Battle Stations

by Roger Jewett

  The barn door suddenly sprang open. “Glen?”

  “It’s Peter,” Glen whispered, identifying his younger brother. “Christ, what a time for him to start yelling for me.”

  “Take your hand off me,” Lucy said, tugging at her breast. Though her head came up only to the top of Glen’s shoulder, she was surprisingly strong.

  “Glen, I know you’re back there… Glen, the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor.”

  “Holy shit!” Glen exclaimed, scrambling to his feet.

  “It came over the radio. Mom was listening to the radio,” Peter exclaimed.

  “I’ll be right in,” Glen said.

  “Mom and Dad are real worried about Hank. The guy on the radio said there were a lot of men killed.”

  “C’mon Lucy, get yourself together,” Glen said, looking down at the girl. “My brother Hank is a CPO aboard the battleship Arizona. I bet this means I’ll be called.”

  “You comin’, Glen?” Peter called.

  Lucy lifted her head toward Glen. “Pull me up,” she said.

  Glen brought Lucy to her feet.

  She pressed against him. “Now if we were to be engaged, Glen, it would be a whole different matter. It would be silly not to give what I’d give you anyway.”

  “Glen, are you comin’?” Peter shouted. “There’s a damn war on.”

  “You mean what you just said?” Glen asked, holding her to him. He could smell the scent of the hay in her hair.

  “Glen Lascomb, that’s not something I’d say if I didn’t mean it,” Lucy answered. “But the only way you’ll really know is by doing it with a ring to make it proper an’ all.”

  “I’m going back to the house without you,” Peter shouted.

  Glen took hold of Lucy’s hand. “I’ll think about it,” he said; then he called to his brother. “Hold your damn horses! We’re coming.” And a moment later he and Lucy stepped around the haystack.

  “By the time you two are finished, the war will be over,” Peter said, as the three of them left the barn and walked across the snow-covered Iowa cornfield toward the house. Their breath steamed in the cold air.

  “You really will think about it?” Lucy asked.

  “I said I would,” Glen answered.

  “The only thing to think about is the war,” Peter said. “If I was old enough I’d go down to town and enlist tomorrow.”

  “Farmers won’t have to go,” Lucy responded. “Glen is an Aggie graduate from the state university. He’s needed here on the farm.”

  “Where did you hear that?” Peter challenged.

  “I read it in a magazine.”

  “He won’t have much choice, if they call him. He’s in the Navy Reserve. He’s almost an officer.”

  Glen didn’t pay much attention to what either Peter or Lucy said. Come Monday morning, he’d volunteer for active duty and he’d be sent to a 90-day officer’s course. He wasn’t about to let the war pass him by. The farm would be waiting for him when he got back.

  “You haven’t said two words,” Lucy commented, as they went up the three steps to the porch.

  “Nothing much to say,” Glen answered, “what’s happened says it all.”

  “And what does that mean?” she asked.

  Peter opened the front door.

  “You go on in,” Glen told his brother. “Lucy and I will be in in a minute.”

  “You’re going to go, aren’t you?” Lucy questioned.

  Glen nodded. “I want to.”

  “I thought you wanted me,” she said in a choked voice.

  “I do.”

  She shook her head.

  “I’ll give you a ring and when I come home on my first leave, we’ll get married.”

  “You really mean that?” she asked, throwing her arms around him. “You wouldn’t be telling me this just to —”

  “I mean it,” he said, gathering her up into his arms and kissing her.

  Lucy opened her mouth and pressed his mittened hand against her breast. “You going to tell your folks we’re engaged?”

  Glen hesitated.

  “If we are, you tell them now and when I go home, I’ll tell mine.”

  “All right, I’ll tell them,” Glen said.

  “Oh I do love you!” Lucy exclaimed.

  “I love you too,” Glen said, opening the door.

