by Roger Jewett
The young man looked at him. “What’s a wingman?”
“We —” Jacob wasn’t quite sure how to explain it and settled for telling him that they were in the same squadron.
“John was a wild one,” the young man said. “There wasn’t a gal safe, married or not, with him around. All the mommas cautioned their daughters about him.”
Jacob almost smiled. But the sudden memory of his friend’s antics was sufficient to drive the smile from his lips.
“That be the Yancy place over yonder,” the young man said, pointing off to the left.
The road made a gentle turn, and in a matter of minutes they rolled to a halt in front of a large white house with an enormous porch in front of it.
Jacob got out of the truck and the young man came around to where he was standing and said, “Somebody’ll be out directly.” Then he stuck out his hand. “Name’s Paul Snapp.”
“Jacob Miller,” Jacob answered, shaking his hand.
Suddenly a screen door banged shut.
“Mr. Yancy,” Paul said, letting go of Jacob’s hand.
Jacob turned and looked at someone who resembled John, but who was shorter, barrel-chested, bald and sunburned.
He came down the steps and said, “I’m pleased ta meet you Mr —” He stopped and looked at Jacob’s sleeve. “I don’t know your rank, sir.”
“Please, Jacob will be fine.”
“Charley,” Mr. Yancy said.
They shook hands.
“Paul,” Mr. Yancy said, “you take Jacob’s grip up to the guest room on the north side of the house — and Jacob you follow me. My wife and my mother want to meet you. The rest of the family will be here for dinner.”
Inside the house was somewhat cooler than it was outside, and the parlor where Jacob met John’s mother and grandmother had two large fans blowing air into the room.
John’s grandmother was a thin, tissue-skinned woman somewhere in her late 70s, and his mother was a woman in her early 50s with faded blonde hair and dull blue eyes. Both women sat on a settee, and after the introductions, the two of them looked at him for several moments without speaking; then Mrs. Yancy said, “The only comfort I have is that John is with Christ, our Lord.”
Jacob stood very still and avoided looking at her.
“Well that’s no comfort to me, Laura-May,” the elder Mrs. Yancy said. “I wanted gran’chil’rin from that boy. No comfort at all that he’s with Christ.”
“Were you with him when he died?” his mother asked.
“Yes, I was,” Jacob answered, and knowing that they’d want something to hold onto for the rest of their lives, he said, though it was a lie, “He was shot down while protecting the ship.”
“Yes, I knew he died doing something for someone else,” Mrs. Yancy said.
“Do you think he suffered?” John’s grandmother asked.
Jacob shook his head. “No. He probably didn’t know it was happening.”
“Will you tell us how it happened?” Mrs. Yancy asked.
“I’m sorry I can’t,” Jacob lied. “I was in a dogfight myself. When it was over, John was already down.”
“Did you shoot down any Japs, Jacob?” she asked.
Charley, who was quiet up to that moment, said, “I told you before Jacob came that he’s a hero.”
Jacob’s cheeks became hot.
“All he ever wrote about was being a hero,” Mrs. Yancy commented. “That’s what he wanted to be. Lots of folks here about didn’t think he’d ever amount to much because he was one for sowin’ his wild oats, if you know what I mean?” Her dull blue eyes searched his face.
“John was my best friend,” Jacob said quietly; then looking at Mr. Yancy, he said, “He tried to be what you wanted him to be.”
“That’s mighty good of you to tell my son that,” John’s grandmother said. “Mighty good!”
“Jacob, could you see your way clear to come to church with us on Sunday morning an’ tell the people what you just told us?” Mrs. Yancy asked. “I’d much appreciate it. They’d believe you, and my son’s name would shine a little brighter in death than it did in life.”
“I’d be honored,” Jacob answered.
Mr. Yancy took a step forward. “Ladies, this man has been travelin’ for many, many hours. He needs a few hours to rest before dinner, so if you’ll excuse the two of us, I’ll show him to his room and then I’ll go back to work.”
