Devotion

by Adam Makos

  The remaining six planes followed the road farther into hostile territory. The clouds ahead became stormier, as if the road were luring the pilots into Siberia itself.

  Tom scanned for signs of life as the flight raced between frozen fields. Snow-covered haystacks slipped past his wings. Crumbling shacks. Trees swaying in the wind.

  “Possible footprints!” Jesse announced. Tom glanced eagerly forward.

  “Nope, just shadows,” Jesse muttered as he flew overhead.

  Tom could tell that Jesse was frustrated too. They both should have been far from this winter wasteland. Tom should have been sipping a scotch in a warm country club back home and Jesse should have been bouncing his baby daughter on his lap under a Mississippi sun. Instead, they’d both come here as volunteers.

  It wasn’t the risk that bothered them—they were frustrated because they wanted to do something, anything, to defend the boys at the base. The night before, Jesse had written to his wife, Daisy, from the carrier: “Knowing that he’s helping those poor guys on the ground, I think every pilot on here would fly until he dropped in his tracks.”

  Ahead of the flight, a voice barked a command from a roadside field. A dozen or more rifles and submachine guns rose up from the snow. Numb fingers gripped the weapons and shaking arms aimed skyward—arms wrapped in white quilted uniforms.

  The White Jackets. They had heard the planes coming and taken cover.

  The shadow of the first Corsair passed overhead—yet the enemy troops held their fire. The second shadow zipped safely past, too. The shadow of Jesse’s Corsair next raced toward the spot where weapons stood like garden stakes.

  As Jesse’s shadow stretched over the hidden soldiers, the voice shouted. The rifles and submachine guns fired a volley, sending bullets rocketing upward. Quickly, the weapons lowered back into the snow.

  The shadow of Tom’s plane flew over the enemy next, then two more Corsair shadows in quick succession. Over the roar of their 2,250-horsepower engines, none of the pilots heard the gunshots. One would later remember seeing the disturbance in the snow, but at 250 miles per hour, no one saw the enemy.

  —

  Rather than patrol another desolate valley, the flight leader climbed into an orbit over the surrounding mountains and ordered the flight to re-form.

  Tom pulled alongside Jesse’s right wing and together they climbed toward the others.

  “This is Iroquois Flight 13,” the leader radioed the base. “Road recon came up dry. Got anything else?”

  “Copy,” the Marine controller replied. “Let me check.”

  Tom and Jesse tucked in behind the leader and his wingman. The trailing two Corsairs slipped in behind them. From the rear of the formation, a pilot named Koenig radioed with alarm. “Jesse, something’s wrong—looks like you’re bleeding fuel!”

  Jesse squirmed in his seat to see behind his tail, but his range of vision ended at his seatback. He looked to Tom across the cold space between their planes.

  Tom glanced leftward and saw a white vapor trail slipping from Jesse’s belly. “You’ve got a streamer, all right,” Tom said.

  Jesse nodded.

  “Check your fuel transfer,” Koenig suggested. Sometimes fuel overflowed while being transferred from the plane’s belly tank to its internal tank.

  Jesse glanced at the fuel selector switch above his left thigh. The handle was locked properly, so that wasn’t the problem. He studied the instrument panel. The needle in the oil pressure gauge was dropping.

  Jesse glanced at Tom with a furrowed brow. “I’ve got an oil leak,” he announced.

  Tom’s face sank. The hole in Jesse’s oil tank was a mortal wound. With every passing second, the oil was draining, the friction was rising, and the plane’s eighteen pistons were melting in their cylinders.

  “Losing power,” Jesse said flatly.

  “Can you make it south?” Tom asked.

  “Nope, my engine’s seizing up,” Jesse said. “I’m going down.”

  How is he so calm? Tom thought. Jesse’s propeller sputtered and his plane pitched forward into a rapid descent. Instinctively, Tom held formation and followed him down. Jesse was too low to bail out, so Tom frantically scanned the terrain for a suitable crash site. All he saw were snowy mountains and valleys studded with dead trees. This can’t be happening, Tom thought. Jesse would never survive a crash in this terrain and if he did, the subzero cold would kill him.

