Devotion

by Adam Makos

  Tom slid heavily to the floor and winced. His brain throbbed with a headache. He found his white uniform draped over a chair and went to unpin his golden wings, to transfer them to his tan uniform—but they were missing. Tom slapped himself on his forehead.

  What was I thinking?

  He knew he could buy replacements back in the States, but that first pair carried irreplaceable meaning.

  Tom dressed to go above deck to find out what else he was missing.

  —

  Slowly, Tom climbed the steps and emerged onto Vulture’s Row. The helicopter’s racket rose from the Leyte’s flight deck.

  A few pilots stood along the railing, but none were from ’32. Jesse was probably below deck, helping the chaplain prepare for religious services the next day. Tom took a spot beside the other pilots and shielded his eyes—the midday sun sprayed sharp and white across the sea.

  “Holy cow,” Tom muttered. Beside the Leyte, a few football fields away, a massive aircraft carrier lay at anchor. Tom looked to a pilot next to him.

  “It’s the Midway!” the pilot shouted over the helicopter’s puttering. “You missed it, she just came in.”

  Tom glanced at the helicopter. The rotors were whirring, an indication that it was going to take off again. In the water between the two carriers, landing craft were carrying helmeted Marines from the Midway to the Leyte.

  “What’s going on?” Tom yelled to the pilot.

  “Our orders just came in,” the pilot replied. “We’re leaving for the States today, then on to the Far East—you know what that means!” His face lit up with excitement at the prospect of getting into the thick of the Korean War. He explained that the Marines were probably going to Korea, too—the Midway had scooped them up from across the fleet and was transferring them to the Leyte. The cruise had been cut short.

  Tom draped his arms over the railing as the thought hit him: I’m never going to see her again. On the deck below, officers were making their way to the helicopter carrying thick map cases and the fleet’s code books. Soon, the admiral would follow them to the Midway and he’d transfer his flag, making the Midway the new flagship of the Dancing Fleet.

  Tom looked leftward, past the carrier’s tail and toward Beirut, where the SPs were probably rounding up every sailor on shore leave. Tom thought about her, the vivacious brunette he’d never see again. In 1950, before the age of commercial jet travel, Lebanon seemed as far from home as the moon.

  Tom’s face drooped with self-disgust. He was furious with himself for breaking his own rule. He was a bachelor committed to his career and he knew better than to have chased after that girl. Now his infatuation wilted in the heat of a new reality: He was going to war.

  Tom’s eyes lifted. He glanced toward the shore and up to the St. Georges hotel, where he’d spent the best night of his life with the girl in the pink dress.

  The embassy! he thought. I can write to her there!

  I can still get my wings back!

  * * *

  * Jesse handled his role with dignity, yet he harbored a quiet desire. In a letter to his cousin, Jesse had written: “But I’ll give you a small clue. The happiest moment of the whole cruise will be when they say, ‘Let’s go home.’ ”

  CHAPTER 19

  ON WAVES TO WAR

  The next day, August 13, 1950

  The Mediterranean

  SEVEN HUNDRED YOUNG MARINES from the Midway filled the cavernous bays of the Leyte’s hangar deck. They had changed from their green fatigues into tan uniforms with ties and ditched their helmets. Some milled between parked planes, some marveled at the carrier’s vastness, and some cleaned weapons on the side.

  In a stretch of the hangar deck that was free of planes, two Marines tossed a baseball. One was PFC Ed Coderre, a short eighteen-year-old with an oval face and black hair. Coderre wound up, crow-hopped, and threw the ball like a bullet across the deck.

  Crack! His buddy snagged the ball with a five-fingered glove.

  “Good catch!” Coderre shouted, his voice carrying a Rhode Islander’s clip. Of French Canadian descent, Coderre had black eyebrows that arched so sharply that they looked threatening, yet his dark eyes beamed friendliness. His buddy nodded and returned the toss.

  Crack! Coderre caught the ball, then rotated it to grip the seams.