The two women nodded.
“Anything you want, Jacob,” Mr. Yancy said as they mounted the steps to the second floor, “you just ask for it. I’ll have a pitcher of cold lemonade sent to your room directly an’ if you’re hungry —”
“The lemonade will be fine.”
Mr. Yancy led Jacob into a room with a large bed, a dresser, a night table, a rocking chair, and white curtains on the window. “The bathroom is just down the hall from here,” he said.
“I saw it on the way up,” Jacob answered.
“You’re a good man, Jacob,” Mr. Yancy said, “but you’re not a good liar. Now tell me how my son died.”
Jacob was about to object; then he nodded and said, “He died in my arms. His last words were, ‘Tell my daddy I tried.’”
Mr. Yancy swallowed hard; then in a quiet voice, he said, “I never did think he’d amount to much. He didn’t have to. He’d have the farm when I died. I really wanted him to do something, something that would make me proud of him.”
“He knew that,” Jacob responded.
“He was right in one thing he did,” Mr. Yancy said. “He had you for a friend. You can always tell a man by his friends and you’re a good man, Jacob.”
“So was John, a good man.”
“I’d like very much to believe that.”
“Believe it, Mr. Yancy,” Jacob said earnestly. “Believe it!”
CHAPTER 45
Glen’s ship, the destroyer Adams, was general quarters. He was at his new station in the main battery, the director above the ship’s navigation bridge.
The Adams and the other ships of the battle group, which consisted of the cruiser Joplin and four other destroyers, were steaming off Cape Esperance looking for the “Tokyo Express,” as the men dubbed the nightly forays that Japanese warships made down the slot, the strait between Rabaul and Guadalcanal, where the Japanese were putting up fierce resistance.
Ordinarily, Glen’s position, because he was assistant gunnery officer, was in the CIC. But Lieutenant Frank Pollet, the gunnery officer, was in sick bay now, with what appeared to be acute appendicitis. Glen was, after eight engagements, confident of his ability to direct the ship’s gunfire.
At 2330 the phone rang. Higgins, one of the director crew said, “Radar reports target, bearing zero two zero degrees, range 5000 yards.”
Glen gave the order to Higgin’s crew to set the target bearing and distance into the director. All guns swung to these bearings.
“Target —”
Suddenly two large caliber shells exploded in geysers of water close aboard the Adam’s stern. She shuddered and her stern heaved out of the water. A third shell crashed into her bow with terrifying force.
“Give me a range and bearing of the son-of-a-bitch!” Glen screamed.
“Target bearing zero two five… Range 4000 yards,” Higgins said.
The data was relayed to the CIC. Seconds later all guns reported “Ready.”
“Bridge, all mounts ready to commence fire,” Glen reported.
“For Christ’s sake, commence firing,” a voice tinged with panic responded.
“Commence firing,” Glen ordered.
All guns opened up. Their shells crashed into a Japanese destroyer, setting it on fire.
Then suddenly the Adams recoiled from three more enemy rounds. The bridge took a direct hit and the explosion below tore a huge hole in Glen’s director. Two of his crew were killed instantly. But the rest of the men miraculously were not wounded. Number three mount was knocked out of action and the ship’s forward stack went down, instant
ly igniting powder in the number two handling room.
“Jesus, the whole ship seems to be on fire,” a crew member named Jones sobbed.
“Try the bridge,” Glen said.
“No answer,” Higgins answered.
“CIC?” Glen questioned.
Higgins shook his head.
“Okay, let’s get out of here… Follow me,” Glen told his men.
When they reached the bridge, Glen found it deserted, but the ship was still moving at 15 knots. It was obvious the skipper abandoned ship without realizing there were still men aboard. “We’ll work our way to the secondary conn,” he said, “and see if we can raise the engine room. There must be people down there.”
“Lieutenant,” Higgins shouted, “there is no rudder control… Goddamn… It looks like secondary conn is out too.”