  Tom glanced down to his kneeboard map and his face twisted. Jesse was going down seventeen miles behind enemy lines. If he survived the crash, the enemy would surely double-time it to capture him, and if they didn’t shoot him on sight, they had an unspeakable torture that they used on captured pilots.

  Tom glanced over at Jesse as their Corsairs plummeted toward the mountains. Jesse’s eyes were fixed forward as he tried to sort through a hopeless hand of fate.

  Tom needed to do something to help his friend, and fast.

  Jesse’s story couldn’t end like this.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE LESSON OF A LIFETIME

  Twelve years earlier, spring 1938

  Fall River, Massachusetts

  THE CAFETERIA OF MORTON JUNIOR HIGH buzzed with chattering young voices. Boys and girls waited in lunch lines while other students sat at long tables and ate from tin lunch pails. The green linoleum floor reflected more than two hundred conversations and the noise bounced up to a white ceiling made of textured plaster drippings.

  Thirteen-year-old Tom Hudner set his tray on a table and sat next to his friends, all boys in the eighth grade, just like him. He wore a white polo shirt and khakis. His chin was strong, and his eyes were blue and honest. Even as young teenagers, Tom and the other boys still sat away from the girls. Morton Junior High was a place of rules and playground codes, and to sit with the opposite gender would invite ridicule. Tom was a rule follower by nature.

  He unfolded a paper napkin, popped the cap on his bottle of milk, and began to eat. Tom bought a hot lunch every day for thirty-five cents, a perk of having affluent parents. He chewed silently and listened far more than he spoke. During a lull in the conversation, Tom’s gaze shifted. Outside the cafeteria’s windows, the school’s bullies were gathering in a corner of the courtyard where kids played after lunch.

  Credit 2.1

  Tom Hudner

  They were the immigrant kids, dark-skinned sons of the Portuguese fishermen who had settled in Fall River. Tom placed his napkin on the table and stood up to get a better view. The tough Portuguese kids were tossing around a pair of eyeglasses, each boy trying them on and laughing. At the center of the circle, Tom could see a boy haplessly lunging to snatch his glasses back. The boy was overweight and wore his hair slicked to one side. Tom recognized him as Jack. Kids often ridiculed Jack for being quick to cry but Tom was friends with him, and most everyone for that matter.

  Tom alerted the boys around him: “Someone should tell the teacher.” He looked around, but the teacher was nowhere to be seen. Outside, Jack was turning red and about to cry. The boys around Tom scowled, not because of their affection for Jack.

  “Portugee rats!” one said.

  “Dirty boat hoppers,” whispered another. “They should go back to where they came from.”

  Tom didn’t know the Portuguese kids personally, but they seemed like trouble. The schoolchildren even had a name for the dirty industrial borough near the waterfront that the immigrants called home: “Portugee-ville.”

  “We should do something,” Tom blurted.

  Nobody moved.

  One of Tom’s friends shrugged and looked away. “I’m not getting mixed up in this,” he muttered.

  “Yeah, I barely know Jack, anyhow,” said another.

  One by one, Tom’s friends sat down. Only Tom remained standing. Outside, he saw that Jack was now blubbering like a baby.

  “Come on, guys,” Tom pleaded.

  “He’s your friend, not ours,” a boy said.

  “If you feel so bad for him, you s
hould do something about it!” another added.

  “Okay, fine,” Tom said. He sighed and walked toward the door.

  Tom stepped out into the pale afternoon sunlight and approached the bullies. “Hey, fellas,” Tom said. The Portuguese kids stopped laughing at Jack and turned, some grinning, some glaring. Tom’s stride slowed. His mind raced to think.

  “You say something?” called one of the bullies.

  Tom stopped and tried to smile. “I don’t think Jack’s enjoying this very much,” he said. It was the only thing that came to mind.

  One of the bullies emerged from the group and sauntered closer. The teen was short and stocky with an aggressive face and brooding eyes. Tom recognized him as Manny Cabral, the gang’s leader. Manny’s brown slacks were patched, and his dark T-shirt had a stretched-out neck. He walked over and stood with his nose nearly touching Tom’s.

  “I think you should stay out of our business,” Manny said.

  “C’mon, he’s crying,” Tom said quietly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jack running away, fumbling with his glasses.

