Along the shore, I can see crowds of people gathered. I study them through my binoculars. Many are carrying small America flags. Others hold signs. One says “Welcome Home Arizona.” Another bears the legend “God Bless America.” I see one man pointing at our tattered battle flag and excitedly telling his family to look at it. It dawns on me that they are gathered there to welcome us home.
As Battleship Row comes into view around the bend, I gasp. The area is crowded with debris from the ships sunk or damaged during the Japanese attack. The masts of several sunken battleships protrude above the waves. Several repair ships are engaged in attempting to bring order to the chaos.
Obviously, the Arizona cannot return to her former mooring. I order the engine room to reduce speed as I consider where to tie up. My dilemma is solved. The lookout informs me a launch has left the navy pier and is speeding to meet us. We slow our speed further as the launch signals it will transfer personnel to us.
I am surprised to see a senior officer climb the rope ladder to our deck. As he salutes the ship, I see his rank is that of a rear admiral!
“Welcome aboard, sir,” I say to him, saluting. “I am Ensign Maynard Snodgrass, duty officer and acting captain.”
He smiles, extending his hand. “It is an honor to meet you, Ensign,” he replies. “The Fleet Commander and the entire Pacific Fleet join me in congratulating the commanding officer and crew of the Arizona. Your feat in eluding the attack on Pearl Harbor and single-handedly sinking three Japanese carriers is the most heroic feat in American naval history.”
At this point, the first phase of my fantasy ends. I have reviewed in my mind various conclusions. In my favorite, the Admiral tells me that Congress is meeting to vote me the Congressional Medal of Honor. Moreover, President Roosevelt has dispatched his personal airplane to fly me to Washington for a meeting with him at the White House.
After mooring the Arizona at the Site designated by the Admiral, I accompany him in the launch back to the navy pier. A chauffeur opens the door of a navy limousine sporting two-star flags reflecting the Admiral’s rank.
We stop for a few minutes at fleet headquarters, where I give a brief oral report to the assembled senior staff. The gasp in amazement when I tell them the Arizona sank the fourth Japanese carrier and a second heavy cruiser after the radio antenna had been disabled.
When I complete my report, the officers cluster around to shake my hand. The Fleet Commander, a full Admiral, shakes my hand tells me he envies me. He would like to speak to me further, to obtain my recommendations as to how he should deploy his remaining vessels, he adds, but there is no time. I must hasten to the airfield to board the President’s plane.
Again, the Rear Admiral escorts me in the limousine. As we race through Honolulu, evidence of the Japanese attack is all around me. Damage is even more apparent as I catch sight of the airport, where piles of debris from the destroyed aircraft ring the tarmac.
The sentries at the airport are expecting us and wave the limousine through the gate without requiring it to stop. As we drive across the tarmac to the president’s plane, I see that the engines are already running. The admiral bids me goodbye and I board the airplane.
I am met by a beautiful stewardess. “Welcome aboard, Ensign Snodgrass,” she says with an admiring smile. “We are honored to have you with us. We have heard so much about you.”
She leads me towards the rear of the plane to a luxuriously decorated compartment. As I settle into a most comfortable sofa, I look around with amazement. I have never seen an airplane outfitted like this. There are Oriental carpets on the floor and nautical prints on the walls.
“This is the president’s favorite room,” she says. “If there is anything we can do to make you more comfortable, please let me know.”
The plane taxies down the runway, passing other aircraft whose departure has been delayed to permit us to take off.
As we head eastward, Hawaii disappearing behind us, a mess steward appears. “Would you like something to eat?” he inquires respectfully. “We have a fully equipped kitchen on board.”
I realize that I am ravenous. It is not surprising. I have hardly eaten for several days. I choose grilled pork chops from the dishes he suggests.
