by James Young
Eric looked over at Jo in surprise.
“I like Sam, but it’s got to be a pain having him constantly underfoot,” Jo said.
“Yes, but I didn’t think he was over at their house all that often,” Eric replied.
“Don’t give me that line of crap,” Jo said. “I started to wonder how they kept their fighters from getting tangled in their Siamese bonds.”
“Well, you know with twins you get either completely sick of each other or you’re incredibly close,” Eric replied. “I’m just glad it wasn’t the former, we had enough strife at home between Nick and I.”
“You guys used to fight?” Jo asked.
“Oh yeah…Dad would wear his belt out on us, and that was after either Sam or David usually gave us a pretty good tarring,” Eric said, then mocked his brothers. “‘You don’t fight with family.’”
“Bet that went over real well,” Jo observed with a throaty laugh.
“Yeah, but as you can guess, if you fought David or Sam you fought them both,” Eric said. “That was always painful, especially when they went through their growth spurt. I guess around the time I was twelve Nick and I stopped being like cats and dogs.”
Jo sighed wistfully, causing Eric to give her a funny look.
“Sorry, I just never got to go through that,” Jo said quietly. “After Mom died it was just Dad and I. That wasn’t fun, let me tell you…I always felt like I was way older than everyone else in school, and I do mean almost everyone, because I was always around Dad and his friends. Nothing like just becoming a woman and the most important woman in your life drops dead right in front of you.”
Hope I don’t sound too bitter, Jo thought. I hate pity.
“I’m sorry about what I started to say back there,” Eric said after a short pause.
Guess not, Jo noted.
“Why? Because I can’t kiss my mother with this mouth or because you honestly don’t think less of a woman if she says ‘fuck’ every once in awhile?” Jo asked, then took a deep breath. Eric was looking at her like she had turned into a wild animal and tried to bite him.
“Okay, now I’m sorry,” Jo said. “You didn’t deserve that, and I’m way too sensitive about people feeling pity for me.”
“I’m not feeling pity for you,” Eric said. “And I guess it’s a little bit of both, although I can’t believe you just said f…fuck in public.”
“Wow, glad to see that you’re not rushing for the nearest sink to wash your own mouth out. I was starting to be afraid you were some sort of mama’s boy,” Jo teased.
Eric gave her a hard look, making her wonder if she’d struck a nerve, then smiled at her apprehension.
“Please, Nick was the Momma’s boy,” Eric observed. “Between Mom and Patricia I’m surprised he didn’t arrive at the Academy a sissy.”
“My, aren’t we nice,” Jo said. “Given that other than David he was the only Cobb there with a date, and a dish at that, I wouldn’t be so hard on him.”
“I didn’t notice you with a companion, Miss Morton,” Eric replied.
“Ah, but I was a woman flanked by two unattached men, three if you count Charles. Do you really think anyone in that building thought I was alone?” Jo stated mischievously. “I could have looked like Medusa and they would’ve thought one of you was my date.”
“Gee, glad to see you don’t have a confidence problem,” Eric replied.
Thanks for not taking that opportunity to tell me I don’t look hideous, jerk, Jo thought uncharitably.
“Just stating the facts, and I’m glad to see you didn’t touch the Medusa comment,” Jo said, tossing the proverbial softball over the plate again.
Eric stopped, causing Jo to also pause and look at him quizzically.
“You don’t honestly think you look like Medusa, do you?” Eric asked, incredulous.
Jo laughed, the chortle having a bit of a rough edge to it.
Well he didn’t exactly take that one over the fence, did he? she thought, shaking her head.
“I’m well aware of where I stand on the beauty scale, Eric,” Jo said. “I don’t need you to confirm or deny my self-perception.”
“Really? So where do you think you stand?” Eric asked, his face neutral.
“Remember Lieutenant Foster?” Jo inquired.
“Yes,” Eric replied, not understanding where Jo was going.
“Well, you’ll get me to answer another question about him before I answer that one,” Jo said, turning towards her front door. Eric stopped just at the edge of the yard, causing Jo to turn around and look at him.
