The Silver Waterfall

by Kevin Miller

  “Look, who would you rather fly into combat with? Skipper Waldron or the other COs?”

  “Or Sea Hag?” Abbie deadpanned.

  Evans had strong feelings about this. “You know, the skipper pushes us past the limit and the rest of the ship laughs at us, but Whitey’s right. Ever since Pearl Harbor – before – he’s been preparing us for this day. I’ll admit I get sore sometimes, and he ridicules me about being a ‘Yale’ man, but we’re out here now. We have to go. And because of him, we’re ready for anything.”

  The pilots considered Evans’s words. “Jus’ wish we had the big Grumman TBFs aboard,” Rusty said into his coffee.

  “What? After all our experience in the flying coffin?”

  “Knock it off, Abbie,” Teats snarled.

  Evans ignored them. “No, it’s us guys. Just like Agincourt. We’re the ones going tomorrow, and if the intel is right, we can end this war. Tomorrow.”

  Abbie took his cup in both hands. “Squire, I hope we do. And I hope you can add an addendum to Shakespeare.”

  Teats leaned in, ready for a fight.

  Abbie noticed and raised his hand. “No, really. I’m glad Squire is in the CO’s division and can record everything for posterity. Tell the folks back home that we slackers fought for them out here. Yeah, it’s gonna be a big one, and we have ringside seats.”

  Slouching back in their chairs, the men silently considered their futures as they contemplated their empty china dishes and half-finished coffee. If they wanted more, fresh joe was available any time of the day or night.

  “Let’s go back to the ready room,” Teats suggested.

  Once they arrived, they noticed that the rest of the pilots were assembled. No meeting was scheduled, just a natural happenstance. The ready room was their home. There’d be word, the latest scuttlebutt. Deliverance?

  “Boys, take yer seats,” Waldron said as he stepped inside, making his way forward.

  The pilots did so and talking stopped. The CO has something…

  Waldron counted off a few mimeographed sheets he held in his hand and gave them to the pilots in the aisle seats to pass down their rows. Evans took one from Hal and read it, as did the others.

  Just a word to let you know how I feel. We are ready. We have had a very short time to train, and we have worked under the most severe difficulties. But we have truly done the best humanly possible. I actually believe that under these conditions, we are the best in the world. My greatest hope is that we encounter a favorable tactical situation, but if we don’t and worst comes to worst, I want each of us to do his utmost to destroy our enemies. If there is only one plane left to make a final run-in, I want that man to go in and get a hit. May God be with us all. Good luck, happy landings, and give ‘em hell.

  Stunned by the words, Evans looked up and met the eyes of Waldron, standing in front of the Teletype screen. Waldron held his gaze. Serious. Evans looked back at the paper and read it again. If there is only one plane left…

  Fifteen men would be flying fifteen TBDs tomorrow. Could fourteen be lost? Who would make it? Hal? Grant? Would Abbie survive?

  Will I?

  Waldron, his face full of fierce intensity, was as determined as Evans had ever seen him. Their CO waited for all to finish, all of them wondering about who that one man could be. Was it even possible that only one…?

  From the other side of the room, Abbie broke through the tension.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll be back, Skipper. I’m leaving for Kansas City in the morning.”

  The room burst into laughter, a deep, devil-may-care release that only men living with death could know, gallows humor familiar to each aviator. The ship’s crew picked up on it. The Army guys going to Tokyo knew it was a one-way mission and joked about it with everyone. Those guys had courage.

  Waldron nodded with his clever smile, and the pilots waited in expectation. He’s got a quip.

  “Very well, Abbie, but only after you deliver your tin fish into the side of a Jap carrier. When they’re all down, I’ll join you!”

  Amid the laughs and smiles, it suddenly hit Evans. Fate would choose. If he were chosen to live for another day or month, or into his eighties, fate would choose. Fate had brought him here of all places, from the middle of a continent to the middle of the biggest ocean in the world. Throughout his life, Evans had not known the day nor the hour, but now he and the others had a pretty good idea. He could face it now, prepared, ready. He might die…or he might live. Regardless, he got to live life on earth. Into adulthood. Better than some unfortunate kids he knew growing up. The boy down the street had polio and died. Fate.

