The Last Jump: A Novel of World War II

by John E. Nevola

  “Oh, you’d be surprised what Public Affairs Officers are asked to do,” she replied with an impish grin.

  A waiter appeared and he ordered a glass of Cabernet Franc for himself as well as a refill for Cynthia. She reached for the pack of True Green Menthol Lights on the small glass-topped table between them. “Would you mind, terribly?”

  “Go right ahead. I’m an ex-smoker myself.”

  “Isn’t everybody?” She shook a cigarette from the pack and picked up the lighter. “Thanks. Sometimes ex-smokers are the worst…the most judgmental. I’m glad you’re not.”

  He took the lighter and lit it. She surrounded his hand with both of hers, guided the flame to the tip of her cigarette, holding on to his hand just a little too long. He immediately got aroused. She's coming on to me, he thought. She was a sexy, sensual woman and he wondered how she would look naked. The heated metal on the lighter singed his thumb, shattered the fantasy growing in his mind and snapped him back to reality. He winced and the lighter fell to the floor.

  “Too hot for you?” She had a broad mischievous smile.

  “Uh…could you…I mean…could we…the dinner?” he stammered, changing the subject back to why they were there in the first place. She was certainly sending out strong vibes and he found himself increasingly more attracted to her. He would definitely have to see where this flirtatious mating-dance might lead, but only after he addressed the pressing matter at hand.

  Her demeanor became slightly more businesslike after obviously embarrassing him. “Ah, yes, the dinner. The good news is they are all staying at this hotel, compliments of the DOD.” She was referring to the Department of Defense. “That’s why I arranged to have dinner here, in the American Grill Restaurant. The food’s not all that great but it’s convenient. By the way, dinner is on you.”

  “That’s great. Is that the bad news?”

  “No. Mister Abraham is not staying for dinner. He has a plane to catch.”

  “Shit! I really wanted to spend time with him most of all.”

  “Be good and maybe I can arrange something down the road,” she flashed her impish grin again.

  “Could we please focus here?” he asked calmly, exasperated.

  He became rattled when she toyed with him and she was enjoying it. “Sorry,” she smiled. “Sometimes I just can’t help it.” She composed herself. “Schuyler Johnson, Harley Tidrick and Frank West will be joining us. I believe they’re all leaving tomorrow but I could be mistaken.”

  “Fantastic! I really do appreciate this.”

  “Actually, Colonel Chase…” she began but stopped when he suddenly stood up.

  “There he is now, excuse me.” J.P. hurried quickly to the main desk area of the lobby toward a distinguished looking black man and a beautiful, young woman. His short salt and pepper hair was heavily gray on the sides. A long cashmere overcoat covered his dark blue business suit but not his white shirt and gray tie. The white scarf around his neck made him look like a notable musical conductor. The young woman walking alongside him was wheeling a pull-suitcase toward the front door.

  “Excuse me, Mister Abraham,” said J.P. as he approached them and offered his hand. “My name is J.P. Kilroy, I mean John Kilroy.”

  Lincoln stopped and looked at J.P. a glint of recognition in his eyes. “Of course, you’re John’s son.” Lincoln took his hand in both of his own and shook it warmly. “This is my granddaughter, Keisha.”

  J.P. nodded, smiled and shook her hand. She was polite but appeared hurried.

  “I wonder if you have a minute to...” he began when she interrupted him.

  “I’m sorry Mister Kilroy but we do have to go. We’re late to the airport.”

  “She pretty much runs the show for me these days,” Lincoln smiled at him and then at her. “I owe today to her persistence…and to your father, of course.”

  “Of course, today, I’m sorry.” In his haste J.P. had completely neglected to mention the Medal. “Congratulations, sir,” he apologized.

  “Grandfather, we have to go,” urged Keisha.

  “Just one minute, dear.” He turned to J.P. “I just wanted you to know, Mister Kilroy, that I asked the President, at lunch at the White House today, to include someone from…”

  “It’s all right,” J.P. interrupted. He looked at Keisha. “I completely understand. It’s not a problem.” He turned his attention back to Lincoln. “I just was hoping that you could tell me something about my father, how you met him, what you knew about him, how you won that Medal together?”

