Battle Stations

by Roger Jewett

  Glen was hurled to the deck.

  Several more heavy explosions followed.

  Glen did know which ship they came from. He crawled along the slanting deck. The OOD lay against the gyro repeater. The right side of his head was smashed in. Two of the others from the bridge watch were unconscious. He pulled one of them to the door and pushed him outside; then he crawled back and got the other.

  Another explosion deep inside the Gettysburg sent flames shooting above the island.

  There were men already in the water.

  “Get these two,” Glen shouted, dropping one and then the other man over the side.

  Glen climbed down a crazily tilted ladder to the main deck, where a half dozen men were ready to go over the side.

  “There are guys down below,” one of the men told him. “I could hear them yelling.” And then he jumped into the water.

  “Let’s get the guys below!” Glen shouted, already leading the way inside. Smoke was everywhere and flames were flaring up.

  On the second deck, Glen heard a man shout, “Here … we’re here.”

  There were three of them. The Chief Engineer Officer and two of his men.

  “We’re the only ones who were able to get out,” one of the men said. “The boss is hurt bad. I got a busted arm and Tim can’t straighten up.”

  “Get these guys the hell out of here,” Glen said, taking hold of the EO and slinging him over his shoulders, fireman-style.

  By the time they reached the first deck and were outside again, they could hardly breath.

  “Get off that ship,” a man shouted from the deck of the destroyer Linden, which was alongside to assist. “Get off that ship!”

  Glen waved and coughed until his gut hurt. “Jump,” he told the men with him. “Jump.”

  They went over the side.

  “The EO is going over,” Glen shouted, dropping the man into the water. Then he jumped. He went under, came up, and clearing his eyes, grabbed hold of the EO and started to pull him toward the Linden.

  There was just enough room in the small, bright yellow rubber raft for Jacob. That he somehow managed to free himself from the parachute, inflate his own one-man life raft, and then climb into it, was an unparalleled miracle, as far as he was concerned, and it left him completely exhausted. It felt incredibly strange to have the world reduced in a matter of minutes from the vastness of the sky to the cramped space of a bobbing rubber raft on an ocean whose own immensity stretched from horizon to horizon.

  Jacob shifted his position and looked up at a sky so blue it actually hurt his eyes. It was absolutely empty. The planes were gone. There wasn’t the slightest sign anywhere, not even debris on the water, except for himself, of the ferocious air battle that had taken place there only a short while ago.

  With scarcely any effort, Jacob could imagine himself dying in the raft. It would be a slow death, unless a storm came up and the raft was overturned or swamped. He pursed his lips and began looking around for things that would help him survive. He had a knife, his .38. In his survival sea-pack he knew he had some fishhooks and line, also a canteen of water.

  Jacob looked up at the sun. The lack of water was his most serious problem. A man could live for days without food but not very long under a tropical sun without water, although his parachute would give him some protection from the sun.

  Jacob suddenly realized that a man was swimming toward him. Using the raft’s two stubby paddles, he turned and paddled in the direction of the man, shortening the distance between them. Then he clearly saw him, stopped paddling, and yanked his .38 from its holster. “Don’t come any closer,” he shouted, waving the .38 at him.

  The man stopped and began to tread water.

  Up to that moment, he hadn’t thought again about Yancy once. His own predicament occupied every nook and cranny of his brain. But now it was different. The enemy was in his sights and Yancy’s burned body was in his mind.

  “If you’re going to kill me,” the man said in perfect English, “do it now.”

  “Don’t come any closer!” Jacob shouted. He needed a few moments to think. He didn’t expect the man to speak English.

  “Shoot me,” the man called out. “It’s a better way to die than to drown.”

  Jacob suddenly remembered his father said never to do anything he’d be ashamed to tell his son about. “I can’t do it, Yance,” he whispered aloud. “I can’t do it even for you. I can’t kill an unarmed man.” He lowered the .38 and called out, “I’ll paddle toward you. Grab hold of the raft.”