“What, you still trying to figure out whether you should press your luck?” Jo asked. “Or have you decided there are some things you can live without knowing?”
“No, I’m just wondering if I’m still kicked out of your house or not?” Eric said.
Jo stopped and seemed to adopt a reflective pose, her chin on her hand as she looked up at the sky. After a few moments she looked back at Eric and was taken aback by the look on his face.
Okay, I’ve seen lust, and that’s not it, she thought.
“For the record, Josephine, you are beautiful,” Eric said softly. “And I guess I’ll leave you with that.”
Jo felt her face grow warm as Eric turned smartly on one heel and started walking off.
“Hey!” she called. “What are you doing for dinner tonight?”
“I’ve got duty officer,” Eric replied. “But I’m free tomorrow.”
“Good enough, it’s a date then,” Jo said. Eric gave her a wave and continued walking off towards Pearl. Jo watched him head out of sight, then turned to go back inside. She saw a movement out of the corner of her eye and found herself looking at Niole, who was standing just at the edge of her property. The woman looked at Jo, then towards where Eric had just turned the corner and gave a knowing smile.
“I would’ve chose the bigger one, but he is a good choice nonetheless,” Niole said in heavily accented English.
“I’m not…” Jo started.
“I may be Russian but some things do not need translation,” Niole laughed. “It is obvious in the way you look at him that you care for him. It is not love yet, but it may well grow if he is a good man.”
Jo was about to answer when there was a crash inside Niole’s house.
“Excuse me, but my ears tell me that it is probably time for some punishment,” Niole stated, exasperated.
Jo watched the Russian go back into her home, confused yet happy at the same time. If Niole was right, and she was falling in love, then there were far worse things. Watching a military sedan go slowly past, two men in full dress whites in front and a rabbi in the backseat, she shuddered.
Far, far worse things, she thought to herself.
Bremerton, Washington
0900 Local (1200 Eastern)
6 May
“Does it ever stop raining here?” Adam asked disgustedly as he doffed his cap and hung it on a nearby hat rack. VMF-21’s train had arrived the previous day, a Sunday, in Seattle. Adam had disembarked to find a messenger waiting for him. The young Navy lieutenant had handed him a message directing him to report to Rear Admiral (Upper Half) Piedmont, commander of the Northwest Military District, by 0930 Monday morning.
“In July,” an older, gray-haired woman said from the corner of the room behind her desk. She was typing something up, not even bothering to look up at Adam as he came in. Other than the coat rack, the only other furniture were two straight-backed seats with navy blue cushions. Looking around, Adam noted the utter lack of usual flag-officer sycophants.
Someone’s running a fairly efficient ship around here, Adam thought. Only one secretary, and I only saw a barebones staff downstairs. Usually flag officers need at least ten people to hold their hand.
“You must be Major Haynes,” she said. “You’re half an hour early.”
“A good officer never keeps an admiral waiting,” Adam replied, noting that the nameplate on the woman’s desk read ‘Mrs. Corinth’. T
he older woman gave him a wry look.
“Well, you’re a lot smarter than most people who come in here,” Mrs. Corinth replied, standing up. “I’ll see if the admiral’s ready to see you.”
“Thank you,” Adam said, taking a seat. Mrs. Corinth headed back up the hallway to the admiral’s office. A few moments later, she came back.
“Admiral Piedmont will see you now,” she said, sitting back down. Adam nodded politely and headed back to the admiral’s office. Not seeing the man as he looked into the partially-opened door, he knocked three times.
“Come in, come in, Major Haynes,” a deep male voice said. Adam pushed the door open to find the admiral staring out the window, his hands clasped behind his back. Piedmont was a tall man, standing well over six feet, with black hair graying at the temples. He turned to Adam, revealing the face of a man who obviously took care of himself, looking almost two decades younger than his sixty-three years.
“Major Haynes reporting as ordered,” Adam said, saluting.
“Have a seat, Major Haynes,” the admiral said, returning Adam’s salute. “I was just looking outside to see if it was still pissing all over us. Damn terrible weather up here.”