  And here, tomorrow, he could make a difference for his country on Skipper Waldron’s wing. A real difference. At that moment, he considered himself fortunate to be here, a torpedo plane pilot on America’s newest carrier.

  Their moods uncertain, the pilots filed out. Whitey grabbed Evans’s arm. “Hey Squire, wanna play poker in Rusty’s room till lights out? Could be big money.”

  Evans smiled. “Yeah, I’ll be there in a bit. Just going topside for a moment.”

  Chapter 5

  Aft Berthing, USS Yorktown, June 3, 1942

  Aviation Radioman 3/c Lloyd Childers threw down his cards in front of him.

  “Two pair, kings and queens!”

  Five other Torpedo Three radiomen and mechanics checked the cards, and, with disgusted groans, threw theirs down for the next deal.

  “Shit,” Childers’s brother Wayne muttered. “How much you got there, birthday boy?”

  Childers smiled and tried to cover his pile of two-dollar bills. “Doin’ all right, and I’m still a 20-year-old kid till midnight. Your deal?

  “No, dammit, it’s yours. And shuffle ’em good this time.”

  Darce eyed both with suspicion. “Both you Childers boys’r doin’ pretty good.”

  Lloyd shuffled the cards as the enlisted men sat around a table under the neon overhead light of the berthing compartment. Taps would sound soon.

  The Cajun wanted an answer. “Watcha gonna do with all that, Child-airs?”

  “Nunya business, Dar-say.”

  “Just deal,” Phillips growled, impatient.

  Childers felt the eyes of the Cajun on him. Darce was from New Orleans. He was worldly in the ways of cards and juke joints. The street. Lloyd and Wayne had grown up with the red dirt of the Oklahoma dust bowl between their teeth. Most of their people went west when the topsoil blew away. Mother had stayed, and the pile of money in front of her son now could buy a new steer. Or a jalopy truck.

  “Leave him be. He’s havin’ a good run,” Barkley said in his thick Mississippi drawl.

  “I’m allowed to ensure we all fair and square,” Darce nodded as Childers shuffled.

  “Today?” Wayne goaded his brother to deal.

  “Bobby, you in this one?” Lloyd asked.

  “Nah, you guys go ahead,” Brazier answered.

  “You just gonna sit there all night, Bra-ssiere?” Darce mocked.

  “I’m okay watching.”

  Darce took a drag on his Chesterfield. “I’ll bet you like to watch, ’specially being named after a woman’s unmentionable.”

  Brazier ignored Darce, having heard it all before. On what could be the last night of his life, gambling didn’t feel right. He was no good at it anyhow. Passing the time with his mates, even the disagreeable ones, seemed better than wandering around the ship thinking about tomorrow.

  Childers dealt and, after tossing a bill on the pot, arranged his cards. Four diamonds and one club. He’d have a flush if he could exchange his worthless three of clubs and draw a diamond. He detected Darce watching him. The other three threw rejected cards on the pile and drew from the deck.

  Of the group, Lloyd Childers was among the oldest. Tomorrow he would turn twenty-one. Legal. He wouldn’t mind buying a legal drink. Hell, with this pot he’d buy drinks for all the gunners, even Darce, who was eyeing him now. But that wasn’t going to happen aboard Yorktown. The
officers were rumored to have bootleg bottles stowed away, and sometimes the Doc gave them “medicinal” brandy after a rough flight. Childers could be in the same airplane and would receive nothing. Too young. Damn officers got away with murder. The same officers who could lift up his rack while Childers stood at attention during a surprise health-and-comfort inspection and find a thimbleful of hooch in his folded skivvies would later be taking swigs from fifths of whiskey in their staterooms. If Childers did that, 21 or no, he’d be keel-hauled by Skipper Massey – if Captain Buckmaster didn’t get to him first.

  Childers drew a card. Four of diamonds. Expressionless, he tossed another two on the pile. Darce was first to react.

  “What you got, Childers?”

  “Just bettin.’ You in?”

  “Whachoo got, dammit?”

  Barkley rebuked him. “He’s bluffin,’ Darce. Now call him; ain’t nobody that damn lucky.”