  “My name is Yashi Kurokachi,” the man said, taking hold of the raft and looking up at Jacob. “Lieutenant Kurokachi.”

  “Lieutenant Jacob Miller,” Jacob answered.

  “I’ve been in the water for about two hours,” Kurokachi said.

  “About the same for me, only it seems longer,” Jacob answered.

  “Have you any water?” Kurokachi asked.

  “None.”

  “Tomorrow will be very hard,” Kurokachi said, “if we survive the night.”

  “We might make it,” Jacob responded, though he was beginning to have his doubts.

  Just then he saw the black smudge against the blue sky to the northeast. Pointing to it, he said, “I think we just got lucky, Lieutenant Kurokachi.”

  “Lieutenant (JG) Miller reporting as ordered, sir,” Jacob said, standing in front of Admiral Sprat’s desk. He stood at attention, his eyes straight ahead.

  “Please, sit down,” Sprat told him, pointing to the chair at the side of the desk. “Are you feeling well?” he asked.

  “Yes, thank you, sir,” Jacob answered. “I was only in the raft for about three hours before I was picked up.”

  Sprat offered him a cigarette and then took one for himself before he said, “I was sorry to learn that you lost a good friend during yesterday’s action.” He held the lighter for Jacob before he lit his own cigarette.

  “Yance — I mean Lieutenant (JG) John Yancy was a very special kind of man,” Jacob responded. “I never knew anyone like him before, and I probably will never know anyone like him again.”

  Sprat nodded and said, “I was also informed that before you were shot down, you downed four enemy planes.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jacob answered.

  “Before it is officially announced,” Sprat said, “I thought you’d like to know that I’m recommending you for the Distinguished Flying Cross.”

  Jacob’s jaw went slack.

  “Believe it, Lieutenant,” Sprat said. “I’m also promoting you from a JG to a full lieutenancy.”

  Jacob swallowed a mouth full of smoke and began to cough.

  Sprat got up, poured water into a glass from a pitcher, and handed the glass to Jacob. “You did splendid work out there today. I’m proud to have you in my command.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Jacob managed to answer. He was still too stunned to think clearly.

  “When we hit Pearl,” Sprat said, “you’re going to get a lot of attention from the newspapers. Do you think you can handle it?”

  “I think so, sir,” Jacob answered.

  “Yes, I think so too, Lieutenant,” Sprat said. “I have a gut feeling you’re the type of man who can handle just about anything that comes his way.”

  “Thank you, sir. I hope I deserve your confidence.”

  “You’ve earned it,” Sprat said. “Now I have one other thing to tell you, but it must be kept a secret between us, though eventually it too will be part of the news.”

  Jacob nodded.

  “The pilots who took part in this operation will be rotated back to the States for a few months to teach the things you’ve learned out here to other pilots.”

  “That’s going to make the men smile,” Jacob responded, smiling himself.

  “By the way,” Sprat said, “I was also told you managed to take a Japanese prisoner.”

  “We just happened to be in the drink together,” Jacob answered. “He went down a few minutes before I did. He’s
convinced that I was the one who shot him down.”

  Sprat laughed; then he asked, “Tell me, why didn’t you shoot him?”

  Jacob stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “Admiral, do you want an answer you could quote, or do you want what Yancy would say was the fucking truth?”

  “The fuckin’ truth!”

  “We were out of it, sir, at feast for the time being, and for a while there, it looked as if it would be forever. The war was being fought all around us, but we were just two men trying to stay alive.”

  “Suppose he had tried to kill you?”

  “I’d have shot him, sir,” Jacob answered without hesitation. “But he never made a move in that direction. He wanted to live as much as I did, and I wanted him to live.”

  “But he is your enemy,” Sprat said.

  “Was, sir,” Jacob answered. “He was my enemy and —”

  “Yes, and what?” Sprat pressed.