  Credit 19.1

  Ed Coderre

  Every throw and catch had to be perfect or the ball could wind up overboard. The ship’s crew had slid open the deck’s side doors for some fresh air, and the waves of the Mediterranean could be seen slipping behind Coderre’s buddy. At top speed, the Leyte was steaming for Crete.

  Coderre savored each toss and crack of the leather mitt. He knew that he wouldn’t get many more chances like this. Throughout the cruise, he had served on the USS Worcester and played on the cruiser’s ball club during games at various naval bases. Coderre was a center fielder and the team’s star. Everyone who watched him play agreed—he had the talent to go pro. But only his friends knew that the pros had already been after him. During Coderre’s high school days, the Red Sox had scouted and tried to recruit him—but Coderre had already promised his four buddies that he’d join the Marines with them. After his hitch, however, Coderre knew he’d be free to take the Red Sox up on their offer.

  Coderre wound up to throw, then abruptly lowered his arm to the side. He shook his glove from his hand, let it fall, and snapped to attention. His platoon leader, Second Lieutenant Robert Reem, was approaching.

  The burly lieutenant was twenty-four, with a thick jaw and eyebrows that hung low over kind eyes. He had enlisted during World War II and at some point someone, recognizing his leadership potential, gave him a special appointment to the Naval Academy.

  Reem waved for Coderre to relax and told the other Marine that he needed a word with Coderre, alone.

  “I’ve got good news and bad news,” Reem said.

  Coderre nodded intently.

  Reem said that the battalion had been given a chance to send one enlisted man to prep school for the Naval Academy; he had nominated Coderre and the other officers had concurred.

  Credit 19.2

  Lt. Robert Reem

  Coderre’s eyebrows rose. He’d always dreamed of becoming an officer, but never imagined he could attend the Academy too.

  “Here’s the bad news,” Reem said, shaking his head.

  He said that the Leyte would be delivering the Marines to a transport ship at Crete, and then they would sail to Japan for staging—not home as some of the men were hoping.

  “So, battalion’s pulling the Academy thing off the table,” Reem added, “but I’ll fight like hell to bring it back up once we get home.”

  Coderre’s face dropped but he thanked the lieutenant for looking out for him.

  “It’s rotten, but what can you do?” Reem said. “I won’t even get to see my wife to say goodbye.” The lieutenant’s eyes sank. His wife, Donna, was the daughter of an admiral. The slender, older gentleman had invited Reem to his house in upstate New York, and together the two had listened to the 1947 Army-Navy game on the radio. When Donna had walked into the room, her black curls bouncing, Reem fell instantly in love. These days, the young couple called Lancaster, Pennsylvania, home.

  “I’m just glad to be staying with the unit, sir,” Coderre said.

  “Me too,” Reem said. He smiled and walked away.

  Coderre’s buddy hustled to his side. “What was that all about?” he asked.

  “For two seconds there I was heading to the Naval Academy,” Coderre said. “But plans have changed.”

  “Who cares?” his buddy said. “You’ve got the Red Sox—that’s what I’d do.”

  Coderre’s stomach knotted as he remembered where they were heading.

  “Yeah,” he said reluctantly. “There’s always the Red Sox.”

  —

  Ten days. Tom passed between Corsairs, a stainless steel pot of coffee in hand, and all he could think was, Ten days.

  The s
kipper had told the squadron to prepare for ten days in America before the Leyte could be replenished to sprint to the Far East. No longer was it a theory—the Corsairs around Tom would soon be operating in hostile skies. Tom dived into his maintenance officer duties with greater urgency and had the mechanics working around the clock. To show his appreciation, Tom kept them fueled with coffee.

  From the corner of his eye, Tom noticed a handful of the new Marines clustered behind a Corsair’s folded wing. The Marines were looking toward the cockpit as if something was wrong. Tom approached them. “Can I help you fellas?” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” a Marine said from the front of the group. “We’re trying to figure how a pilot gets up there?”