  “We were only having fun,” Manny said, gesturing to his buddies. When he looked back at Tom, his voice lowered. “So what are you going to do about it?”

  Tom’s heart pounded. He had never been in a fight but felt Manny was suggesting it. He wanted to tell Manny to let bygones be bygones, but Manny spoke first.

  “We’ll settle the matter later,” he said casually. His eyebrow lifted, seemingly with a change of heart. “After school, outside.”

  Tom gulped.

  “You gonna show?” Manny asked.

  Tom’s eyes darted from Manny to his gang to the circle of students that had gathered to watch the spectacle.

  Just say no, Tom thought. But he knew that wasn’t an option. If Tom said no, the gang would never leave him alone. An all-American boy in 1938 had no option except to agree.

  “Okay, I’ll be there,” Tom said.

  Manny smiled and walked away. His gang followed, all laughing and talking loudly. Tom plodded back toward the cafeteria. His friends’ faces were pressed against the window glass.

  Tom and his friends returned to their table. The others congratulated Tom for putting Manny Cabral in his place.

  Tom looked down at his cold food and shook his head. “I’ve got to fight Manny after school.” Just saying the words made him lightheaded. Tom’s friends assured him not to worry; they would back him up.

  Tom thought of his father, Thomas Hudner Sr., and how he would react. His father ran a chain of eight grocery stores called Hudner’s Markets and always said that the Portuguese immigrants were some of his best workers, people committed to building a new future for themselves. Senior wouldn’t be happy about his son getting in a fight—that much was for sure. But Tom remembered something else his father had told him: Always assume the best of people. But if a guy proves he’s no good, then don’t hesitate to give him what he deserves.

  —

  When the bell rang at the day’s end, Tom’s buddies surrounded him in the hallway. They slapped his back as if he were a football player about to take the field. Tom closed his locker and walked out the double doors. Tom’s buddies followed him, along with a few supporters.

  Fifty yards away stood the white flagpole and a large cluster of students. At the center of the crowd stood the surly-looking Portuguese kids and Manny Cabral. Tom’s heart began to race.

  He glanced over his shoulder for his friends but they had disappeared. He scanned the crowd and saw that all eyes were on him. Then Tom spotted his friends. They were clear across the street, huddled up, watching and whispering.

  Tom was alone.

  He stopped, set down his books, and took off his jacket to keep it clean. The crowd murmured. Tom stepped toward Manny Cabral and the crowd hushed. Manny glared blankly as the kids closed the circle behind Tom. Tom raised his fists and turned his palms inward, thinking of pictures he’d seen of boxers. His fists trembled.

  “Whip him, Manny!” yelled a Portuguese kid.

  “Yeah, beat him good!” urged another.

  Tom noticed the strangest thing—despite the presence of his supporters, no one was cheering for him. They were too afraid.

  Manny stepped forward and raised his fists like a professional fighter. He dropped his chin and scrunched his face, eyebrows dropping low.

  Tom’s feet felt light, as if his soul had floated out of his body. Every face in the crowd seemed blurred except Manny’s. All of the voices faded. Tom could hear only the blood pumping in his ears. With his fists up and shaking, he began bouncing on his feet—the way he’d seen in the movies. Manny stood stock-still, fists poised to strike.

  “Slug him, Manny!” someone yelled. Manny bobbed lightly, as if he was waiting for the perfect moment. Tom was too terrified to throw the first punch. His fists shook. He kept doing all he knew—shuffling his feet.

  Manny raised an eyebrow. His expression loosened, he raised his chin and dropped his fists. His fingers uncurled.

  Tom stopped bobbing. He kept up his guard.

  Manny stepped toward Tom and thrust forward his right hand. His palm was open.

  Tom lowered his fists and looked down at Manny’s outstretched hand, confused.

  “Go ahead, shake,” Manny said.

  The crowd grew silent. Tom unclenched his fists. He reached out his trembling hand and took Manny’s hand in his. They shook up then down just once.

  Manny turned to his gang. “He’s okay,” he said. “It’s all right between us.” Then he turned and walked away. His gang lingered, speechless, then followed him down the street, toward the docks.