  CHAPTER 13

  Warren was in his bunk. The only light in the small room came from the desk lamp. It was 2330. He couldn’t sleep. Earlier CinPac Fleet sent a coded message to Hacker ordering the AKO-96 to bypass Honolulu and proceed at maximum speed directly to Cavite, which also had been attacked by the Japanese. Warren had hoped to see his father in Pearl and now, for the first time in his adult life he was worried about him. Despite the differences between them, he had a profound respect for the man and — he was even going to admit that he loved him, when suddenly a sustained blast from the Klaxon signaled general quarters.

  Warren grabbed his life vest and steel helmet and was out of the door before word came over the 1MC: “General Quarters… General Quarters… All hands man your battle stations.”

  Warren raced to the bridge and picked up the phone. “Mount number one?” he asked.

  “Mount number one manned and ready,” came the answer.

  “Roger,” Warren answered. “Stand by.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  He repeated the same sequence with the after gun mount; then he reported to Hacker, “Mounts one and two ready, sir.”

  Hacker acknowledged the report with a nod; then he said, “Helmsman, keep her steady.”

  “Steady on course 0284,” the helmsman answered.

  Warren stepped up to Rawlins, who was OOD whenever the ship went to general quarters. “What the hell is going on?” he whispered.

  “We’ve got a blip on the radar. It could be a sub,” Rawlins answered.

  “Where?”

  “Two points forward of the port beam.”

  “Maybe, if it is a sub and if we’re lucky,” Hacker said, peering at the hooded display tube, “she won’t see us.”

  Warren went to the window and looked up. The sky was patched with clouds and the moonlight, when it did show through, came from a quarter moon.

  Hacker moved to the phones, picked one up, and asked, “Lookout, do you see anything?” He listened for a few moments and, putting the phone down, said, “He doesn’t yet.”

  “How far?” Warren asked.

  Hacker looked at him. “Range on the scope shows it to be 4000 yards.”

  “He could be coming in for a surface shot,” Rawlins suggested, “or maybe its skipper is going to try to get us with deck guns?”

  Hacker frowned.

  Warren and everyone else aboard the Dee knew that one well-placed round could turn her into an inferno.

  “We can’t outrun her if she’s on the surface,” Hacker said, “and if she dives she just might be able to put a fish into us. But she’ll be slower, a hell of a lot slower. Down to 10 knots at the most.” He ran his hand over his chin, then said, “Helmsman, come left to 262.”

  “Coming left to 262,” the helmsman said. “Mr. Rawlins, all ahead flank speed,” Hacker said.

  “All ahead flank speed,” Rawlins answered, ringing the order up on engine room telegraph.

  “Mister Troost, order number one mount to load service ammunition and two to load star shells and stand by,” Hacker said.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Warren responded, realizing, as he relayed the orders to the gun captains, that Hacker was showing more guts than he’d given him credit for having. He was going to try to force the sub to dive and then run like hell.

  The Dee was heeling slightly to the starboard as she came to the new course.

  The phone from the crow’s nest rang.

  Warren picked it up.

  “Bridge, I make out a surfaced submarine dead ahead. We’re closing fast,” the lookout reported.

  “Roger,” Warren answered; then he said, “Skipper, lookout reports a
sub dead ahead. We’re closing fast.”

  “Stand by on mount one,” Hacker said.

  Warren repeated the order.

  “Helmsman,” Hacker said, “stand by.”

  “Aye, aye, standing by,” the helmsman answered.

  Hacker looked at his watch; then he said, “Helmsman, right, full rudder.”

  “Right, full rudder,” the helmsman responded.

  “Mount number one —”

  “Blinker signal coming from sub!” Rawlins exclaimed.

  “It’s a standard recognition signal,” Warren said. “It’s one of ours.”

  “Reduce speed to ahead full, come back to course 284,” Hacker ordered, with an audible sigh of relief.

  Rawlins rang up the change of speed and ordered the course change.

  “Mr. Troost, have the signalman tell the sub we recognize her,” Hacker said.

  “Aye, aye, skipper,” Troost answered, motioning the signalman to follow him out onto the flying bridge.

  A quick exchange of flashing light signals passed between the two vessels.

  “She says she surfaced to recharge her batteries,” the signalman said.

  Warren passed the information to Hacker.

  “Does she need help?” Hacker asked.