About a half-hour later, I am served a delicious meal at a table covered with an embroidered linen tablecloth. The dinnerware bears the presidential seal. Hot buttered biscuits and fresh applesauce accompany the pork chops. It is a hard choice, but I eventually elect to have the apple pie a-la-mode for dessert rather than the chocolate ice cream sundae with fudge sauce. The mess-steward smiles as I empty my plate and congratulate him on the sumptuousness of the food.
The stewardess returns and inquires if I would like to retire. She informs me that a berth has been prepared for me and leads me to it.
“Would you like pajamas?” she asks. “We have an extra set of the president’s on board. I’m sure he would not mind.”
Without waiting for me to replay, she brings the pajamas. I awkwardly attempt to unbutton my uniform shirt, unable to use my left arm, which is still in a sling.
“Let me help you, Ensign,” she says and starts to unbutton my shirt. She then unties and removes my shoes and socks. My protests are ignored; she removes my trousers and undershirt.
She is leaning against my bare back. I cannot help but feel her firm breasts through her uniform. I am not unaccustomed to having beautiful women press themselves against me. I sense I have only to indicate my willingness and she will disrobe and climb into bed with me.
This erotic element of my fantasy is a relatively recent addition, originating in my teens. Still, it is pleasant and I have made it permanent.
As I look at the stewardess, I am conscious of my desire to make love with her. However, I am too exhausted. It would not be fair to disappoint her by giving a less-than-perfect performance.
“Thank you so much,” I say, grabbing the pajamas and stepping back. “If you can turn out the light, I’ll turn in.”
Her disappointment is reflected on her face. “If there is anything I can do for you, Ensign, anything…” She emphasizes the last word as she turns off the light and leaves.
I awaken the next day as the plane sets down for refueling at San Francisco. I smell the aroma of freshly cooked bacon and look around as the mess steward enters the cabin. He hands me a cup of hot coffee and says with a big smile on his face, “The cook was so pleased you liked the dinner last night that he made up a big stack of apple pancakes for your breakfast. He knows you are partial to apples.”
Expressing my appreciation at the cook’s kindness, I sit down at the table and enjoy my breakfast. Looking through the cabin window of the parked plane, I see a crowd lining the airport fence.
The stewardess enters as I am finishing. She looks as beautiful as ever. “They’re here to welcome you,” she says, pointing in the direction of the crowd. “There are so many of them that the police are having difficulty keeping them off the tarmac.”
“I’ll be back in a minute,” I say as I arise and walk forward to the plane’s door, which is open. I see the pilot, an Army Air Corps Major, supervising the refueling. Turning toward the crow, I wave at them. They cheer repeatedly as I return to the compartment.
The stewardess sees me rub my face. It is covered with stubble.
“I have not had a chance to shave for several days,” I say apologetically.
“Let me help you,” she says and leads me to a wash basin. She removes my pajama top and shaves me expertly. I see the look of interest in her eyes. The night’s sleep has left me feeling much better. Before I can say anything, the mess steward enters, bearing my uniform.
“It was awfully dirty,” he says. “We cleaned it up as much as we could, but some of those stains are still there.”
I am surprised he was successful in restoring the uniform to as good a state as he has. He busies himself with arranging the cabin while the stewardess helps me dress. Under the circumstances, I can do nothing mo
re than thank her politely as she finishes.
She leaves for a minute and returns holding several newspapers. “Major Conway,” she says, “Thought you might enjoy looking at these San Francisco papers.”
I settle back on the sofa and pick up one the papers. The headline covers the entire top of front page. It screams in bold letters “SNODGRASS SINKS JAPANESE FLEET!!!” The headline on the second newspaper is equally large. It says “SNODGRASS’S REVENGE.”
The stories under the headlines describe the Arizona’s success in escaping the attack on Pearl Harbor and attacking the carrier task force. My name is mentioned in almost every sentence. I modestly wish that the accounts had given more stress to the heroic efforts of the men under my command.
I am so engrossed in reading the papers that I am unaware someone else is in the cabin. I look up and see it is the pilot. I jump to my feet and start to salute him, but he rushes forward and shakes my hand.
