admiral care for coffee?”
“Yes, Captain, that would be fine.” This was part of the price for being an admiral, everybody asking you to drink coffee all day long. No wonder his stomach was a mess.
Noting the invitation to the captain’s office did not include him, Flannigan made his way to chairs outside the office and sat next to a lieutenant junior grade with Medical Corps emblems on his lapels.
The doctor immediately struck up a conversation with the marine with the bandages on his hand and lacerations on his face.
“Hello, my name is Hiram Feldman, and I’m one of the doctors on the base.”
Flannigan turned to the doctor who was probably six or so years older. “Hello, the name is Flannigan.”
The doctor, being curious about the admiral and the mission they were on, did not at first ask about them but more about the patient he saw in front of him. “Looks like you’ve been burned and received some serious lacerations to the face. How long ago did this occur because I noted some suppuration on your bandages?”
Flannigan looked down at his hand and sourly said, “Damn, looks like I’m leaking again. You would think after a month it would stop.”
Feldman looked at the bandage, asking to look closer. The young marine lieutenant held out his hand, knowing the leakage needed to stop so he could get back to being a real marine. Feldman pushed on the wrapped hand, and got a silent reaction from Flannigan. However, the shudder indicated other problems going on in the hand or arm, which worried the doctor.
“What was the cause of your injury?” the doctor asked as he surveyed Flannigan’s arm beneath the now upturned sleeve.
The lieutenant, knowing he should not lie to a doctor who could be helpful said in a very low voice, “The bombing on December 10 at Cavite in the Philippines.”
Feldman looked at the marine with amazement and questioned in a guarded voice, “How the hell did you get away from there? No one has any news on what’s happening over there.” The desperate battle of Bataan was underway with some seventy-five thousand Americans and Philippine troops surrounded on the peninsula of Bataan and the Island of Corregidor. There was no hope of reinforcements. Food and ammunition were in short supply with men on half rations since early January.
The lieutenant said he could not tell the good doctor, but he was serving as a courier to Admiral Hart and was ordered out. That was all he could say. “Okay, Lieutenant, I will not ask any more questions, but I do think you should come to the hospital as soon as you can and let me look at the arm and see if I can find out what the problem is.” He then rolled down the sleeve of the marine’s tunic and asked the other question on his mind, “So, Flannigan, what are you doing here with the admiral? Or is that a secret also?” The doctor looked at the marine with a slightly skewed face showing a broad smile.
“Well,” Flannigan began, “it is not a big secret that I know of so I can tell you we are here to pull a recruit and send him to Washington. I’m here to escort him back to D.C.”
Feldman, seeing an opening continued, “Does this recruit have a name? Perhaps I know him and could be of assistance to the mission.” Again, he smiled.
Flannigan smiled back. “Sure thing, his name is Brand, James Edward.”
“Who? Did you say Brand?”
“Yes, Brand, do you know him?” Now Flannigan was getting very interested in the young doctor.
The doctor got to his feet pulling the lieutenant up at the same time. And in a conspirator-like tone said, “Brand is why I am here. I came to see the executive officer before it’s too late.”
Flannigan, quizzed the doctor, “Too late for what? What is going on?”
“See this? I’ve been keeping a file on what has been going on around here for three months, and your boy is about to be court-martialed. I think he’s in bad physical shape because the guards at the brig won’t let me see him.”
Flannigan pulled the doctor down to the chair and asked, “What did he do and what is the situation now?”
“Well, it all starts with a bastard named Dugard who has harmed lots of recruits, but everyone turns a blind eye to this bully. Let me show you what I know and how Brand became involved.”
For the next five minutes, the good doctor went through the entire story leading up to the altercation with Dugard and Brand; how he was now up on charges the doctor knew were false and aimed at getting rid of Brand and keeping Dugard.
After a few minutes of looking at the files, Flannigan noted the time frames and medical reports the doctor had kept on more than a dozen recruits physically
abused by Dugard but who’s were always reported as accidents. Flannigan said, “Okay, here is what we do. I’m going to get the commander out of his meeting. I want you to show him the files and tell the story. I’m sure he will then get to the admiral on this. Hold onto these. I will be right back.”
Flannigan went to the office door now guarded by his marine gunnery sergeant and whispered to the sergeant that he needed to speak to the commander immediately about Brand. The sergeant knocked on the door. The lieutenant walked in and excused the interruption, but he needed to speak to the commander on an issue requiring his prompt action. “Very well,” said the commander, “with your leave admiral, captain, I will see what is so urgent.” The admiral had been informing the captain about his mission, the need to find the recruit named Brand, and that he needed all the files and reports on him as well. The captain had sent for his chief yeoman and asked for the information knowing it would take a while.
Commander Jameson walked out, questioning the interruption. Flannigan said, “I know where Brand is and you are not going to like it. This place is a can of worms. Come over here and meet Dr. Feldman. He can explain the situation.”
Feldman was already standing at attention when the commander walked over to him and said, “You say you know Brand and he is in some kind of trouble?”
“Yes sir, perhaps you could request an office so we can speak in private sir.” Flannigan nodded agreement, so Jameson went over to one of the petty officers, asking if there was an office he could use. The sailor immediately walked them to an office down the hall. Flannigan nodded to Gunnery Sergeant Jones and pointed to where they were headed, knowing the old sergeant could locate them if they were needed by the admiral.
Upon entering the office, Commander Jameson asked for an explanation. Flannigan responded, “You are not going to like this, sir, but our boy Brand is in the brig on charges of assaulting a superior officer.”
U-Boat Scourge Page 4