  The signalman flashed the question to the sub and, after a minute or two, he said, “Negative, Mister Troost.”

  Warren went back inside the bridge.

  “Exec,” Hacker said, “secure from General Quarters.”

  “Aye, aye, skipper,” Rawlins answered.

  Hacker smiled and looking at Warren, he said, “Seems like I suddenly have a new name around here.”

  “Seems that way, skipper,” Warren answered.

  CHAPTER 14

  Task Group Eight returned to Pearl at sunset on the eighth. The Big E’s planes had searched for the Japanese force for 30 hours, but failed to locate it, and now with the western sky a mixture of reds, yellows, and purples, the ships of Task Group Eight moved slowly past the still smoldering battleships.

  From the Albany’s navigation bridge, Troost saw the extent of the destruction. On Hospital Point, the battleship Nevada was aground and listing heavily to the port. At Ford Island the battleship Utah was ripped open. Only the toppled superstructure of the Arizona showed above the surface of the water. Smoke was coming from a dozen other ships.

  “They did a job,” Hasse said in a low voice.

  Troost nodded. “It’s a damn miracle the destroyers and cruisers that rendezvoused with us yesterday were able to fight their way out of here.”

  “What the hell would have happened if we had found the Japs, or if they had found us?” Hasse asked.

  “That’s a nightmare I’m sure some of us will have,” Troost answered. “But what you see,” he said, gesturing toward the ships in the task group, “is what we have left right now — and it’s not a hell of a lot.”

  The Albany continued slowly up the channel and approached her assigned berth in the southeast lock. Hasse and Troost had already received their orders. Hasse was going to be there only overnight to refuel. In the morning she’d sortie with the Big E again and Troost would be back in ComCruDesPac Headquarters.

  “All engines stop,” Hasse ordered, as the ship was alongside the pier and the lines were started out.

  “All engines stop,” the engine signalman said, ringing the engine room.

  “All lines secured,” the OOD shortly reported, “and fuel barges request permission to come alongside and begin refueling.”

  Hasse nodded. “Permission granted,” he responded; then turning to Troost, he said, “I’m sorry you won’t be with us tomorrow when we go out again.”

  “I’m sorry too,” Troost answered. “I’d rather be at sea than behind a desk. But my boss says I’m needed here for a while.” He extended his hand. “I guess I’ll have to take a rain check on dinner.”

  They shook hands.

  “Good luck,” Troost said.

  “Good luck to you, sir,” Hasse answered, stepped back, and saluted.

  Admiral Troost returned the courtesy and left the bridge.

  CHAPTER 15

  “Papa, I’m going to meet Tony at the Information Booth,” Jacob said, as the taxi stopped for a red light at Third Avenue and Forty-Second Street. All the way from Brooklyn his father had said nothing, and when his mother and sister spoke to each other, or to him, it was muted.

  “Grand Central is a big place,” his father said. “Maybe there’s more than one information booth.”

  “The main one,” Jacob answered. His father was a lot more nervous than he thought he’d be. “Don’t worry, Papa, I’ll find him. If I don’t, I’ll have to stand all the way to San Francisco. He has the tickets.”

  “They wouldn’t make you do that, would they?” his mother asked.

  “I was only joking,” Jacob said.

  “Don’t make jokes at a time like this,” his father said.

  Jacob was going to say, it’s not the end of the world. But then he realized that it could very well seem like it to them. It certainly was so important to his father that, even though it was a Thursday, he took the morning off to go to the station with him. “All of you listen,” he said, “I’ll be all right. Mom, Papa, Miriam — I’ll be all right, I really will.”

  “Admiral, is it okay if I stop in front of the entrance on Forty-Second Street?” the cabbie asked.

  “That’ll be fine,” Jacob answered.

  “The Japs are tryin’ to take Wake,” the cabbie said, and he held up the Daily News to show its headline. “Yeah, if I was younger, I’d go myself. But they need young guys. The younger the better.”

  The cabbie’s brief monologue silenced all of them.

  A few minutes later the cab pulled up in front of the station. Jacob started to pay the cabbie, but his father said, “This time I pay.”

