A Final Broadside

by Buddy Worrell

  Hodge had been accepted to attend Wake Forest University in the fall, and his parents’ idea was that he would major in theology and enter the ministry when he graduated. But he just could not picture himself in the pulpit of some big Baptist church, raising the rafters with sermons of hellfire and brimstone. Even six months before the attack on Pearl Harbor, the rumors of war were a major topic of every conversation. Newspapers and radio broadcasts told of the war in Europe and how only Britain was holding out against the Germans. In the Pacific, Japan had invaded China, Korea, and most of Southeast Asia and seemed unstoppable in its expansion. Hodge was looking for a fight, not a pulpit.

  Growing up in Charlotte, Hodge had been pretty much a “city boy,” even though Charlotte was small compared to the big cities up north. He never hunted or spent much time in the country, engaging instead in baseball, football, and picking up girls at the downtown roller rink. But something unusual happened during basic training. During weapons training, he and his instructors discovered that he hit what he shot at with unerring accuracy. Hodge graduated from Great Lakes Naval Station with a marksman medal and an immediate posting to naval gunnery school.

  He was posted to learn about firing the big guns of the navy, such as the forty-five-caliber, sixteen-inch Mark 6 guns now being installed on all North Carolina–class battleships. Hodge failed miserably. He could not seem to understand or master the complex trigonometry or the analog range finders necessary to aim and fire the big guns. One day, after a particularly miserable training session, an old master chief petty officer approached and ordered Hodge to accompany him to the 40mm antiaircraft battery range.

  “Hop up in that gunner’s seat and strap in,” the master chief ordered. “I’ll load for you.”

  Hodge jumped into the gunner’s seat and cranked the turret port and starboard, raising and lowering the elevation.

  “Now I am gonna launch some flare targets that will be the enemy aircraft. You sight them and fire to kill them.”

  “Aye aye, Master Chief,” Hodge answered, and the exercise began. Hodge sighted the first set of targets and began tapping the foot pedal, firing shell after shell and hitting every target.

  The master chief changed the altitude and speed of the second set of targets and then fired them into the sky. Hodge immediately cranked the turret wheel over hard and elevated the four barrels. A second later, he depressed the foot pedal, firing a volley of eight 40mm shells, bracketing and destroying all of the targets.

  The master chief called Hodge down from the turret and asked him how in God’s name he had sighted, fired, and destroyed all of the targets without information on target bearing or speed.

  Hodge shrugged and answered, “I just sort of know when and where to shoot, Master Chief!” From that moment on, gunner’s mate Hodge became known as “the Gunslinger.”

  Hodge’s reminiscences were silenced by an announcement broadcast to the entire ship. “Enemy carriers have been engaged, and one has been sunk. Two other carriers were able to launch aircraft and are expected to engage within five minutes.”

  Hodge watched as the five-inch batteries turned toward the rising sun and elevated their guns. The North Carolina had taken up a position in front of the Enterprise and Saratoga, but the Wasp was exposed except for destroyer screens.

  This was the time Hodge hated. There was time to think about what was about to happen. There was time to wonder if this would be the attack you did not survive. There was time for a gnawing fear to suffocate you and leave you nauseous, sweating, and shaking. But the biggest fear was that you would screw up and let your shipmates down. Hodge’s fears were silenced as multiple five-inch batteries opened up.

  Even with earplugs, the sound was deafening. Hodge saw the shells explode about 11,000 yards out and at 12,000 feet altitude, sending wave after wave of jagged shrapnel into the sky. The explosions were so close together that they seemed to overlap and form a sheet of steel for the Japanese planes to traverse. But some would make it through.

  “Slinger!” the spotter called out. “Out of the east … 8,000 yards and closing … level at 10,000 feet … Dive-bombers and torpedo planes with fighter support!”

  Gunslinger Paul Hodge elevated the quad 40mm and peered through the fixed sight. There they were. “Okay, boys, try and keep up!” he shouted to his crew of loaders. In the next instant, he opened up on the approaching Japanese planes, tapping the foot pedal and sending shell after exploding shell skyward. The two loaders were heaving four shells at a time into the twin hoppers at five-second intervals, and they were barely keeping up as Hodge relentlessly tapped the foot pedal. At 6,000 yards, he saw two enemy dive-bombers begin to smoke heavily. He concentrated his fire on the two and watched them shredded to pieces by the flak.

