The Other Side of Life

by Andy Kutler

  Daniels’s eyes opened wider and flickered with excitement. “Aye, aye, Sir!” came his reply, anxious to finally get in the fight. He moved toward a nearby locker and grabbed a life jacket and helmet.

  Embarrassed, Kelsey reached into the next locker and quickly slipped into his own helmet and life jacket. As he did so, he looked down at the quay and could see Middleton and his crew hacking away at the lines with axes. Under steam but still anchored, the ship had already begun to move away from her moorings, pulling the lines taut like a dog on a tight leash. After an agonizing minute, the last line was cut free and the ship began to pull away. The line-handlers were unable to get back aboard, diving for cover as a fighter began a strafing run in their direction. Middleton dove as well, but into the water, and began frantically swimming the thirty feet or so to the stern of the Nevada. One of his shipmates spotted him and threw him a line. Kelsey couldn’t contain a grin as the burly bos’n, covered in oil, nimbly climbed the rope like a monkey and pulled himself over the lifelines.

  “Unbelievable,” muttered Kelsey, shaking his head in awe. He turned his attention back to the bridge, knowing he had to prepare the ship for sortie. Kelsey had no pilot but hoped that if he kept the ship in the center of the channel, she would be okay. He heard more cries of alarm and another explosion rocked the ship, throwing Kelsey and the others to the deck. He gathered himself and looked down through the gaps in the smoke that enveloped the ship. An armor-piercing bomb had ripped through the foc’sle and exploded below decks, gutting the forward section of the ship. Kelsey could see the fire crews gamely attempting to douse the flames with water and pull wounded men to safety.

  The battered ship was now underway; he just needed to maneuver away from the flaming wreckage of the Arizona.

  “Starboard engine, ahead one third.”

  Ensign Cirillo moved the lever on the engine order telegraph into the appropriate position, sending their speed request to the engine room. Kelsey turned and was relieved to see Radinovich, the Chief Quartermaster, at the helm.

  Need to make sure we clear the Arizona aft. “Helm,” he called out, “left standard rudder.”

  “Left standard rudder, aye, Sir!” echoed Radinovich, turning the wheel fifteen degrees.

  Seeing what the brave ship was attempting, more planes descended on her and blasts ripped through the air as the Nevada was rocked by two more bombs. The bridge crew was tossed around the room and Kelsey slammed both knees into a bulkhead. He grimaced in pain, wondering if the entire superstructure was going to come apart.

  How much more can she take?

  The breeze from their forward movement cleared some of the smoke and Kelsey could see fires raging throughout the main deck. He prayed the damage control teams would get the flames under control before they reached the magazines below decks.

  “Rudder, midships,” he called out.

  “Midships, aye, Sir,” acknowledged the helmsman, straightening the wheel in his hands.

  It took some time for the Nevada to limp past the carnage of Battleship Row, but she finally cleared the suffocating smoke and heat of what once comprised the heart of one of the most powerful fleets in American naval history. Slowly, the Nevada approached the last of the burning vessels, the California, flagship of the Pacific Fleet. Her gun and damage control crews paused to wave and cheer as one of their sister ships was boldly steaming away.

  They had sortied roughly a half-mile, and Kelsey figured they had maybe a mile to go to clear the channel and reach open water.

  One of the lookouts entered the bridge and approached Kelsey. “Sir, signal from California. We’re being ordered not to leave the harbor.”

  “What?!?”

  Before the lookout could reply, Daniels rushed in through the bridge hatch, breathless and soaked with perspiration. “Couldn’t reach you from Deck Four, Sir, and wasn’t sure you could see with all this smoke. One of those bombs took out Number One Turret, and it looks like Number Two Turret has been abandoned because of the fire.” Daniels paused to cough some of the smoke out of his lungs. “The last bomb hit the foc’sle. Chief Lewis says he lost at least twenty men below decks and probably a handful more from the topside gun crews.”

  Kelsey thought for a moment. “Are we taking on water?”