  Childers held the gaze of the Louisianan, who had experience peering into men’s souls. Darce threw in another two, as did Wayne and Barkley. Phillips was out, shaking his head with his arms folded, and Brazier watched, content. Darce showed his hand first, knowing it was between him and Childers.

  “All right, Okie. King-high straight. Top that.”

  Childers smiled and laid down his cards down faceup.

  “Diamond flush.”

  “Damn!” Darce exploded, glaring at Childers across the table.

  “Don’t you wanna see what these guys have?” Childers asked in mock indignation.

  “They ain’t got shit!” Darce shot back. Vindicated, Childers pulled the pile of bills toward him before he scraped up the cards and handed them to Barkley.

  “Damn, Lloyd, I might just make it tomorrow, so I think I’m done for the night before I go broke,” Barkley said.

  Darce continued to shake his head at Childers and muttered. “Luckiest sumbitch…”

  As the game broke up, Dodson walked in. The 1MC sounded at the same time: Ding, ding…ding. 2130.

  “Where you been, Ben?” Phillips asked.

  “Topside. Flight deck. Beautiful sunset.”

  “Have any money? If you do, you’ll just lose it here,” Darce said, still upset at his loss – and Childers’s luck.

  “Darn, I wanted to see the sun set,” Brazier reflected.

  “To see your last one?” Darce quipped. An uneasy silence followed before Dodson answered, ignoring his squadronmate.

  “There’s still some twilight left. Master at Arms coppers are about though, darken ship an’ all. I saw it through an open hatch near the LSO platform.”

  “What’s the deck spot look like?” Barkley asked him.

  “Scouts parked aft and fighters forward of the ’midships elevator, three rows of each. What are we doing?”

  “Chief Esders told me we’re gonna be ready at dawn to hit whatever the scouts find. The ordies are breaking out torpedoes from the magazines.” Brazier volunteered.

  “Load’n ’em in the hangar bay?” Childers asked Dodson.

  “They’ve got dollies at the ready. Ever carried one?”

  “Nope,” Darce answered, then added, “Just hope Mister Smith can figure it out.”

  “None of these ensigns have ever carried ’em. Glad I’m flyin’ with Chief Haas,” Phillips said.

  Childers was glad to be flying with Warrant Harry Corl, one of the three noncom pilots in the squadron. The green naval reserve ensigns were only a year older than Childers. His brother Wayne spoke next.

  “Bobby, you’re lucky to be flying with Chief Esders. He’ll get you back.”

  Before Brazier answered, Darce interrupted. “Maybe so, but, if you’re flyin’ next to the CO there’s gonna be extra attention on ya. A lot of it.”

  “I’m ready for ’em,” Brazier said.

  The men sat around the table, backs against their chairs. Wayne had his chair facing backward, his chin resting on his hands as the 1MC sounded.

  “Now darken ship. Set condition two.”

  Phillips secured the fluorescent overhead and flicked on the red darken-ship lighting. “Darken ship. Say your damn prayers…”

  Childers was excited. They all were. Tomorrow was combat; the officers said it was a sure thing and that the gunners could get revenge for Pearl Harbor. You could bet money on it.

  “Any of you guys visit the chaplain?” Brazier asked.

  Another uneasy silence followed. Chaplain visits were a personal thing, and that the question was asked by a Mormon made it all the more uncomfortable. Services had been held in the hangar bay that afternoon, and the Catholics had their mass in the officers’ wardroom, but individual meetings with the chaplains? It was so strange. The Catholics all wanted private time with the priest, to unburden themselves, to confess their sins. “Grace” they called it.

  “No,” Barkley said. “I’m a believer an’ all, an’ I know I’m saved. If that day is tomorrow, I’m as ready as I can be.”

  “The guys in VT-5 did good at Coral Sea,” Dodson said.

  “If they so good, why ain’t they here now?” Darce asked him.

  “Our turn, I guess,” Phillips volunteered.

  Childers didn’t like this talk. That afternoon the skipper had said they’d be lucky to get three planes to a drop point. Seventy-five percent losses! Would he be shot down on his birthday? If so, he’d take a Jap or two with him. Harry was a solid pilot. He’d get them out of any jam. Still, the thought unnerved him. Death. It could happen on any flight, but tomorrow would be different.