  “I guess I remembered something my father told me,” Jacob said, looking directly at Sprat. “He said that I should never do anything I would be ashamed to tell my son. Had I shot Mr. Kurokachi in cold blood I’d be ashamed to tell my son or anyone else about it.”

  “Have you a son?”

  “I don’t even have a wife yet, let alone a son,” Jacob answered.

  Smiling, Sprat said, “You must have one hell of a father.”

  “I have, sir.”

  “And he has one hell of a son,” Sprat said, extending his hand.

  Jacob shook Sprat’s hand. “Sir, may I have permission to speak with Mr. Kurokachi.”

  Sprat raised his eyebrows.

  “He does have a wife and two sons,” Jacob said. “I can get word to them through the Swiss Consul that he’s alive and well.”

  “But the International Red Cross does that.”

  “Something more personal would be much more meaningful,” Jacob answered.

  “I’ll issue the necessary instructions to Colonel Rich,” Sprat said, standing.

  Jacob stood up. “Thank you, sir,” he said.

  “If the opportunity ever comes,” Sprat said, “I’d like to meet your father. It’s not every father whose son remembers what he has taught him.”

  CHAPTER 36

  On Sunday afternoon, Troost sat in the living room of the house that Gloria somehow managed to rent. Ten days had passed since the Battle of Midway, and already he was involved in strategy conferences having to do with new operations against the Japanese. The battle, according to Layton and others in NI, in addition to giving the United States a significant victory over the Japanese, might well prove to be the turning point of the war.

  “Well, just don’t sit there,” Gloria chided, “say something, anything.”

  “Sorry,” Troost answered. “I was thinking about something.”

  “Or possibly someone else?”

  “Gloria, let’s not start. I came here for Sunday dinner and to see my children,” Troost said.

  “Sorry. It’s hard for me to resist when I see an opening,” she told him; then she asked, “What do you think of the house?”

  “Seems fine to me.”

  She smiled. “You haven’t even seen the rest of it.”

  “Whether you and Lillian like it is what matters, not what I think about it. I won’t be staying here under any circumstance.”

  “Oh!”

  “C’mon, Gloria, that isn’t anything new,” he said, taking his pipe and tobacco pouch out of his pocket and carefully filling the pipe bowl.

  “You’re absolutely right,” she answered. “But to hear you say it so definitively — well, it does produce the teeniest twinge of regret to know that we will not be sharing our golden years together.”

  Troost puffed on his pipe. If Lillian inherited her acting ability, it came from Gloria and not from him.

  “The view from here is absolutely spectacular,” Gloria said, going to the window and looking out at the ocean. She faced him. “I do have something very important to talk to you about before the children arrive.”

  Troost took the pipe out of his mouth. He knew there had to be a very specific reason why he was asked to dinner. “I’m listening,” he said.

  “Lillian is pregnant,” Gloria said.

  Troost almost started out of the chair, stopped himself, put the pipe back in his mouth and puffing violently on it, growled, “Probably that damn acting teacher!”

  “One of your men, darling,” she said.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” he asked, taking the pipe out of his mouth.

  “Temper!” she cautioned.

  “What do you mean one of my men?” Troost questioned.

  “That young man who was awarded the Navy Cross and was promoted to lieutenant —”

  “Glen Lascomb?”

  Smiling, Gloria nodded. “He’s the one. Of course, she wasn’t a virgin when she went to bed with him, but he did neglect to tell her he was married and soon to be a father.”

  “Christ!” Troost exclaimed, almost leaping out of the chair. “What the hell is wrong with that girl?”

  “Like father, like daughter,” Gloria responded glibly.

  Troost glared at her.

  “There must be something you can do about it,” Gloria said. “After all, Lillian is your daughter and —”

  “Lascomb repeatedly risked his life —”

  “Your daughter is carrying his child,” Gloria snapped. “He must shoulder some responsibility.”

  “My God, does she hop into bed with every man she meets?”

  “Her sexual behavior is not the issue,” Gloria said.

  “The man is a good officer.”

  “And that’s where you intend to leave it?” she asked.