  “Some, Sir,” confirmed Daniels. “But the pumps are still working and the hull forward appears to be intact, other than the hole in our port side from that first torpedo.”

  Kelsey bit his lower lip and looked ahead, straining to see the harbor entrance through the thick smoke. Then he remembered that the approach was not only narrow, but shallow as well.

  “They’re worried we won’t make it through,” he reasoned out loud. “If we sink in the channel, we’ll block the harbor, bottle up the fleet.”

  “What fleet, Sir?” asked Daniels bitterly. “We’ll make it. We’re doing at least eight knots right now and we’ll be up to ten by the time we reach the entrance.”

  Kelsey ignored him, knowing what had to be done. He looked across the smoke and haze and saw Hospital Point, the area of land that marked the southeastern end of the channel entrance. That is where he would beach the Nevada. “Helm, left rudder, ten degrees. Steady as you go.”

  “You can’t do that, she’ll run aground!” protested Daniels.

  Something inside snapped and Kelsey grabbed Daniels by the front of his life jacket and pulled him close. “You ever question an order of a superior officer when this ship is under fire and I will personally throw your ass to the sharks.” Kelsey took a breath, resisting the temptation to deck the snot-nosed ensign. But for some inexplicable reason, he suddenly thought of Chief Middleton. He released Daniels and took a step back. “You get me?”

  Daniels, trembling and near tears, nodded his head.

  “Now get back with those gun crews. I need you out there.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir,” Daniels replied automatically, fleeing from the bridge.

  Kelsey moved toward the wheel to make sure the helmsman was on the right heading. They all ducked instinctively as another fighter strafed the superstructure. The bridge had become enveloped in smoke again, so Kelsey grabbed a pair of binoculars and stepped out onto the Captain’s Bridge.

  It was slick with blood. A young Marine, in his dress uniform of a khaki shirt and blue trousers, was lying on his back in a pool of blood. The kid had obviously been taking potshots at their attackers with his .30 caliber rifle and had been hit in the chest and face with shrapnel from one of the bomb blasts. Another body, an officer in khaki uniform, was sprawled out on his stomach, his torso mangled from several bullet holes, most likely a victim of a strafing run. Kelsey quickly looked away from the gruesome corpses and stepped over the Marine to look across the channel. They were less than a thousand yards from the shoreline.

  As the ship’s rudder sluggishly responded to their new heading, the bow slowly came about, pointing now towards Hospital Point. Suddenly the Nevada’s starboard AA guns opened fire in unison and Kelsey saw three fighters approaching from the west for another strafing run. Kelsey grabbed the .30 caliber rifle that lay by his feet and fired at the fighters as they passed over the ship. He got off five rounds before the rifle emptied. The gun crews cheered as a five-inch shell blew a wing off one of the fighters, spiraling now into the water.

  “Bastards,” growled Kelsey, as he grabbed another clip from the cartridge belt of the dead Marine, careful to avoid stepping on the other corpse, and reloaded. He pulled back the bolt and heard the distinctive whistle of bombs being dropped from high-altitude attack planes. One fell less than fifty yards from the ship’s port stern, spraying the gun crews near the fantail with water. But seconds later two successive bombs ripped through the Nevada’s aft quarterdeck. The force of the explosion knocked Kelsey off his feet and his head slammed into the railing as he fell to the deck, falling between the two corpses.

  His head felt like he had been hit with a hammer and there were sharp pains in his shoulder and side. He opened his
eyes a few moments later, realizing he couldn’t hear anything except a loud ringing in his ears. His vision was blurred by water dripping down from his forehead.

  Still lightheaded, Kelsey grabbed a nearby railing with his uninjured arm and managed to prop himself up against a bulkhead. He raised his hand to wipe the water from his forehead, and the bloodstained khaki uniform lying beside him came into focus. Kelsey felt a tightness in his gut as he found himself staring at the open eyes of the lifeless officer.

  “Daniels,” he whispered. The water continued to drip past his eyelids, and as he raised his hand again he saw that it was wet not from water, but with his own blood. Kelsey tried to call out for help, but he was fully disoriented now, losing sight of everything around him. His head slowly slumped forward as he lost consciousness; his last thought one of thankfulness for the coming peace that had evaded him for so long.