  “All right,” Jacob said, “this time you pay.”

  “Knock ’em dead, Admiral,” the cabbie said, looking back at them.

  Jacob suddenly felt embarrassed and managed a nod.

  The four of them piled out of the cab. Jacob picked up his valise and for a few moments stood on the sidewalk in front of the entrance to the station. The morning was gray with a raw December cold that made people walk quickly, with their heads down, as if they were butting against an invisible wall.

  A young sailor passed and saluted.

  Jacob snapped his hand up to the peak of his cap.

  “What time does the train leave?” Miriam asked, as the four of them entered the station.

  “Noon,” Jacob answered, looking at his watch. “It’s only 10:30 now.”

  “There are thousands of soldiers and sailors here!” his mother exclaimed. “Thousands.”

  “How are you going to find your friend?” his father asked, looking even more worried than he had in the cab.

  “He’ll be at the booth,” Jacob said, leading the way toward the center of the main entrance. There were Christmas decorations everywhere and against one wall, on the Lexington Avenue side, there was a huge Christmas tree, around which were strung hundreds of winking colored lights, crowned by a glistening silver star.

  Even before they reached the information booth, Tony was shouting, “Jacob! Jacob, I’m over here.”

  Jacob grinned. “I told you it would be easy, Papa.”

  “I was hoping you’d get here early so we’d have time to have some coffee,” Tony said, coming up to Jacob and shaking his hand.

  “You already met my mother and sister,” Jacob responded. Not only had Tony met them on December seventh, but he’d driven out to Brooklyn twice to visit them. Each time he took Jacob and Miriam for a ride. Once, though it was snowing lightly, the three of them went to Nathan’s in Coney Island for hot dogs. The second time he brought them to Torre’s, an Italian restaurant on Bay Parkway. It was the first time Miriam had tasted Italian food and she loved it. On both occasions his father wasn’t home.

  “Yes,�
� Tony said and greeted each of them with a kiss on the cheek.

  “My father — Papa, Tony.”

  Tony shook Mr. Miller’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, sir,” he said; then glancing over his shoulder, he motioned to two men who were standing behind him. “My father and my uncle Mike. Ensign Miller, Mr. and Mrs. Miller, and their daughter Miriam.”

  After another round of handshaking, Tony said, “I really need a cup of Java.”

  “There’s a Child’s restaurant inside the station,” Mr. Trapasso said. “They bake their own cakes and pies.”

  “Coffee, Papa?” Jacob asked, realizing Child’s wasn’t kosher.

  “Coffee. Why not coffee, at a time like this, Mr. Trapasso,” Mr. Miller answered.

  Tony’s father nodded. “But please don’t call me Mr. Trapasso,” he said. “All my friends call me Dom — short for Dominic.”

  Jacob noticed that Tony fell in alongside Miriam; his mother and father walked with Mr. Trapasso, and he was left with Tony’s uncle Mike, a tall, broad-shouldered, silent man with fierce hawk-like eyes and a face to match.

  In the restaurant, a gray-haired hostess, holding a half dozen menus, seated them at a large round table close to a wall decorated with a holly wreath. Off in one corner of the room was a sad-looking Christmas tree.

  Soon a waitress wearing a black dress and a small white apron took their orders. Only Tony’s uncle Mike asked for a open-faced roast beef sandwich in addition to the coffee and pie.

  The two fathers exchanged comments about the weather, but neither mentioned the war, or the kind of business they were in. For Jacob, it was a totally new experience. Right before his eyes, his father was doing something he would have never thought him capable of doing: he was verbally dancing and dancing very well.

  “What time does your train leave?” Jacob’s mother asked.

  “Noon,” Jacob answered. “Don’t worry, Mom, I won’t miss it,” he assured her.

  Then Tony said, “Mr. Miller, is it all right if I write to your daughter? What I mean is, will you please let her answer my letters?”

  From the astonished look on his father’s face, Jacob knew the question took him by surprise. Even Miriam looked surprised. And everyone else seemed to be holding his breath.