  Tom realized they were talking about how the cockpit sat so high above the ground and practically behind the wing. He told the Marines it just took a little agility.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you’re a pilot, sir,” the Marine said. Tom followed the Marine’s eyes down to the coffeepot in his hand and in doing so, he noticed the blank spot on his chest where his gold wings should be. He had vowed to buy a replacement pair as soon as he reached American soil.*1

  “Here, I’ll show you,” Tom said.

  He set the coffeepot down and, in a quick bound, sprang from the foothold in the flap and onto the wing. He steadied himself against the folded wing and invited a Marine up with him. Tom guided the youngster up and then pointed out the cockpit and explained how a pilot would crank up the seat to see above the gunsight.

  Tom told the Marines that the Corsair could withstand two thousand pounds of weight per wing. He jumped up and down to show how it didn’t budge. The tour concluded, Tom slid down the wing and landed with a spring, then coached the Marine down.

  The Marine was all smiles. “I built a Corsair model when I was a kid,” he said. “But I never thought I’d get that close to one!”

  “I used to put firecrackers in my models!” another Marine joked.

  Tom’s eyes flickered with mischief. “I used to build balsa planes as a kid,” he said. “I’d light them on fire and toss them out of my bedroom window.”

  The Marines laughed. It was ironic, coming from a pilot.

  —

  The rear of the ship resembled a yard sale.

  Along a side wall, a dozen Marines were inventorying their rifles, bazookas, and other equipment. Red Parkinson followed Corporal Devans from one boy to the next, while scribbling notes on a piece of stationery. Each Marine had two sea bags to sort, one that would be sent home from Crete and one they would carry to Japan.*2

  “Bob, my jungle kit is missing,” a Marine said, glancing up from a mound of cartridge pouches. Devans nodded to Red, who scribbled down: one jungle kit.

  Another fellow’s helmet cover was missing. Another had lost his canteen cover. Devans sighed. Most of the gear had been lost during the landing on Crete.

  “I can’t find my Ka-Bar,” a Marine reported. Devans dropped his hands to his hips and shook his head. The knife could be replaced but that wasn’t the point.

  “I suggest you look harder,” Devans said. “I’ve got to report everything to the gunny.”

  The Marine nodded vigorously.

  At the end of the line, Devans called both antitank platoons together and asked them to take a knee. He squatted in the midst of them. Devans had turned twenty-one just weeks before but carried himself with the presence of a man twice his age.

  “Fellas, why are we missing more Ka-Bars than anything?” Devans asked.

  The others remained silent.

  “It’s because you traded ’em for hooch or sent ’em home to your kid brother,” Devans said. Several boys glanced at their feet. “Where we’re going,” Devans added, tapping the steel deck, “you’re gonna want your knife.”

  Red nodded. He had seen the newspapers call the Korean War a “police action” but knew better. In Korea, the communists had squeezed the forces of democracy into the southeastern corner of the peninsula, an area called the Pusan Perimeter. No matter how the bureaucrats in Washington labeled the conflict, war was war and the free world was losing.*3

  Devans had a last message for the others, this one softer in tone.

  “If you get killed over there, your sea bags get sent home. Make sure yours is cleaned out of anything you don’t want your folks to see.”

  The boys remained silent.

  Devans stood and the others hurried back to their bags with awkward urgency. Devans and Red remained behind.

  “Red, I forgot—did you lose anything?” Devans said.

  “Nope,” Red replied, sticking out his chest proudly. Devans slapped Red on the shoulder and walked away to tend to his own effects. Rumor had it Devans wrote to a girl back home and sent a chunk of every paycheck to his parents, who were struggling financially.

  Red returned to his buddies and found them digging through their personal effects. Word had traveled throughout the deck and other Marines were now scouring their sea bags. On the floor lay piles of pulp fiction comics and pin-up magazines. A few boys unearthed stacks of love letters, wrapped in rubber bands.

  “Don’t want Mom to see this!” a Marine said, holding up a brassiere. Red and the others laughed.