  Lincoln gave him a strange and quizzical look. “But, the President insisted.” He continued as if not hearing what J.P. said.

  “Please, Mister Kilroy, we do have to go,” Keisha was getting impatient and tugged at Lincoln’s arm, coaxing him toward the door.

  “Perhaps I can call?” J.P. asked.

  “Colonel Chase knows how to reach us,” she called back over her shoulder. “Sorry, no time now.” Lincoln had a look of resignation on his face as his granddaughter led him away. “Nice to meet you,” were her last words as they exited the lobby.

  J.P. became aware of Cynthia standing alongside him as Lincoln and his granddaughter entered a waiting taxi. “Well, that was a strange conversation,” he remarked.

  “The man is well into his seventies,” she replied. “He seems lucid and articulate but I’m sure he has his senior moments. They probably all do.”

  “I’m sure,” he sighed, still staring out the lobby door.

  “I heard somewhere that they’re dying at a rate of fifteen hundred a day.”

  “Who’s dying?” he asked.

  “The World War II veterans,” she answered. “They’re getting up there in years!”

  “Dying,” he muttered. “Yes, of course, just like my father.” He mused on the thought for a moment as the taxi pulled away. He wondered if he would ever see or speak to Lincoln Abraham again. At that moment, he resolved not to let too much time go by before he contacted him. He turned to Cynthia, gently grabbed her elbow and guided her toward the hotel restaurant entrance.

  “Well, if they’re dying at such a rapid rate, we’d better hurry up and have dinner.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Newport News, Virginia – June 28, 1942

  “There is a charm about the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable.”

  Mark Twain, (Samuel Clemens) (1835 - 1910)

  Macie Vance assumed she was being challenged by the Shore Patrol but then recognized the deep baritone voice of Derek Edson. She was surprised and strangely delighted as she turned to face him.

  “It is you,” he smiled broadly. “I’m so glad to see you here.” She reached to shake hands but instead of shaking hands, Derek held out his left hand and simply held her hand motionless. She automatically glanced down toward his right hand hanging by his side and was disturbed by what she saw. Derek didn’t notice. He was avoiding her eyes, still that shy boy she met at the boarding house a few weeks ago.

  “Hi, Derek,” she answered weakly. “What a surprise to see you, too.” She stumbled for words. “I came to check out the place so I could find my way tomorrow.” She looked up and around and swept her arm in an arc. “It’s huge.”

  “It certainly is, “ he replied.

  “I was just on my way back.”

  “So was I. I’ll walk with you.”

  “What are you doing here?” Macie asked. “I thought you were out recruiting.”

  “All done with that,” he answered. “Back to my regular day job now.”

  They walked toward the gate together. She sensed by his silence that he was also nervous. After a long minute he spoke. “So, you were looking at the carriers?”

  “They’re amazing,” she answered. “I wandered over to the docks and saw those great big ships being built. It’s so fantastic and exciting.”

  “We need those carriers badly,” he volunteered. “We lost one in the Coral Sea last month and another at Midway just a few weeks ago,” he wh
ispered.

  “Really? How do you know that?”

  The newsreels were just showing accounts of the Battle of the Coral Sea but not that America lost an aircraft carrier and the censored accounts of the Battle of Midway, while claiming a great victory, were still shrouded in the utmost secrecy.

  “Scuttlebutt,” he answered.

  She responded with a confused look on her face.

  “I still have friends in the navy and they pass along the rumors to me. That’s what they call rumors in the navy,” he answered.

  Macie nodded. She understood the concept of gossip all too well. “Is the… uh…scuttlebutt accurate?” she asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” he answered. “We lost the Lexington at Coral Sea and the Yorktown at Midway. They need to be replaced. These ships behind us are pretty far along in construction. One of them will be launched next month. They’re desperately needed to replace those losses.”

  Macie nodded again. “So we have our work cut out for us. Right?”

