The car stopped in front of the administration building and the marine next to me assisted me to get out. I shook my head. With great effort, I managed for a moment to shake my despondency.
“Captain,” I said, addressing the marine captain who had gotten out of the front seat and was issuing orders to a sergeant to dismiss the detail which had accompanied us. “I want to thank you for being so decent, for allowing me to go down to the creek and participate in the search. I hope it won’t get you into any trouble.”
He looked touched. “I don’t think it will,” he said slowly. As I turned to walk into the administration building between the two marines, he called after me, “Good luck, Lieutenant.”
Back in my cell, the marines removed my handcuffs. They left and I was rubbing my wrists when Parsons entered the cell. “Now that we’re back here, Lieutenant,” he said sorrowfully, “I think we ought to go over our case for tomorrow.”
I tried hard to listen, but without much success. All I could think of was the hopelessness of my situation. At last, frustrated by my indifference, he left, saying he would see me at the court martial and to try and be of good cheer. From his sorrowful expression, I doubted he had as little faith in the chances of our defense as I did.
When Parsons left, I threw myself on the bed and closed my eyes. I felt drained of all energy, drained of all emotion. I heard the noise of my lunch tray being removed, with its contents untouched, but paid it no mind.
The hours went by, as I lay despondently on my bed. Finally, I forced myself to open my eyes and get off the bed when the dinner tray arrived. I was in no way hungry, but at least managed to drink down the mug of coffee.
Slightly energized by the hot coffee, I paced my cell for what seemed like hours, trying to think of some solution. It was futile. My despair returned. I tried to divert myself with mathematical calculations, to no avail. Again, I threw myself on the bed. This time I wept.
The next morning, I awakened and forced myself to eat the fare on my breakfast tray. I had just finished, when the cell door opened and two different marines entered. They handed me a razor, face towel and shaving soap. Under their close scrutiny, I shaved, for the first time since I had entered the cell. When I dried my face and dressed, they gave me the necktie, belt and shoelaces that had been taken from me.
“It’s time for us to go upstairs, Lieutenant,” one of them told me as he opened the cell door. I expected that they would handcuff me again. Instead, walking on either side of me, they permitted me to leave the cell and walk upstairs with my hands free.
We proceeded down a corridor to a part of the building I had not been to before and stopped in front of a large door guarded by an armed marine. He opened the door and stood aside to let us pass. Inside I found myself in a makeshift courtroom. A slightly raised platform ran along one side of the room. On it, three tables had been placed end by end for the members of the court martial to use. In front of the platform, two smaller tables had been placed, about a dozen yards apart. Seated at the one to my right, was Parsons, studying a yellow pad.
Passing armed marine guards standing just inside the door, I was escorted to Parsons and left there. My defense counsel rose, shook hands, and motioned me to take the vacant chair next to his.
“Good morning, Lieutenant,” he said, trying to look cheerful. The effort was not convincing. “Won’t you sit down.”
I took the chair next to his and looked around. Behind us were several chairs. One was occupied by an oriental man wearing a naval uniform that was obviously not American. “Who is that oriental naval officer?” I whispered to Parsons.
“That’s Admiral Miyaguchi. The Navy Department agreed to let the Japanese government have one of their officers attend the court martial as an observer. You can tell how important this trial is to them by the fact that they assigned a vice admiral as their observer.”
I looked at Miyaguchi again. He seemed to be staring at me, with a curious expression on his face.
Seeing someone walk toward the table to my left, I turned and saw a tall naval officer walking arm in arm with the civilian who had interrogated me. After some minutes of conversation, the civilian withdrew and the officer sat down at the table. He seemed young for his grade, that of lieutenant commander.
Parsons completed reading his notes and looked up. He noticed my interest in the new arrival and said, “That’s Commander Fletcher. I was hoping he wouldn’t be assigned to handle the prosecution. He’s the best lawyer in the Pacific Fleet and probably one of the two or three best in the entire navy.”