  At the bottom of his sea bag, Red found a flyer for a French cabaret show. A sheepish grin crossed his face and he quickly crumpled the flyer in his palm to spare Uncle Anton and Aunt Anne any shame.

  The Marines scoured the deck for trash cans until a resourceful boy spotted a solution. He carried his stack of contraband to the open platform at the rear of the ship and tossed the pile overboard.

  Other Marines noticed and flocked to the opening where ropes had been strung. A line formed at the ropes as the Marines somberly showered dirty magazines, souvenir women’s undergarments, and photographs down to the sea. When Red got his turn at the ropes, he tossed his wadded-up flyer into the breeze and watched it mix with the contraband that speckled the sea.

  A few Marines lingered at the ropes and looked pensively at the sea, as if they could already feel the chill of Korea, the place that would end their lives or make them men. The things that made them boys drifted farther and farther behind the ship until they slipped beneath the rolling waves.

  * * *

  *1 Tom would later write to the girl to whom he gave his original wings, but would never receive a reply.

  *2 Red and others would soon be assigned to the legendary 1st Marine Division—the WWII conquerors of Guadalcanal and Peleliu. However, budget cutbacks had thinned the division from 22,000 Marines to 8,000. To rebuild the unit to its WWII strength, President Truman mobilized the Marine reserves, recalled embassy guards, and pulled the Fleet Marines from their ships.

  *3 Earlier, on June 29, a reporter had asked President Truman: “Mr. President, would it be correct…to call this a police action under the United Nations?” Truman replied: “Yes. That is exactly what it amounts to.” However, by mid-August, despite the arrival of reinforcements, the American and U.N. forces were in danger of being driven into the sea. The Joint Chiefs decided to send in the 1st Marine Division to change the war’s momentum.

  CHAPTER 20

  THE LONGEST STEP

  Sixteen days later, August 29, 1950

  Fall River, Massachusetts

  TOM SET HIS SEA BAG on the Persian rug in the entryway of his parents’ home. The smell of a simmering dinner drifted in from the kitchen and familiar photos lined the staircase wall. It was a Tuesday evening, yet it felt like a holiday to Tom. He had one week of leave remaining before the Leyte sailed for the Korean War.

  “My darling!” his mother shouted as she approached from the hall. Mary Hudner’s hair was gray and curled above her dark eyebrows. A fashionable dress draped her trim figure and her pearl necklace shined.

  “Hello, Mother!” Tom said as they hugged.

  His mother led him to the living room and sat him in an overstuffed chair opposite a fireplace. Tom told his mother about the Mediterranean and she sha
red stories from the Fall River social scene. Tom’s father was away at one of the family’s grocery stores.

  In the midst of chatting, Mary’s eyes sparkled as she remembered something. She hurried to a side room, reemerged with an envelope, and handed it to Tom. In the upper left corner stood a red crest in the shape of a shield and the words “Harvard College.”

  Credit 20.1

  Mary and Thomas J. Hudner Sr. with their children. Tom is standing behind his father.

  Tom flipped over the letter and raised an eyebrow when he saw that it had been opened.

  “I’m sorry,” his mother apologized. “I just had to see if it was important.”

  Tom read the letter: “We’re awaiting your application as we form our new classes for fall….” His brow furrowed. He had shown early interest in attending Harvard but assumed that the college would have forgotten about him when he never submitted an application. Tom lowered the letter and looked at his mother. “Don’t they know I’ve already got an education?” he said. “Why are they still writing to me?”

  Mary smiled. “Well, you were a fine student.”

  Tom fought back a smile. His grades hadn’t been that good. If anything, it was his prep school pedigree that had opened the door to Harvard.

  Mary asked Tom if he would consider pursuing a graduate degree at Harvard. She knew her son had fulfilled his two years of service to the navy and could foreseeably seek a discharge.

  “Nah,” Tom said. “I’m going to make a career of the navy.”

  Mary looked away with dismay. Her son was due to sail for war and she hoped that Tom might yet follow the path his father and grandfather had laid out for him.