  Tom watched the students disperse until he found himself alone by the flagpole. Across the street, his friends had disappeared. Tom gathered his books and jacket and began to walk home. His adrenaline was racing, and he soon began to jog, then run. He ran up Highland Avenue toward his home on the hill. He passed North Park, with its hills and Victorian mansions on the fringes.

  At the top of the hill, Tom hung a right and saw his home, a three-story Victorian with gray wooden shingles and tall windows. The Hudner family had prospered even during the Great Depression because the grocery industry was always in demand. Tom’s face tightened as he ran up to the porch and entered his home.

  Inside, Tom untied his polished Oxford shoes and placed them on a doormat. His mother was away, probably playing bridge, and his father was still at work.

  In the back of the house, Tom heard the maid, Mary Getchell, stirring in the kitchen, preparing dinner. She was their housekeeper, thin, gray-haired, and Irish by descent, like the Hudners. The children called her “Nursey.”

  Tom snuck up the staircase, past his father’s pennants from Andover prep school and Harvard University. On the second floor, where his parents and younger brothers and sister had their bedrooms, Tom turned the corner and kept going. He followed another staircase to the third floor, where his room lay opposite Nursey’s. Inside, the ceiling of Tom’s room was sharply angled and a rectangular window overlooked the street in front of the house. A crucifix hung next to the doorway and a Boy Scout poster hung on the wall. A baseball glove sat perched on his bedpost.

  Tom tossed his books on his desk and flopped onto the bed. A model of an old schooner sat on his dresser along with a copy of his favorite book, Beat to Quarters, the tale of a British sea captain named Horatio Hornblower. Comic books littered Tom’s nightstand, their covers filled with colorful scenes of pirates and sea monsters. Tom loved ships. His favorite movie was Mutiny on the Bounty, and at the country club’s summer camp his favorite activity was sailing.

  As he lay on his sheets, Tom’s eyes revealed a racing mind. He could still see Manny’s upraised fists and feel the knots of Manny’s palm when they shook. The tough Portuguese boy had handed him a challenge, to rise above a human’s judgmental nature.

  Then the thought hit Tom.

  What if Manny had not been such a good guy after all?

 
Tom stared at the ceiling. Taking a chance—even to do the right thing—had almost cost him his front teeth. Never again, he decided.

  From now on, Tom Hudner would be playing it safe.

  CHAPTER 3

  SWIMMING WITH SNAKES

  A year later, April 1939

  Lux, Mississippi

  THE LATE AFTERNOON SUN CAST LONG shadows as a father and his three young sons trudged on the shady side of a dirt road. On one side of the road stood thickets of tall pines and leafy trees with thin white trunks. On the other lay parched brown fields where green plants sprouted.

  Twelve-year-old Jesse Brown and his father, John Brown, pulled mules by the reins. Jesse’s tattered overalls looped over his slender frame. He was handsome, with sharp eyebrows, steady eyes, and healthy cheeks. A soaked T-shirt hung around his neck and dirt caked his bare feet. The air was hot and muggy.

  Behind Jesse came his younger brothers—Lura, who was nine, and Fletcher, who was seven. The younger boys staggered barefoot in the heat, carrying hoes. Each had a fuzz of hair on top of his head and spindly legs that stuck out from overalls that their mother had cut into shorts. The difference was in their faces: Lura’s was square and lean whereas Fletcher’s was round and chubby.

  Credit 3.1

  Jesse Brown

  Only Jesse’s father wore shoes, but they were falling apart. At five feet ten and 250 pounds, John Brown was built solidly, with a thick chest and muscular arms. Sweat poured down his round face and heavy cheeks. He kept his eyes focused contentedly forward. That night there would be food on his family’s table. It was the Great Depression, and Mississippi was the poorest state in the nation. Not everybody was as fortunate.

  Jesse’s eyes drooped from sleepiness while his brothers struggled to walk in a straight line. Planting season had come in the Deep South and they’d all been at work since 4:30 A.M. Their fields lay in southern Mississippi near the crossroads town of Lux, little more than a gas station and general store in the woods. While the local white children remained in school, Jesse and his brothers were given a spring break from their one-room schoolhouse so that they and the other black children could work the fields.