I was about to reply when the door at the back of the platform swung open and everyone around me stood. “Those are the members of the court martial entering,” Parsons, said, “You have to stand.”
I rose to my feet and stared at the men who would decide my fate. The first to enter was the presiding officer, Admiral Stafford. He took his seat at the center of the tables. Four navy captains followed him, two seating themselves on either side. After a pause, an elderly commander entered and took a chair behind the admiral. “That’s Leeland,” Parsons whispered. “He’s assigned to provide legal advice to the admiral, but doesn’t vote.”
The proceedings began with Admiral Stafford reading excerpts from several official documents attesting to the legality of the court martial and to the appointment of its members. As he hurriedly read, I noticed Commander Leeland frowning. Parsons scribbled something on a sheet of notepaper and passed it to me. It read, “Stafford is omitting some of the legal niceties in the interests of speed. We may have the basis for an appeal on procedural grounds.” When he saw that I had finished reading, Parsons carefully took his note, tore it into pieces, and put them in his pocket.
When he had completed his reading, Stafford turned to Fletcher and asked him to read the charges and specifications. The commander read off a detailed listing of the violations of navy regulations I was accused of committing. I found much of the legal terminology confusing and my mind drifted off into wondering why a Japanese vice admiral was attending the court martial as an observer.
I was brought back to reality by Parsons tapping me hard on the shoulder. “I assume,” he said, ‘That you want me to plead you not guilty?”
“Yes,” I responded indifferently. As my defense counsel had told me, it didn’t make any difference how I pleaded. The outcome would be the same.
Parsons stood. “Lieutenant Snodgrass pleads not guilty to all charges and specifications.”
“Did you get that?” Admiral Stafford asked. I realized that he was speaking to a sailor who was acting as court stenographer and compiling a written record of the proceedings. In my absorption, I had failed to see the sailor enter and sit down at a small table, that had been brought into the room for his use. I realized that I had just learned an important lesson; I had to pay attention to what was going on.
Satisfied with the recorder’s response, Stafford turned to Fletcher and asked if the prosecution wished to make an opening statement. The commander stood and, without consulting any notes, proceeded to outline his case. He spoke clearly in a firm voice and I found his presentation of the facts compelling.
I was, he declared, guilty of mutiny, piracy, murder, attempted murder, and the unauthorized use of government property. I found it odd that the last charge, a comparatively minor one, had been added to the first four far more serious ones. Apparently one of the captains on the court martial thought so too; I saw him smile as Fletcher mentioned the last charge.
Basically following the outline of my confession, the prosecuting officer declared that I had unlawfully gained access to the Nevada, had attempted to murder a senior officer, Commander Travis, in a premeditated effort to gain control of the ship, and had taken it to sea without orders. Not content with this, I had then deliberately sought out and ordered the Nevada to fire on the naval vessels of a friendly nation, sinking three of the capital ships and killing over three thousand of their crews.
By the time he concluded
his initial statement and sat down, it was obvious Fletcher had already convinced the members of the court martial of my guilt. I could not really blame them. I had to agree I was guilty as charged.
It was now Parsons’ turn. Stafford asked him if the defense wished to make an opening statement. My defense counsel waived the chance to do so.
Fletcher then presented his case. In all, he brought in just five witnesses. The first was Commander Travis. His left arm was
in a sling and the top of his head was wrapped in a large bandage, presumably covering an injury he had received when I pushed him into the sea. I could see sympathetic expressions on faces of the members of the court martial and detected glances of anger directed at me.
Under Fletcher’s expert questioning, Travis told the court that I had approached him on the deck of the Nevada on the morning of December 7th, identifying myself as an officer newly assigned to the ship. Upon ascertaining he was the senior officer on board, I had led him to the railing on a pretext, and then deliberately pushed him over the side into the sea.