“I am Major Conway,” he says. “I would be grateful if you would give me your autograph. My son collects them and it would be the prize of his collection.”
I am startled at the pilot’s request but quickly comply. He thanks me profusely and returns to the cockpit.
The sun has already set when the pilot sends word by the stewardess that we are approaching Washington. I walk to the window to look out. I have visited Washington several times while a midshipman at Annapolis, but I have never had the opportunity to look at the nation’s capital from a plane.
The Washington Monument looks beautiful in the moonlight as we circle over Washington and prepare to land. I expect that I will be taken to a hotel to spend the night and taken to see the president on the following day.
I am wrong. When the plane lands and comes to a stop, a limousine speeds toward us, stopping by the aircraft door. The stewardess informs me that I am to be taken immediately to the White House.
As I walk to the now open plane door, the crew clusters around to bid me good bye. I shake hands, thanking each one in turn for their kindness toward me. As I shake hands with the stewardess, I realize she has slipped something into my hand.
Walking down the stairs from the plane, I take the opportunity to look at what she has given me. It is a slip of paper with her phone number and address. As I put it into my pocket carefully, I signal to her that I intend to use the information soon.
A marine colonel steps out of the car and salutes me. “I am Colonel Dresser of the White House staff,” he says. “I will escort you to the White House. President Roosevelt is most anxious to see you.”
We drive through the darkened streets. The colonel asks me about the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor and I attempt to fill him in.
Turning off Pennsylvania Avenue onto the White House grounds, I fall silent, impressed by the sight of the historic building. We stop in front of the entrance and a White House butler opens the door and greets me.
I am rushed past a secret serviceman upstairs and led to the president’s office. Another secret serviceman ascertains that I am Ensign Snodgrass and opens the door for me.
Inside, I see President Roosevelt, sitting behind his desk. He looks just like he does in the pictures of him I have seen. Admiral Ernest J. King, the Chief of Naval Operations, is standing to his right.
I salute the President, then Admiral King.
“Welcome Ensign Snodgrass,” says the President. “Please be seated.”
As I take the armchair in front of his desk, Admiral King sits down on a chair across from me.
President inserts a cigarette into a cigarette holder, puts the holder into his mouth and lights the cigarette.
He takes a puff, then looks at me closely. “You have made the entire nation proud of you,” he says. “Admiral King and I would like to hear your account of your voyage. Please brief us, omitting no significant detail.”
I do so. When I have finished, President Roosevelt smiles. “Thank you,” he says. “From what you have accomplished, I think you are the most brilliant naval officer since Lord Nelson.”
The Chief of Naval Operations nods in agreement. The President’s cigarette has long ago gone out. He lights another and looks at me. I am unable to interpret the expression on his face.
“There’s just one problem, Snodgrass,” he says, “You’re out of uniform.”
I blush. “I’m sorry, Mr. President,” I begin. I came here wearing the uniform I wore for three days. I haven’t had time to change.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he says. “You’re wearing incorrect insignia.”
I look at him, trying to grasp his meaning. Then I realize that he and the Chief of Naval Operations are both smiling. “Tell him, Admiral,” the President says.
“President Roosevelt,” Admiral King explains, “Has exercised his role as chief of the army and navy to promote you to the grade of captain. Congratulations!”
It takes me a moment before the significance of his remark sinks in. From ensign to captain in one step! I have never heard of such a thing.
“Congratulations, Captain Snodgrass,” adds the President. No promotion has ever pleased me more.”
The Chief of Naval Operations stands and walks toward me, opening a small jewelry box.
“Permit me to give you this,” he says, removing from it two silver eagles. “I remember how proud I was to pin these on my collar when I made captain. It gives me equal pride to be permitted to give them to you.”
Admiral King removes the gold ensigns’ bars
I have been wearing. I stand and he replaces them with the silver eagles. I am speechless.