  “Slinger, fighter at 4,000 feet, starting a strafing run!”

  Hodge wheeled his turret, lowered the quad battery, and started tapping the foot pedal. He could see the fighter’s machine-gun rounds racing across the water and toward his turret. He took a deep breath and resumed firing even as the enemy shell impacted the armor plating around his gun mount. He raised his barrels skyward, knowing the Zero would pull up sharply to fly over the ship and out of range. “Not today, you son of a bitch!” Hodge screamed and tapped the foot pedal four times in quick succession. The fighter exploded directly overhead, sending burning fuel and bits of aircraft raining down on the deck and his gun battery.

  Hodge felt a sharp pain in his right shoulder, followed by a searing heat as his flesh absorbed a jagged engine part from the fighter. He howled as much in anger as in pain, and cursing loudly, he ripped off the life jacket and his shirt, revealing a six-inch cut in the fleshy front of the shoulder along with a glowing spark plug from the Zero’s engine.

  With his left hand, Hodge reached down to a small tool chest housing tools for minor turret repairs and adjustments and pulled out a pair of channel locks. He instantly reached across his chest, grasped the still-glowing spark plug, and yanked it out of his shoulder.

  One of the gun crew had seen what had happened and was quickly beside Hodge with some burn cream and a large bandage. “You need to be relieved, Slinger. This cut is deep and dirty. Are you in much pain?”

  Hodge rolled his eyes incredulously and sneered, “Are you shittin’ me?”

  The crewman grinned and asked, “Paul, are you ready to get back in this fight?”

  “Oh, hell yeah!” he answered.

  CHAPTER 32

  The Battle of the Eastern Solomons, as it came to be known, was a decisive victory. The Japanese carrier Ryujo was sunk, along with an aircraft transport ship and numerous support destroyers and tankers.

  But most impressive was the loss of over one hundred Japanese aircraft and the highly trained pilots who flew them. At one point in the battle, the North Carolina’s antiaircraft batteries were firing so fast that another ship called to ask if she was on fire! The battleship was credited with fourteen aircraft kills, and Paul Hodge was credited with personally downing four aircraft and damaging several others. He was awarded a Purple Heart for his wounds and the Silver Star for valor during combat. But the most important victory was that the Pacific Fleet controlled the air and could prevent any reinforcement of Guadalcanal.

  Hodge remained on the North Carolina throughout the war, actively engaging the enemy on the Gilbert Islands, the Marshall Islands, and Kwajalein. He was involved in damage control when the battleship was struck by a torpedo on her port side, leaving a thirty-two-foot by eighteen-foot hole in her side. The great ship listed almost six degrees before her crew righted her and continued the fight. Five sailors lost their lives in the attack, and the carrier Wasp was sunk.

  Hodge stayed on board while the North Carolina was dry-docked in Pearl Harbor and supervised repairs to her hull. He was on board when she sailed out with the Enterprise and another entire task force to protect the carrier and bombard the beaches as the i
sland-hopping campaign continued and intensified. The North Carolina was involved in virtually every campaign in the Pacific, including the bombing of Okinawa and the Japanese homeland.

  Hodge was wounded a second time during a deadly kamikaze attack, again taking burning engine parts from an exploding kamikaze he had just shredded with the quad 40mm guns. “What is it with you and Mitsubishi engine parts?” the corpsman laughed as he cleaned and sutured Hodge’s wound.

  He remained on board as the North Carolina patrolled the waters off the Japanese mainland, even as articles of surrender were being signed on the USS Missouri docked in Tokyo Bay.

  Now, in early October 1945, he was on board on the forward observation deck as the North Carolina moved in line to enter the Panama Canal and continue her trip to an anchorage in Boston. It was late afternoon, and Petty Officer First Class Paul Hodge was confused and slightly depressed.