  Macie seemed genuinely interested so he just kept explaining. “These are all Essex-class fast-carriers, the most modern in the fleet. They displace twenty-seven thousand tons, can carry almost ninety planes and get up to nearly thirty-three knots.”

  “Displace? Knots?” she smiled back at him. “I’m sorry?”

  “No, I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I can get a bit carried away. These are terms you’ll learn in time. But for now, just know they are big and fast and powerful.” She nodded at the explanation and Derek continued. “The one almost done is named Essex, CV-9. That keel was laid down…uh…she was started…last April. She’ll be launched next month, like I said.”

  “Then off to war?” Macie asked. She hoped she was not asking stupid questions.

  “Not right away,” he answered. “There’s some more work to do once she’s afloat to complete the construction. Then there are sea trials to make sure everything is ship-shape and some training cruises to work up the crew. Hopefully, she’ll be commissioned by the end of the year. Then off to war.”

  “What about the other two?” she asked.

  “The Intrepid and the Bon Homme Richard,” he answered. “They were both laid down this past December. Hopefully we can get them launched in something between a year and fifteen months.” Derek shook his head slightly as if in contemplation. “The problem is labor. Not just here but all over and not just numbers but skills. With most of the able bodied young men going into the services, we’re left with older men, military rejects and women. And they all have to be trained.”

  “Well, thank the good Lord for the women,” Macie quipped good-naturedly.

  “I didn’t mean it that way, Macie,” Derek stammered. “It’s just that it used to take three years to build an aircraft carrier and now we have to figure out how to do it in a year. It won’t be easy but we just can’t take three years to build a carrier any longer.” He paused. “I’m afraid I’m boring you with all this ship talk,” he finally said.

  “Not at all,” she sighed. “I have a lot to learn. It’s my job now, too.”

  “Well okay,” he smiled nervously. “My team is working on the Bon Homme Richard but I doubt she’ll keep that name.”

  “Why?” Macie asked.

  Derek glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot before he answered. “We just lost two carriers. The scuttlebutt is the carrier about to be launched from the Bethlehem Shipyard in Quincy, Massachusetts, will be renamed the Lexington, as sort of a memorial. I have it on good authority and also a strong feeling that my ship will be renamed the Yorktown.”

  “Maybe I’ll get to work on the… Yorktown, too,” she smiled.

  “You never know,” he smiled back hopefully.

  The thoroughfare was lightly traveled between shift changes and only a few workers were walking to and from the gate. Macie grabbed for her arms as a crisp breeze blew by and sent a chill through her body. Derek noticed and immediately took off his jacket. She fought off the impulse to touch his hand as he placed his jacket over her shoulders. He saw her eyes focus quickly on his right hand and then look away.

  “I’m one of those military rejects I spoke of.” He held up his right arm so she could more clearly see the prosthesis on his hand. It was actually more of a flesh-colored glove. The thumb and first two fingers were his but the ring and pinky fingers belonged to the prosthesis. The apparatus was both awkward and ugly. “Compliments of the Japanese Imperial Navy.”

  “You were at Pearl Harbor?” she asked, astonished.

  “Yes, I was.”

  “What happened to you?”

  Derek hesitated. He hadn’t spoken about what happened to him to anyone since he left the navy. Macie appeared to be a good listener and he was still trying to impress her, so he answered.

  “I was a Machinist Mate aboard the seaplane tender USS Tangier. We were docked on the northwest side of Ford Island, the Pearl City side, at berth F-10. The target ship Utah was moored stern-to-stern with us. She was a big one, used to be a battleship but at the time she was a training ship. The newer battleships on Battleship Row were anchored on the other side of Ford Island. I was on my way to the mess hall for Sunday breakfast when General quarters sounded. I went right to my battle station, a fifty caliber anti-aircraft machine gun on the port quarter. If it wasn’t for our captain…God bless him.” Derek paused to gather his thoughts. The memories gripped him for a moment. Macie was captivated; afraid he would stop telling the story.

  “What about the captain?”