Asked by the prosecutor if the man who had committed these acts was in the courtroom, Travis responded in the affirmative and pointed directly at me. “That’s Lieutenant Maynard Snodgrass,” he said in a voice dripping with disgusted. It was clear from the expressions on the faces of court martial members that they had been favorably impressed by Travis’ testimony.
It was now Parsons’ turn to cross-examine Travis. “Commander,” he began, his voice as sad as ever, “You testified that Lieutenant Snodgrass pushed you over the railing into the sea, is that correct?”
“Yes!”
“Did you see him do this?” Parsons inquired.
“No, my back was turned.”
“Then how do you know it was Lieutenant Snodgrass who pushed you, and not someone else?”
“Because.” Travis shot back triumphantly, “there was no one else near us on the deck.”
“Please tell the court,” my defense counsel continued, “How long were you in the water before being rescued.”
“I would say, about fifty minutes.”
“And in the fall you suffered injuries to your right arm and head?”
“That is correct.”
“Are you a champion swimmer, Commander?” Parsons asked, looking slightly less sad.
“Then, commander, how were you able to keep afloat in the water, seriously injured, and quite possibly in a state of shock, for almost an hour?”
“I had a life preserver,” Travis said, as though explaining the obvious.
“Did you stop to take one with you from the Nevada when you left the deck?”
“Of course not, Snodgrass took me by surprise when he pushed me off.”
“Then Lieutenant Snodgrass threw it to you? That seems like odd behavior for someone who is charged with attempting to murder you; don’t you agree?”
“Snodgrass wasn’t the one to throw me the life preserver?
“Then who did?” persisted Parsons. “You have already testified that there was no one else on the deck near you.
“But …,” Travis attempted to explain, but Parsons gave him no opportunity.
“Thank you,” he interrupted, “I have no further questions for this witness.”
Fletcher jumped to his feet, protesting that Commander Travis had not been given an opportunity to answer the question. Stafford agreed, and in a few follow-up questions to Travis, Fletcher attempted to repair the damage to the prosecution’s case. As he spoke, I whispered to my defense counsel, “Thanks, that was great!”
“It wasn’t bad,” he admitted, “But I don’t think it will win you any votes for acquittal.
The prosecution’s next witness was Ensign Stevens. As he entered the courtroom, he flashed me a warm smile, as though to apologize for what he would be obliged to say about me. I smiled back, feeling sorry for the young officer, who had rendered me such invaluable assistance.
In response to Fletcher’s questions, Stevens testified that upon hearing battle stations sounded early on the morning of December 7th, he had raced to the bridge of the Nevada. There, he had encountered me for the first time. When I identified myself as the senior officer on the vessel and told him that Japanese aircraft were in the process of attacking Pearl Harbor, he had accepted this as true and had obeyed my orders.
In response to my orders, Stevens continued, he had assisted me to get the Nevada under way. Subsequently, he had followed out my orders during the Nevada’s attack on the Japanese carrier task force early in the morning of December 8th.
When Fletcher finished his questioning, the defense was given the opportunity to cross-examine Ensign Stevens. In response to my insistence that we do nothing that might further injure Steven’s career, Parsons waived the opportunity to question him.
The prosecution called only three more witnesses. One was Hugh MacDonald, who had been the senior petty officer in the Nevada’s fire control department during our attack on the Japanese carriers. He testified that under my orders he had directed the battleship’s fire against the Japanese carriers. When MacDonald finished, Parsons declined the chance to cross-examine him in a tone suggesting that nothing the petty officer had said was of any importance.
Up to this point, there had been no surprises in the course of the court martial. I was flabbergasted, however, at what happened next. Fletcher called as his next witness one Commander Shaiku Namura. The door of the court room swung open and a navy corpsman entered, pushing a wheelchair to the front of the room.
Seated in the wheelchair was a man wearing the uniform of a Japanese naval officer. His hands, arms and most of his face were covered with bandages. I could hear gasps from the members of the court martial panel at the appearance of the badly injured officer.