  “The TBD can take punishment,” Brazier said absentmindedly, just staring ahead at the table. “Us gunners can take down most of a division of fighters, unless they attack us with a whole squadron.”

  “We know not the day, nor the…”

  “Knock it off, Darce,” Childers barked with an edge. Enough!

  “You really that ready, Troy? Ready to go to your reward now?” Dodson asked.

  Barkley considered the question, and after a moment could only shrug. “Well, it’s God’s will, ain’t it? I mean, livin’ a full life, marrying a girl, settlin’ down. Sure, I hope for that, hope for that for all of us, and God may give all of us that. But the Bible says nothin’ is promised. So, I’ll just get in the back of Mister Suesens plane tomorrow an’ do my best.”

  Childers shuddered to think of it. I don’t have courage like Troy.

  Phillips pulled out a pack of Luckys from his shirt pocket and patted out a smoke. Darce flicked open his lighter and held it for his fellow gunner. The least he could do.

  “Got an extra pack for tomorrow?” Barkley asked Phillips.

  “Got a whole carton! Probably’ll smoke half in the ready room before we man planes!”

  “You got a whole carton? Well, share some with us, dammit,” Darce said as he closed his lighter. “Least we can smoke ’em now before they get soaked after our ensigns’ water landings.”

  Dodson ignored him. “How long would you guys like to live?” he asked no one in particular.

  Childers thought eighty would be a good length of days. Eighty years. A damn long time. He couldn’t imagine another twenty years. He was about to offer that when Barkley jumped in.

  “Ya know, living to the year 2000 would be something. Two thousand years since Jesus’s birth.” Barkley shook his head in amazement. “Maybe that’ll be the second comin’ – nice even number.”

  The year 2000. Almost incomprehensible to Childers.

  “How old will you be then?” Dodson asked.

  “Lessee,” Barkley thought, doing the math in his head. “Ah…eighty-one.”

  Eighty-one! Childers thought. I’ll be seventy-nine if I make it that long. If I make it through tomorrow.

  “Eighty-one is pretty damn old,” Phillips said. “My uncle was almost ninety when he died five years ago. He fought in the War Between the States. Served with General Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain.”

  “Wow! Was he with him at Little Round Top?” an amazed Dodson asked.

/>   “No, but he was with him at Appomattox. Said he stood at attention and saluted when General Lee passed on his white horse.”

  “Traveller was the name of that horse,” Barkley said, with the authority of one steeped in his heritage.

  “So, Phillips, your ancestors shot at Troy’s ancestors?” Darce asked as smoke wafted around him.

  “Don’t know anything except he was at Appomattox. Wish I could have talked with him about it. I was fourteen when he died but to me he was just an old man who sat on a wicker chair in the kitchen, always lookin’ at his pocket watch. He was a train engineer after the war.”

  “A regular Casey Jones!” Barkley exclaimed.

  “Too bad you didn’t talk to him about the war,” Wayne said.

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Where you from, Troy?” Phillips asked.

  “Faulkner, Mississippi,” Barkley said, nodding with pride. When no one reacted, he added, “It’s just south of the Tennessee line, near Corinth.”

  “Never heard of it,” Phillips said.

  “Tupelo is the next largest town.”

  “Heard of that.”

  The 1MC crackled and Childers checked his watch. Almost taps. Where did the time go? It’s going too fast!

  Now stand by for the evening prayer…

  The men in the berthing compartment stopped to listen as the speaker crackled again. Soon the voice of the chaplain echoed throughout the ship.

  Dear Lord, as we lay down to sleep, we ask you to allay our fears. We know that tomorrow may bring battle, but nothing more is assured. We thank you for the beautiful red skies we enjoyed this evening and ask you for clear skies and safe steaming tomorrow. However, if we engage our earthly foe, we also ask for strength to face the dangers, and peace in our hearts that we remain in your protection. Lord, tonight calm our troubled hearts, let us not be afraid, and grant that we may serve you and our blessed United States to our utmost with faith in you and faith in each other. Continue to hold us, Lord, in the palm of your hand. Amen.

  The compartment remained silent, and Childers suddenly wished he had gone topside to see the sunset when he’d had the chance. St. Michael the Archangel, be with us in our day of battle…