  “So how is the Gunslinger this fine afternoon?” Executive Officer Arthur Petrie asked.

  Hodge snapped to attention and saluted the officer. “Sorry, sir. I did not see you coming,” Hodge said, reddening and holding the salute.

  “For Christ’s sake, Hodge, will you relax?” the XO replied as he returned the salute. Slightly bemused, he added, “Oh yeah, stand at ease.”

  Hodge relaxed, looked at Commander Petrie, and asked, “What will you do once we get back to Boston, sir?”

  Petrie looked back at a rapidly setting sun and then forward toward the entrance to the canal. “I’ve got about a thirty-day leave coming to me, and I am going to get my Texas ass back to our ranch near Lockhart. You know, Nimitz is from Texas too! I’m going to put on my Stetson and my boots, ride my horse, and work my herd of longhorns. I’m going to eat steak and eggs every morning for breakfast and chicken-fried steak with cream gravy for every supper. On the weekends, I’ll throw in a little barbecue and catfish for variety! But the first thing I am gonna do is love my wife and hug my kids till they tell me to stop! After that, looks like an assignment at the Naval Academy, teaching a bunch of midshipmen basic seamanship. How about you, Hodge?”

  Hodge looked down at the weathered teak deck and said, “I don’t know, sir. I have been on this baby since before Pearl Harbor. My friends are here, and my job is here, and I don’t know how I can leave her, sir.”

  “Son, the scuttlebutt is that the fast battleships will go the way of the Dodo. Carriers and aircraft will do the heavy lifting in the future. I suspect that the North Carolina will ultimately be decommissioned and sold for scrap.”

  Hodge locked eyes with the XO and practically shouted, “How can that happen? That is just wrong, sir!”

  Petrie reached over and clapped Hodge on the shoulder. “Everything gets old, son, and everything, including you, me, and this ship, ultimately is pushed aside for something newer, faster, and sexier! Hell, Hodge, maybe she will become a museum someday and teach folks what we fought with in the old days.”

  Hodge thought about his ship as a museum, and a grin appeared on his face. “A museum! That would be pretty good, sir.”

  “So what about you, Gunslinger? What are your plans when we get home? Sleeping till noon, playing poker all night, or maybe just chasing women?”

  “I really haven’t thought much about it, sir. I know I’ll go back to Charlotte to see my folks and family. Maybe I’ll look into the GI Bill I’m hearing about and see if I can get into college.”

  “Ever thought about staying in the navy?” the commander queried.

  Hodge looked at him with an incredulous expression. “And do what, sir? All I know is how to shoot stuff.”

  Commander Petrie raised his hand to his chin as if in deep thought and said, “What if I had a job as my aide open with the assignment to the academy? What if I sweetened the position with a promotion to chief? And what if I said the aide could attend classes at the academy during off hours? Know anyone that might be interested?”

  Hodge snapped to attention and answered, “Future Chief Petty Officer Paul Hodge reporting for duty, sir!”

  CHAPTER 33

  The USS North Carolina completed the trip to her anchorage in Boston, steaming into Boston Harbor, on October 17. Good to his plan, Commander Petrie immediately caught a military cargo flight to Pensacola Naval Air Station and then hitched a ride to Bergstrom Air Force Base south of Austin, Texas.

  His wife and kids met him at the base and headed to Lockhart and their ranch with a promised supper of chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes with cream gravy, homemade buttermilk biscuits the size of a small dinner plate, and a potful of green beans that Petrie’s wife had canned during the summer.

  Petrie had arranged for Hodge to meet him at the academy on the Monday following Thanksgiving. But for now, he had several years’ worth of catching up to do, and his next assignment was not on his radar.

  For his part, Paul Hodge had hopped a ride on a military transport to Seymour Johnson Army Air Force Base outside of Goldsboro, North Carolina. From there, he caught a Greyhound bus to Charlotte. The city had grown since he left almost five years earlier, but downtown still looked familiar.