“Yes, sir, it truly is,” Adam said with a slight smile. “Your receptionist was telling me it doesn’t stop raining until July.”
“Amanda’s an optimist…it just rains less. Of course, she’s lived her all of her life, so she’s probably the better person to ask,” Piedmont continued. “Anyway, you’re not here to ask about my secretary, so let’s get down to brass tacks. I am told by Commander Tolby, my air officer, that your squadron is at full strength. Is that correct?”
“Sir, I’ve got twelve pilots—we were raided pretty well in Pensacola.”
“Well, I’m afraid you’re in for more of the same here—I’ve been ordered to stand up two more squadrons.”
“Sir?” Adam asked, surprised.
“The Navy Department has directed for two more Marine squadrons to be raised here at Bremerton, with their squadron numbers to be assigned officers immediately. I am assured that more pilots will be en route to fill out the squadrons, to include commanders.”
“Roger Sir,” Adam said, stunned.
“I’m sorry, Haynes, but if it makes you feel any better I don’t have any planes for you anyway—I just put all of our Wildcats on the next boat to Hawaii,” Piedmont said. “I’m assured that we’ve got first priority for the next ones off the Grumman line, but somehow I doubt that given recent events in both theatres.”
Adam nodded. The “Battle of Iceland” had been in the papers the last few days. Scuttlebutt had it that the Ranger and Wasp themselves had not been damaged.
I sincerely dout their air groups came through unscathed, however, Adam thought.
“I’m told that you were pushing your squadron pretty hard in Pensacola,” Piedmont said. “I’m sure they will not lose their edge in a few weeks.”
“Sir, I certainly hope not,” Adam replied. “Do we have any trainers or any other aircraft in the area?”
“The only folks with surplus aircraft are the Commonwealth, and those are the aircraft that came off the Illustrious.”
Adam winced at that.
“Sir, that’s quite all right—Fulmars and Sea Hurricanes won’t be much help for us.”
Piedmont nodded his approval at Adam’s knowledge and opinion.
“Yes, I’m told that you have a little bit of experience with the Commonwealth,” Piedmont said simply. “There are those who believe that to be a negative factor.”
Adam tried to read Piedmont’s face while keeping his own blank. The admiral laughed, waving away Adam’s concerns.
“Major, you are probably a killer poker player, but you really have nothing to worry about,” the senior officer replied. “I will tell you that you have made some enemies in high places with your treatment of one Captain Bowles, but it’s hard to defend a cuckold, much less one who assaults his superior officer.”
“Sir, with all due respect, Captain Bowles was a little too wrapped up in politics for being in the middle of a war,” Adam said grimly.
“Oh, I concur,” Piedmont said. “Which is why I politely told some of the enemies you made that as long as I was in command of this District, and that will be a long time since Secretary Knox placed me here himself, that you will be treated with the utmost professionalism.”
Hopefully you’re not blowing a smokescreen, Adam thought. Because I’m really tired of dealing with assholes from Annapolis.
“Since we’ve got some time, why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself,” Piedmont said. “I’m friendly with Air Marshal Barrow, and he says you still have quite a reputation in the Royal Air Force.”
“Sir, I don’t know all about that, I just had good pilots around me,” Adam said. “Anyone surviving the Second Battle was basically lucky, and I was just luckier than most.”
There was a soft knock on the door, followed by Mrs. Corinth putting her head around the corner.
“Admiral Piedmont, Admiral King is on the phone for you.”
Adam knew a good time to leave when he heard one, already standing up as Piedmont reached for the phone.
“Another time, Major Haynes,” the older man said. “Turn those names into Captain McAdams, my air officer, by Friday—you’ll find him downstairs.”
“Yes Sir,” Adam said, saluting. Piedmont returned it, picking up the phone. Exiting his office and closing the door behind him, Adam passed back by Mrs. Corinth.
“Well, that was quick,” she observed, still banging away on her paperwork. “As much as the Admiral’s been looking forward to actually meeting you in the flesh I figured he’d have you hang around until he was done.”
Adam shrugged.
“I guess one doesn’t get called by the CNO every day,” Adam replied.