  CHAPTER 3

  Kelsey swallowed the rest of the liquid. “I’ll take another, Red. Keep the onion.”

  “No time, Mr. Kelsey, he’s waiting for you.”

  “Who’s waiting for me?”

  Red gestured toward the back of the dining car. “Mr. Leavitt, of course. He’s waiting for you at that table.”

  Kelsey twisted on his stool. The dining car was empty except for the white-haired figure who sat at the corner table, his back to Kelsey. The man’s blue cap was resting on the table next to a silver tea service.

  Kelsey turned back to Red. “The conductor is waiting for me?”

  Red smiled. “He runs things around here.”

  Kelsey slid off the stool, tossing a dollar onto the bar, and walked to the corner table. The conductor turned and saw him approaching. He placed his tea cup back on its saucer and motioned for Kelsey to sit across from him. The man had to be in his seventies, but his grayish-blue eyes were alert and friendly.

  “Mr. Leavitt?”

  “Yes, Commander. Samuel Leavitt. You know who I am?”

  “You run things here.”

  An amused smile. “That’s what Red likes to tell our guests. Really, I’m just sort of…an administrator here.” He lifted the pot. “Tea?”

  “Pass. Can I get a sandwich?”

  Leavitt raised an eyebrow. “A sandwich?”

  “Yeah. Two pieces of bread and—never mind.”

  “Sorry, Commander, but your continued hunger is somewhat of an oddity here. I receive many questions on this train, but never about sandwiches.”

  “Questions like, ‘Where am I?’” Kelsey shrugged a bit apathetically. “That would seem to be a pretty obvious one. As is where we’re going. The train is a bit of a surprise, though.”

  “Where do you think we are going?”

  Kelsey ignored the question and leaned forward. “What happened to me? And my ship? The last thing I remember was a Jap fighter in my sights. Then there was an explosion, a bomb hit maybe.”

  “You are still there, on your ship, in a manner of speaking. That explosion was the eighth bomb to hit the Nevada. It hit…the deck, just above the main deck, what do you call it?”

  “The quarterdeck.”

  “Yes, the quarterdeck, just below where you were standing. The ship was subsequently beached as you directed. Right now, at this very moment, you are being attended to by a Pharmacist’s Mate.”

  “Wallace? That kid? Oh, for crying out loud. No wonder I’m here.”

  “Doctor Goldman wasn’t aboard during the attack. Mister Wallace thinks you may have fractured your neck.”

  “Did I?”

  “Oh, heavens no.”

  “How bad am I?”

  “Nothing serious, Commander,” said Leavitt. “You fell against a steel handrail and you now have a head wound. You have some other minor injuries to your shoulder and rib cage. Nothing fatal, I assure you.”

  “I feel fine.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  Kelsey thought for a moment. “Then I’m injured, but not dead. So why am I here?”

  Leavitt sipped his tea. “That will take some explanation.”

  Kelsey did not hear him. It was coming back to him now. The last bomb blast. His skull crashing against the rail. Daniels’ inert eyes, staring at nothing.

  He looked at Leavitt sharply. “Bryce Daniels is on this train. He was killed in the attack. I saw him.”

  “Yes, a number of your fellow crewmen are here.”

  “Where we’re going, are there others?”

  “Of course. Most will transport by rail, others will—”

  “No, I mean, others who were already here?” His mind was racing. “Where are we going? When will we be there?”

  Leavitt understood now. He looked at Kelsey sympathetically and lowered his cup. “I’m sorry, Commander, but I think you have the wrong impression of what we do here. It doesn’t work that way.”

  “My daughter isn’t here?”

  “I’m afraid not. You won’t see her, here or wherever you might go.”

  Kelsey sat back, deflated.

  “To answer the question of why you are here, you need to understand that you have somewhat of a unique status, and…Commander?”