  The Belk, Ivey’s, and Efird’s department stores were still there, along with the Carolina Theater and his personal favorite, Tanner’s. Tanner’s punch was as famous in Charlotte as a Coca-Cola. Hodge dropped into the closest Tanner’s and had two chili dogs, washed down with a large, icy Tanner’s punch. It might as well have been ambrosia from heaven!

  Lots of soldiers, sailors, and marines were downtown, many of them just discharged from the service and headed home. The war had been a singular focus for most of the population, and now it was over. The atmosphere was electric with potential and the ever-present question of many: what now?

  Hodge hailed a yellow cab at the square and headed toward his home and family. For the last four years, home had been that wonderful ship, and his family had been the 2,100 officers and men who crewed her. Now home was the Midwood section of Charlotte and a modest, tree-shaded house on Thomas Avenue with his parents, Becky and Wayland Hodge.

  The taxi pulled into the driveway, and the driver got out to open the trunk and retrieve Hodge’s seabag. “That’ll be a buck fifty, sailor,” he said.

  Hodge peeled off two singles and said, “Keep the change!”

  “Thanks, sailor, and welcome home! Here, you take my card and call me if you need to get around town. I won’t overcharge you like some of these other creeps do. I’m a vet too—three years in the Marine Corps back in the twenties.”

  “Thanks, Marine. Semper Fi!”

  The cabbie grinned widely and departed.

  Hodge shouldered his seabag and headed toward the door of the home’s large screened-in porch, but he made it only a few steps before the door swung open and his mom and dad poured out like water from an overfilled bucket. Both were calling out his name, but it was his mom who got to him first.

  Paul barely had time to drop his seabag before Becky Hodge practically leapt into her son’s arms, closing her arms around his neck with the force of a wrestling hold, her feet dangling in the air. His dad hit him next, first prying his son’s arm free and pumping it in an enthusiastic handshake before giving in to the group hug.

  For several moments, no one would let go of the hug; they held tight as if this hug might be their last. Finally, Paul eased his mother to her feet, and she stepped forward, pushing him backward to get a better look at him. Wayland Hodge was having none of it and closed in for another hug.

  “Wayland, will you get back for a moment? I want to see him.”

  Wayland relented and joined Becky as they grinned and stared at their son.

  “You look so thin,” Becky opined, wrinkling her brow in mock dismay.

  “You must be a foot taller than when you left,” Wayland added. “Look at those medals, Becky! Our boy left here as a swabby and has returned to us as a decorated Seaman First Class!�
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  His mother beamed and said, “We are both so proud of you, and we have thanked God every day for your safe return to us.”

  “It’s great to be home. We have a lot to talk about. Is my room still available?”

  Paul’s mom pushed him playfully toward the screen door and into the familiar surroundings of his home. Not much had changed since he left in mid-1941, except for an imposing-looking Stromberg-Carlson radio console in the living room.

  “You like my new toy, son?” Wayland asked with a smile. “It gets AM, FM 1 and 2, and shortwave. In the bottom drawer is a 78 RPM turntable and a stack of Benny Goodman records!”

  “That is impressive, Dad. I would love to sit and listen to it tonight,” Paul commented. “Did you ever get any war broadcasts on shortwave?”

  “Yes,” his mother interjected, “but we couldn’t understand much of it. We picked up some broadcasts in German, Italian, and even Russian, we think. The BBC broadcasts were pretty clear! But on some nights when the atmosphere was cooperating, we picked up American broadcasts from the Pacific. We always listened for any news out there because we knew you were in the thick of it. Your letters were always six to eight weeks in getting to us. It just about killed us when we heard the ship was torpedoed. Our neighbor down the street got a telegram from her son at Pearl Harbor, telling her the ship was righted and still in the fight. But we had no news on you for several more days.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I know it was tough on you. But all that is done, and I am home for a thirty-day leave!”

  Paul’s parents stared at him in disbelief. The silence was thick and almost palpable for what seemed like several minutes before Wayland asked tentatively, “You mean you are not rotating out of the service like everyone else? We thought you were home for good to take up a civilian life and maybe look to enroll in college. What’s going on, son?”

  Becky sat down on her floral-pattern wingback chair as her eyes welled up and her hands began to tremble.