Mrs. Corinth gave a slight smile, as if Adam was some poor, misguided soul.
“Of course not,” she replied. “I’ll let you know when you can schedule another sit down, as I don’t think you’ll be getting off this easily.”
“Well, let’s hope it’s after the weather changes,” Adam said, “because I’d hate to drown the next time I have to come over.”
“You don’t resemble a turkey, Major, so I think you’ll be okay,” Mrs. Corinth said. “See you in a couple of weeks, at most.”
“Yes ma’am,” Adam replied, grabbing his hat and heading out the door. Cursing as he realized that, if anything, it was raining harder than when he had gone in, he closed his overcoat. Stepping out into the rain, he began to think.
Four days to figure out who’s leaving, even though I’ve already got a pretty good idea who it should be, and since I hate breaking up flights, I guess that means I’ve got my eight pilots, Adam thought. I just hope Burke and West are ready to stand up for themselves once they get new commanders.
CHAPTER 7: ENTRIES AND EXITS
Fight on my, my men, Sir Andrew says,
A little I’m hurt, but not yet slain
I’ll lie me down and bleed awhile,
And then I’ll rise and fight again!—Ballad, Sir Andrew Barton
Sydney, Australia
1450 Local (2350 Eastern)
15 May (14 May) 1943
“Commander Morton, this is one of the rare pleasures I have had in the last few weeks,” Admiral Hart said, a genuine smile on his face. Turning to his chief of staff, the flag officer continued firmly, “Publish the orders.”
As Captain McPherson read the citation for his Navy Cross, Jacob fought the urge to look to his right or left to ensure Admiral Hart had the right person. Those members of the Houston’s crew not involved in her extensive repairs stood gathered in tightly packed ranks under turret No. 1, the recently replaced 8-inch guns gleaming with fresh paint in the afternoon sun.
I feel like a fraud, Jason thought. Captain Wallace was getting ready to send me home before he was killed. It’s almost like I benefited from some Jap destroyer gunner’s l
ucky shot. Looking up towards the bridge, Jason could see the faint outline of the shot plug that would be in place until the cruiser could be taken into dry dock.
We got off lightly, Jacob thought, then immediately felt guilty as he thought of the heavy cruiser’s fifty-three dead and seventy-nine wounded. For a brief moment there as a slight stinging in his eyes, and he blinked rapidly to clear it as he returned Admiral Hart’s salute.
Chief Roberts would have a field day with me right now, Jacob thought. I’m sure he’s looking down at me shaking his head. Houston had had eight of her casualties succumb to wounds en route to Sydney. Chief Roberts had been the last, taking his last breath less than six hours out from the harbor.
I can’t believe he’s gone, Jacob thought. One of his first acts after the Houston had completed her initial offloading of casualties and hasty repairs had been to write the gruff non-commissioned officer’s wife and three daughters.
“Well deserved, Commander Morton, well deserved,” Hart said. “As is this.”
Before Jacob could figure out what “this” was, Captain McPherson was starting to read a second set of orders.
“By order of the Chief of Naval Operations, Admiral Ernest J. King, and as a direct result of his demonstrable skill in preparing and commanding the U.S.S. Houston for her participation in the Battle of the South China Sea, First Battle of the Java Sea, and Second Battle of the Java Sea,” McPherson said, his voice ringing out over the cruiser’s suddenly silent deck, “Commander Jacob Thoreau Morton his hereby promoted to the rank of Captain. Signed, Admiral Ernest J. King, Washington, D.C., May 10, 1943.”
Jacob was in shock, standing numbly as Lieutenant Commander Sloan smoothly executed a right face and, in concert with Admiral Hart, began changing his epaulettes to the cheers of the Houston’s crew.
“With all due respect, Sir, if you try and kiss me I will be forced to maim you,” Sloan said quietly. Admiral Hart chuckled at the comment, finishing his job of changing Jacob’s epaulettes far more quickly than the gunnery officer. Looking, Jacob realized that the epaulettes were slightly faded and of a different style than the more recent captain’s epaulettes. With a start, he realized that they were more than likely Admiral Hart’s.