Even before they could leave the bridge, the ammunition began to explode, sending huge plumes of fire into the air.
“Over the side, men,” Glen ordered. “Abandon ship.”
The men raced through the debris and fire to the main deck.
“All right,” Glen said, “call out your name before you go over the side.”
“Higgins.”
“Faust.”
“Jones.”
“Wilson.”
Glen looked along the length of the ship. There were patches where the deck plates were red hot. His four men dived into the water. He took a deep breath and jumped into the sea. The water was warm and pitch black. Glen’s life jacket brought him to the surface immediately. In the glow of the burning ship, he saw his men and swam to them. He called each of them by name.
Faust didn’t answer.
“Faust,” he shouted. “Faust.”
“I went in after him,” Jones said. “I didn’t see him come up.”
“Goddamn!” Glen exclaimed.
“What happens now?” Jones asked.
“Now, we stay close to each other,” Glen answered. “Somebody will pick us up soon.”
“Let’s hope it’s not the Japs,” Wilson sputtered. “I hear they don’t treat prisoners so good.”
“Cut the gab and save your strength,” Glen said. That a Japanese ship might find them before one of their own had not occurred to him. But it certainly was a possibility. There seemed to be as many of their ships around as U.S. vessels. Glen looked toward the burning Adams. She slowed and was listing heavily to her port side. The glare from flames cast a lurid yellowish red glow over the water that extended out to where he and his men were.
“Sharks!” Jones exclaimed, pointing to his left.
Glen looked. Jones was facing away from him, but he could see two dorsal fins. They were on the very edge of the light coming from the Adams. His stomach knotted with fear and his brain suddenly emptied.
“They’re goin’ to come for us,” Jones said. “Holy Mother of God, they’re goin’ to come for us!” And he started to swim away.
“Stay where you are,” Glen shouted. “Stay! That’s a fucking order!”
Jones stopped.
“Ease your way back here,” Glen said. Despite his own fear, he clearly recognized his responsibility. “Okay, now stay together and don’t make any unnecessary movements.”
“Mister Lascomb,” Higgins said, “I read somewhere that sharks don’t like loud noises.”
“I see a couple of cans floating on my right side,” Glen said. “Maybe if I can get to them we could bang on them whenever the bastards come close.”
“It’s worth a try,” Higgins responded.
“Slowly, let’s make for the cans,” Glen said, already beginning to paddle.
“They’re following us!” Wilson exclaimed.
“Okay, stop,” Glen said, turning to look at the dorsal fins. There were four of them now. “Everyone, stay still… Don’t move.”
“One of them is comin’ at us!” Jones shouted.
A single dorsal fin knifed through the water. Glen suddenly realized the shark was arrowing toward him. He saw its tapered snout. It was turning on its side, mouth wide open with hideous rows of teeth bared.
Just as it came in, Glen kicked out with both feet and struck its white belly.
The shark veered away.
“For a while that bastard isn’t going to try it again!” Glen exclaimed. If he were not in the water, his pants would be sopping wet anyway.
Another dorsal fin streaked in.
“He’s coming for me!” Wilson shouted. “He’s coming for me.”
Glen swam for the nearest powder can, reached it, and began to beat it with his fist.
“The cocksucker is turnin’,” Jones yelled. “You turned him.”
Pushing the can in front of him, Glen re-joined his men. “It might hold them off for a while,” he said.
“I’m beginning to feel cold,” Higgins complained.
Glen looked up. The sky was now overcast and a breeze sprang up out of the northwest. If they got caught in a sudden squall, there would be no way for them to stay together.
“There’s a ship heading this way!” Wilson said, pointing to its dark form coming toward them. “Dear God, let it be one of ours!”
“It’s too far away to hear us,” Glen told them.
“What if it’s a Jap ship?” Higgins asked.
“If it’s a choice between a Jap ship and sharks,” Jones answered, “I’d go with the Japs.”
The ship was slowly on them.
“She’s one of ours,” Glen shouted with joy, recognizing her lines. “She’s looking for survivors.”