  “What would you have me do?”

  “Punish him. Make him pay. Don’t you have any feelings? Your daughter is carrying that man’s baby.”

  Troost took his pipe out of his mouth. “Yes, by Christ, I have feelings… I wonder whether Lillian has a brain.”

  “That’s not the issue!”

  “Does she really think any man is going to announce he’s married and about to become a father before he gets in the sack with her?”

  “You don’t have to shout,” Gloria said.

  Troost walked to the window, looked out at the ocean and the surf breaking along the beach, and in a low, steady voice, said, “Have you any idea what it means for a man — not really a man, Glen is 23 — to go down into a burning ship and have men follow him and obey his orders?”

  Gloria didn’t answer.

  Troost faced her. “Our son would do it,” he said passionately. “He has done other things just as brave. Bringing his ship back to Pearl was one of them. Gloria, I’ll certainly talk to him, but not on an official level. I’ll also talk to Lillian.”

  For a few moments, neither of them spoke; then Gloria said, “You know, Andrew, you’re really a very kind man.”

  Totally surprised by her words, Troost felt exposed, and to protect himself, he turned to the window again.

  Jacob, Warren, and Glen met in the lobby of the Hali Kalani. It was Jacob who brought them together. He tracked Glen down after reading about him in the newspaper, and he found Warren the same way.

  Almost immediately after Jacob introduced Glen to Warren, Glen said, “If you men will excuse me, I’m suddenly not feeling too well. I have to make a quick trip to the head.”

  “I’ll be right back,” Jacob told Warren and followed Glen into the men’s room.

  “That’s one Troost too much,” Glen said.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Glen explained the situation between himself and Lillian. “The Admiral has already had a fatherly talk with me.”

  Jacob laughed.

  “It’s not funny,” Glen groused. “You tell your friend that I died and flushed myself down the toilet.”

  “My guess is that he doesn’t know a damn thing about his sister’s condition,” Jacob said. />
  “How can you be sure?”

  “Things like that aren’t up for general discussion in that kind of family. Besides, Warren doesn’t live at home.”

  “What do you mean by that kind of family?” Glen asked.

  “Think of your own family,” Jacob told him. “If you had an unmarried sister and she became pregnant, would you know about it?”

  Glen thought about Lucy for a few moments. She told her folks and his she was pregnant, but he was sure no one else knew. “Maybe a few years afterward,” he said, “unless she had the baby, and even if she did, she’d be sent away to have it long before anyone would be able to tell she was pregnant.”

  “That’s the way it would be in the Troost family,” Jacob told him. “Warren doesn’t know a thing about it.”

  “Okay, I’m game.”

  The two of them left the men’s room together.

  “Are you feeling better?” Warren asked.

  “Much,” Glen answered, “much better all around.”

  “Good. Now let’s find a table,” Jacob said, “and talk.”

  “Food or drink?” Warren asked.

  “I’m starved,” Jacob said.

  “I don’t see why we can’t do both,” Glen commented, heading for the restaurant area.

  Escorted by a hostess, the three of them settled at a table for four away from the dance floor, which was crowded with couples moving to the sensuous beat of a tango.

  The waitress came and asked if they wanted something to drink.

  “Nothing for me,” Warren said.

  “I’ll take a Johnny Walker Black on the rocks,” Glen said.

  “A dry martini —” Jacob started to say; then changing his mind, he said, “A bourbon.”

  “That’s not what you used to drink,” Warren commented.

  “A guy from Mississippi latched me on to it,” he said.

  “Hey, this is great!” Glen exclaimed. “Too bad Tony isn’t here.”

  “Submarine, isn’t he?” Warren asked.

  “You know him?” Jacob questioned. “Last name —”

  “Trapasso?”

  “That’s him,” Glen said. “But how the hell did you meet him?”

  “I refueled his sub after it came out of Corregidor. It saved my ass. A Jap patrol boat was just about to finish us off, when the Tarpon sunk her.”