Commander Namura was sworn in as a witness, with special accommodation made for the fact that he could not raise his right hand or touch the bible. I could not help but stare at the prosecuting officer as the oath was administered to Namura. It was obvious that Commander Fletcher relished the influence this witness was having on his case.
Fletcher began by asking the Namura to state his name and position. “Commander Shaiku Namura, sir,” the Japanese officer stated in excellent English. “Until she was sunk on the morning of December 8th, I was navigation officer of the Hiryu, an aircraft carrier of the Imperial Japanese Navy.”
“Please recount to us the events that occurred on the morning of December 8th,” Fletcher continued.
“I was on the Hiryu’s bridge. About 2 a.m., I heard the sounds of gunfire behind us. I turned and saw a large naval vessel sailing parallel to the Akagi the carrier to our stern. It fired salvo after salvo into the Akagi, which burst into flames and began sinking. Sailing at a speed greatly superior to ours, well over twenty knots, the vessel overtook us and began targeting the Hiryu with its salvos. Using my binoculars I was able to read the name of the attacking ship. It was the American battleship Nevada. I also saw the ship’s battle flag flying. It was a United States flag.”
The effort of speaking and the unpalatable nature of the events he was describing clearly depressed Namura. He paused, in his testimony and tried to massage his forehead. The bandages on his hands and head prevented him from completing the gesture.
“I understand how difficult this is for you, Commander,” Fletcher said in a sympathetic voice. “We are almost through.”
Namura rallied his strength and continued. “
The Nevada’s fire badly damaged the Hiryu and we began to sink. We were gone in a matter of minutes. I was thrown into the water by an explosion and suffered bad burns from the burning oil on the surface. More than a thousand of the Hiryu’s crew perished.”
“You are the senior surviving officer from the Hiryu’s crew?” Fletcher asked in a low voice.
“I am the senior surviving officer from all three of the Japanese carriers that the Nevada sank in its attack,” Namura stated. While I was in the water, I saw the Nevada sink the carri
er on our bow, the Soryu.”
Fletcher nodded sympathetically, “Thank you, Commander,” he said. He then turned to Parsons. “Your witness, sir.” His tone suggested that only an ogre would subject Namura to further questioning. Looking at the expressions on the faces of the members of the court martial, I could see they shared Fletcher’s opinion.
Parsons, however, was not intimidated. “Let me express my sympathy, Commander,” he began, his characteristic lachrymose attitude suggesting that he was speaking sincerely. “You have certainly undergone a most horrible ordeal. There is just one minor point I would like you to clear up.”
Fletcher looked contemptuously at the defense counsel. Parsons’ hangdog appearance made it easy to underestimate him. I had made that same mistake, myself, until his cross-examination of Travis had altered my opinion.
The prosecutor clearly believed that Parsons was committing a serious blunder in prolonging Namura’s interrogation. From their expressions, I could see that the members of the court martial were of a similar opinion.
“You said, Commander,” Parsons began in a soft voice, “That an explosion on the Hiryu knocked you into the sea. If the three Japanese aircraft carriers were sunk, who rescued you?”
“I and three other survivors of the Hiryu were picked up by an accompanying destroyer.”
“Tell me, Commander, why didn’t the Nevada sink the destroyer, too?”
“Because it was driven off by the two battleships accompanying us.”
“Were those the only other vessels in your immediate area?”
“No, sir,” Namura answered, “There were three other Japanese carriers, along with cruisers and destroyers.”
I could see Fletcher frowning as Parsons continued the questions.
“Sir,” he said jumping to his feet, “I object to this line of questioning.”
“Sir,” said Parsons, speaking to Admiral Stafford, “I am fighting for Lieutenant Snodgrass’s life. I would beg the court for some leeway in my questioning.”
My Troubles With Time Page 15