Suddenly the ship’s searchlights came on and they began to sweep the water.
“Here we are,” Glen shouted. “Here we are!”
The men began to shout and waved their arms.
A circle of light suddenly touched them.
“Hurry,” Glen shouted, “there are sharks down here. For God’s sake, hurry!” There were tears in his eyes.
CHAPTER 46
It was the day after Christmas 1943; Warren had arrived back at Pearl three days before. He was ordered to report to Admiral Harly, chief of special operations, on December 26.
Warren had hoped to surprise Irene, but when he phoned her, he was the one who was surprised. Her roommate told him she had been transferred the week before to an army hospital in Brisbane, Australia.
“Do you know if she requested the transfer?” he asked.
“She never told me,” her roommate said. “But my guess is that she did.”
Warren thanked her and hung up. For several moments, he remained seated in the phone booth. He was hurt and disappointed. But there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it, except not answer her letter of explanation, which he was sure would come. He shook his head. He couldn’t do that to her or himself.
Warren spent Christmas with Lillian and his mother. Lillian seemed to be more beautiful than he remembered, and his mother didn’t have one drink during or after dinner.
The day after Christmas at 0900, Warren was in Admiral Harly’s office. Harly, an owlish-looking man with a bald pate and metal-frame eyeglasses, looked more like a college professor than a Naval officer.
After an informal greeting, Harly said, “I hope you’ve enjoyed your Christmas.” He spoke with a broad New England accent.
“Yes, sir, I did,” Warren answered.
Harly nodded. “I need a man like you to work for me,” he said, without any introduction. “I know your record. I even know why you were booted out of flight training.”
Warren felt his cheeks color.
Harly smiled. “But I won’t embarrass you by mentioning it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I need someone with the professional qualities and seamanship capabilities that you possess,” Harly said.
“Sir, with all due respect, I’d be miserable tied to a desk,” Warren said.
“Who said anything about being tied to a desk?” Harly answered. “Troost, you’re too good to waste behind one of these,” he said, s
lapping the top of the desk with the palm of his hand.
Confused, Warren leaned slightly forward in his chair.
“Interested now, eh?”
“Enough to be a little nervous,” Warren said.
Harly guffawed. “I don’t believe you have the capacity to be nervous, at least not in the normal sense — afraid, yes, but not nervous.”
Warren wasn’t going to contradict him. If he was happy believing that, then why should he make him unhappy?
“In about a year,” Harly said, “we’re going to invade the Philippines. That’s no real secret. The enemy know it, but of course that’s all they know. We need people there before the invasion takes place. A small army of guerrillas are operating there now, but Washington and Admiral Nimitz believe that something more is needed, something that would make life for the Japanese commander thoroughly miserable.”
“PT boats,” Warren said, guessing.
Harly nodded. “Several secret bases scattered through the islands could wreak havoc with Jap shipping.”
“I met one of the guerrilla leaders when I was on the Dee,” Warren said.
“Rudy Luis,” Harly responded.
Warren tried not to show his surprise.
“Your mission would be to operate in the waters around the Philippines. Your squadron’s mission would be to harass enemy shipping, to take part in guerrilla raids whenever feasible, and, of course, as we begin to evolve air strikes, to rescue downed pilots.”
“Thank you, sir,” Warren said. “I’d appreciate the opportunity to work for you.”
Harly smiled. “I thought you would,” he said. “You’ll be getting 12 new boats,” he said. “That means 12 new crews. They’ll be here in Pearl by the end of February. You should be in the Philippines by the latest — say, the end of June. That should give you enough time to plan where you want to set up your base.”
“I’d much prefer it if there were three or even four different bases. All close enough to support one another, but far enough away from each other to make it more difficult for the Japs to find us,” Warren said.
“The show is yours, Commander,” Harly said; then he added, “and I do mean commander. I’ve already requested that you be spot promoted a grade. And I’m sure it will go through.”