  “Well, the word came down that an Admiral’s Inspection of all ships was to start on Monday. Captains were ordered to stow all the ammo from the ready boxes on all the deck guns, to below decks, in order to keep the gun tubs as neat as possible. They were also ordered to open up all bulkheads and watertight doors to air out the watertight compartments.” Derek shook his head in disgust. “Imagine that? How many lives did we lose for a stupid inspection?” It was a rhetorical question. He continued. “Anyhow, our captain didn’t buy any of that crap. He was a salty, tough son-of-a-gun and he ordered the gunners mates to keep our ammo with the guns. Because of that, and only because of that, we were the first ship in the fleet to open fire at the enemy planes.”

  “It must have been terrible,” she prompted him again.

  “It truly was. The Tangier is not a fighting ship but she fought like a lion that day. The Japanese sent three torpedoes into the Utah and she turned turtle. They bombed and torpedoed the ships on Battleship Row at will. They strafed and bombed the airplane hangars on Ford Island. They pretty much attacked wherever they wanted. Our ship was covered in smoke for most of the morning because other ships and the oil on the water were burning. The Tangier was undamaged, never took a hit. We were like a kid in a dark closet, peeking out but no one could see in. All of our guns were blazing away. The lowly seaplane tender taking on all those damned Jap planes. They never found us and they never hurt us. Then, after about forty-five minutes their planes just flew away.”

  “Was it over?” she asked.

  “No, there was another wave. But we took advantage of the short lull to put some boats into the water to pick up survivors from the Utah. Then an officer, who knew I was a welder, told me there were men trapped in the Utah, which was capsized. That was some sight, that big ship almost upside down in the water. Anyway the captain wanted someone to go help them out so I took my acetylene torch and tanks over there and started banging on the hull. When I heard the banging back, I cut a hole. A couple of guys climbed out. I’ll never forget the looks on their faces; sheer panic and pure happiness. But before I could cut any more holes the second wave hit and a bomb blast knocked me down. I slid off the hull into the water. My own guys from the Tangier pulled me out and I started helping them pull out other guys. I wasn’t hurt that bad but I lost all my gear. Funny what you think of at a time like that.” He paused again with a distant look in his eyes, as if he was able to see it all over again. “It was crazy out there in the wate
r. Our ship was firing our three-inch guns at a Jap midget sub that somehow snuck into the harbor. Huge clouds of thick, black smoke billowed from the burning wrecks. Bullets were flying all over. You can hear them cracking past your ears and splashing in the water. I’m pulling this guy out and his skin comes off in my hands. I almost threw up! Everyone was yelling or screaming. Shrapnel was flying all over, singing through the air. Explosions so loud you could hardly hear yourself think. Then this guy yells ‘look at your hand’. I look down and I’m bleeding like a pig and the last two fingers of my right hand are each dangling by a thread. Shrapnel must have sliced right through them. I didn’t even feel a thing. So I tore my shirt and wrapped my hand to stop the bleeding. When we got back to the ship I was sent to sick bay and they cut off the fingers.” He paused. By one in the afternoon it was all over. The navy doctor’s treated my wounds, bandaged me up, shipped me out and before I knew it they discharged me from the navy and gave me this to wear.” He picked up his right hand.

  “I’m sorry,” was all she could manage. His description of the attack left her breathless.

  “It’s okay,” he answered. “I’d rather be out there with my shipmates, but right now I have an important job back here. And they didn’t get any of the carriers. We caught a break there.”

  They walked along in silence for a few more minutes. She had the urge to comfort him. They passed through the gate and she returned her pass. As they walked across the road toward the bus stop in silence she turned to him and placed her arm on his shoulder.

  “Stop for a second, please.” She bent over slightly and with her free hand slipped a shoe on her foot. He instinctively grabbed her by the shoulders while she put the second shoe on. “Thanks,” she smiled as she steadied herself. “I almost forgot I wasn’t wearing them.”

  “My pleasure,” he smiled back.

  Macie hoped he didn’t notice her blushing. Derek was handsome but there was something else about him that made her uncomfortable. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Perhaps it was his boyish shyness or maybe because he had seen so much of the world already. Whatever it was, it confused her.