  Kelsey’s attention had drifted again, his mind reeling from what Leavitt had just told him. There was certainty now; he would never see Lucy again. His only hope to this point had been with death, and a place where he might somehow reunite with her. Kelsey was raised in a secular home, and he mostly considered himself an agnostic. Yet since the accident, rational thought frequently escaped him and he often found himself clinging to the prospect, as fantastic and implausible as it was, that she was waiting for him somewhere. A place like this. Now, even that wisp of hope had been extinguished in a few simple words from Leavitt.

  Kelsey cast a stern look toward the old man across from him, his cheeks beginning to burn.

  “Why?” he demanded, rapping his knuckles on the table. “Why did you take her? Lucy was nine for God’s sake. Nine! Do you know what she went through to get even that far? The illness she endured when she was a toddler wasn’t enough for you people? A three-year-old in intensive care for four months. And then her mom runs out on her. And then the accident. For God’s sake, why would you do all of that to a child?”

  “We didn’t do anything, Commander. What happened to your daughter was unfortunate and I hope—”

  “Unfortunate? Is that what you call it?”

  “Commander, I understand your grief and your anger. More than you can imagine. You see we have a full train today, and there will be many trains following this one. So many will pass today. Millions more alone in the coming years of war. We don’t sort through victims, or pick winners and losers. We don’t influence events. That is not our role here.”

  “So you have no say in who lives or who dies? You’re telling me that no one is making that decision, and you just sit here with your tea and let these things…just happen?”

  “Insofar as our ability to influence events, yes, that is precisely what I am telling you. We have an individual case management process here that examines—”

  “A case management process?” Kelsey was incredulous. “Is that what you call it? Well I’m sorry, Mr. Leavitt, but your case management process is fucked up.”

  Leavitt looked at him blankly. Kelsey wasn’t sure if the man was more angered or baffled by the outburst.

  “I can certainly understand how it may seem so from your perspective,” Leavitt said quietly. “I wish I could share more with you. But surely it has not been lost on you that you are sitting here, with me, while everyone else on this train is in the other cars.”

  Kelsey surveyed the room. They were still alone. Even Red was no longer behind the bar.

  “Why?”

  “Well, you are among a handful of special cases. Individuals who may warrant an exception to the process I mentioned.”

  “Meaning?”

  “All I can disclose is that your circumstances are unique. I have been instructed to present you with two options. Those peopl
e in the other cars, they are going to the next step in their journey. Their previous lives—paths, we call them—have come to a close. But those paths are just one leg of a longer journey.”

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “They have been following a path, and for one reason or another, those paths are no longer available.”

  “Death?”

  “Yes, as you know it, and this train will take them to another place. Don’t ask me where because I won’t tell you.”

  “But you said I wasn’t dead.”

  “And you are not. But we needed to steer you here to have a discussion. Your wounds provided that opportunity.”

  “A discussion about what?”

  “When you were living in San Diego, and leaving for long deployments, you bought your wife a Smith & Wesson, .38 caliber handgun. You were concerned about her safety, having to live in a fairly impoverished neighborhood. That gun now sits in your daughter’s nightstand, and you’ve taken it out of that nightstand exactly six times in the last thirty days. Including just hours ago.”

  “Guns need to be cleaned and oiled.”

  “But you weren’t cleaning and oiling it, were you?”

  “What’s your point, Mr. Leavitt?”

  “Consider this conversation somewhat…preemptive. Before—

  “Before what?

  “Before you take that gun out of the nightstand again. For the last time.”

  “And end up on this train,” Kelsey finished for him. “In the other cars. Are you saying I will?”

  “I’m saying that is to be determined. By you. I am offering you an opportunity to avoid that. There is an alternative path available to you, one that will alter your entire existence.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “What it means is that like Bryce Daniels and the others on this train, Malcolm Anderson Kelsey will no longer exist. Your memories, your thoughts, your experiences, your ambitions—all of that will vanish, be wiped clean. You will be placed on an alternative path with an entirely different identity. I know nothing of that path, or that identity, other than that for practical considerations, it will be in the past, before December of 1941.”