“Oh, Captain,” says the President. It takes me a minute to realize he is addressing me. “The Admiral and I have been having a bit of a disagreement about what to do with you. He wants to assign you as skipper of one of our new battlewagons. I disagree. I have asked him instead to assign you temporarily to the White House as my naval adviser.”
“While here,” the President continues, “You will receive briefings from selected members of the Naval War College Faculty summarizing what you would have been taught there. When you finish the tutorial, which should not last more than a month, I will promote you to admiral and assign you as commander of the Pacific Fleet.”
President Roosevelt turns to Admiral King. “You had better watch out, Chief,” he says. There is a smile on his face, but I am not sure if he is really joking. “In a short time, this young fellow may have your job.”
PART IV
No sooner had I resolved to actually carry through with my fantasy with the aid of my time machine that I began my preparations. Miles Standish University had one of the best libraries on the East Coast. As much as I hated to return to the scene of my morning’s humiliation, I forced myself to retrace my steps to the campus.
A few minutes spent in the library reading the various accounts of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor showed me that my fantasy required modification. Originally, I had fixed on the battleship Arizona as the vessel I would command. It had stuck in my mind because of all of the mention it had in the various accounts of the Pearl Harbor attack. Over a thousand of its crew had gone down with the ship and it had subsequently been turned into a memorial for the men killed at Pearl Harbor.
When I actually looked into the details of the attack, however, I found that the Arizona’s mooring site on “Battleship Row” would have made it virtually impossible for the vessel to get under way in time to evade the attacking aircraft. She was tied up inboard, with the repair ship “Vestal” outboard and between the battleships Tennessee and Nevada. Moreover, the Arizona’s captain had been on board the vessel and had been mortally wounded in the Japanese attack.
My disappointment about the Arizona gave way to elation as I read on and learned that the Nevada was the opportune battleship with which to implement my fantasy. It was moored at the end of a line of battleships at a site which facilitated quick departure. The Nevada’s captain and many of the senior officers were ashore. Best of all, the Ne
vada was the only battleship which actually attempted to evade the Japanese attack.
In events which in many respects paralleled my fantasy, a young ensign realized that Pearl Harbor was under attack and pressed the alarm signal on the Nevada about 8 a.m. on December 7, 1941. He and the other junior officers on board succeeded in getting steam up in 45 minutes rather than in the normal three and a half hours. The ship then left the mooring in a desperate break for the open sea.
Just reading the account of the Nevada’s gallant effort brought tears to my eyes. The vessel had maneuvered from its moorings without the usual assistance of tug boats. It was already seriously damaged in the initial Japanese attack. There was a gaping hole in its side and smoke billowed from several fires. With its battle flag flying, the ship had traveled some distance before the Naval District headquarters ran up signal flags ordering the Nevada beached in order to avoid its being sunk by the Japanese planes in the channel, blocking all passage.
The officers on board, the most senior of whom was a lieutenant, had most reluctantly obeyed.
In a happy frame of mind, I left the library and headed home. On the way, I stopped off at the costume shop at which I purchased my Union colonel’s uniform. There I was fortunate to find in stock an American naval officer’s uniform of the type worn in 1941.
My only regret was that I was unable to wear a white high-necked officer’s uniform of the sort I admired when I saw it worn by the naval officer protagonist in Puccini’s opera “Madam Butterfly. On reflection, however, I doubted that one would be worn by an officer reporting to a new ship in Honolulu in December.
With great effort, I managed to bargain with the owner of the costume shop until he reluctantly agreed to accept in payment the few dollars I had left in my check account. I was fortunate, I realized that navy uniforms of the 1940’s commanded a far lower price than those of the Civil War era.
Arriving home with my purchase, my happy state of mind survived viewing the damage Princess had newly inflicted on my living room rug. I quickly ate dinner, then put on the uniform again and inspected myself in the mirror. The insignia on the sleeves of my uniform jacket was that of a commander, too senior for my purposes.
My Troubles With Time Page 9
