by Adam Makos
But now, something had changed. The stewards hurriedly moved from Jesse to the next man. Jesse’s eyes followed them and his face pleaded—What did I do wrong?
This had happened before. During flight training, Pensacola’s black stewards had viewed Jesse as an upstart, a black man trying to break into a white flying club. Come mealtime, the stewards often pulled their serving plates before Jesse could finish ladling out his food. They had glared at him while serving the white cadets at his side, and allowed the other men all the time they needed to fill their plates. After Jesse earned his wings, the ill treatment had ended. Or so he had thought.
With the main course concluded, the stewards removed dirty plates and filled the officers’ coffee cups. Tom and others lit pipes and cigarettes. As the stewards served dessert, they continued to avoid Jesse’s eyes. Some even fought to keep from grinning.
Confusion filled Jesse’s face. Koenig lowered his cup to the table. “What the heck is going on?” he asked. Jesse shook his head. Across the table, Tom shrugged. He hadn’t noticed.
A group of stewards drifted from the kitchen and congregated by the back wall, followed by cooks in T-shirts and stained aprons. Their eyes settled on Jesse. The kitchen door swung wide and a steward emerged carrying a small cake on a tray. Some of the officers’ heads turned. When the steward reached Jesse’s table, Tom saw an unlit candle on the yellow sponge cake.
Jesse’s eyes grew wide and Koenig relaxed in his seat. Tom grinned. Last week was Jesse’s birthday! he remembered. The ship’s paper had run a blurb announcing that Jesse had turned twenty-four on October 13.
“Excuse me, sirs,” the steward said to Tom and the man beside him. The steward leaned in and lowered the cake in front of Jesse, who shook his head in disbelief.
“Hey, Jesse,” Cevoli shouted from down the table. “How did you swing a cake and party with 150 guests? There’s a war on, you know!” Jesse and the others laughed, but Cevoli had a point: The kitchen never celebrated just one man’s birthday.
The chief steward approached Jesse with a small box in his hands. He was an older black man with a small mustache. His jacket’s left sleeve had three red V-shaped chevrons and the white eagle of a petty officer first class. The stewards and cooks stepped from the back wall, eager to see.
“Ensign Brown,” the petty officer said, “me and the boys chipped in and got you a little something.” He handed Jesse the box. Jesse grinned and surveyed the faces of the kitchen staff. They were smiling, now free to show their excitement. Jesse removed the packaging and flipped open the box top. Nestled inside was a steel watch with a white face and a tiny silver crown for a logo.
A Rolex.
Jesse’s jaw hung open.
“Holy cow!” Koenig murmured.
Along the table, officers leaned in. The watch had a black leather band and a silver winding crown. That’s a chunk of change! Tom thought. Rolexes were the priciest items in the ship’s store at sixty dollars—equivalent to nearly six hundred dollars in present-day money.
Jesse slid the Rolex over his left wrist and fastened the snap. He held the watch up to catch the light and marveled at its glimmer.
“Thank you for lifting us up,” the petty officer said to Jesse. “Now, on this ship, when a black man passes you in the hallway, you never know, he might be just a cook—or he might be a flyer.”
Jesse looked at them all, from the petty officer to the messiest line cook. “Thank you all so very much,” Jesse said. “I hope I never let you down.”
“No, thank you, Ensign Brown,” a steward replied. The others murmured in agreement. “Enjoy it, sir,” said another. “God bless.” One by one the cooks and stewards broke from the gaggle with a nod or wave and returned to their duties.
A steward remained behind. He leaned forward with a lighter and lit the candle on the cake. The flame’s tiny light flickered on Jesse’s cheeks.
In a bashful voice, Koenig broke into song: “Happy birthday to you…” Tom and the officers joined in, and the steward sang, too. Jesse grinned as the chorus of warm voices reached a crescendo.
As the song ended, applause arose. “Thanks so much, guys,” Jesse said. He thanked the steward and waved to the officers up and down the table. “Thank you all.”
With everyone watching, Jesse leaned forward and blew out the candle.
* * *
* The skipper would notice Marty’s proficiency. Two days later, Marty passed through the dining room after a mission. The skipper lowered his sandwich and called him over. “Ensign Goode, how many landings are you up to?” the skipper asked. “About forty without a wave-off, sir,” Marty replied. The skipper looked surprised and said, “You know, someday you may make a naval aviator.”
CHAPTER 27
HOME
Sixteen days later, November 4, 1950
Sasebo, in southwestern Japan
THE SUN WAS SETTING as four “bikeshaws” raced between the wooden storefronts on a Japanese street.
In the lead vehicle, Tom and Cevoli held on to their hats. Two wheels spun beneath their seats while ahead of them a Japanese driver furiously pedaled a third. The bikeshaw was similar to a rickshaw, but instead of towing the cart a man pedaled from a bike seat and steered with handlebars.
Hoots and hollering followed Tom and Cevoli. Three bikeshaws trailed them, each filled with pilots. Dressed in blue blazers and white hats, the pilots seemed out of place for racing. I wish I had a camera! Tom thought.
American sailors leapt from the street to the sidewalk as the bikeshaws raced past. The sailors, too, were bound for downtown. Colorful signs with black Japanese symbols decorated the neighboring storefronts and a background of craggy mountains stood dark against the setting sun.
Tom and Cevoli’s bikeshaw inched from the pack. “Maintain formation, Cevoli!” a pilot shouted from behind. “Stop clogging the airwaves!” retorted another pilot. Tom and Cevoli laughed.
Sporadically, their Japanese driver glanced back and flashed a toothy smile. He was young, too, and wore pants wrapped with cloth at the ankles. A threadbare cap with a short brim and pointy top sat on top of his head—the military cap of a Japanese veteran of World War II.
Cevoli shouted encouragements and the young driver laughed and pedaled harder. After six days ashore in Japan, Cevoli had already put the war behind him. Sasebo had once been an Imperial Japanese Navy base, but now, to the U.S. Navy’s 7th Fleet, it was a welcome playground.
—
The bikeshaw driver turned onto a crowded pedestrian street and stopped at the curb. He announced in broken English that they had arrived. “Black Market Alley!”
Tom hopped down onto the city’s most energetic street.
Shops filled both sides of Black Market Alley and lighted signs blinked. Sailors milled about, jovial, loud, tipsy. Japanese vendors hawked lacquer boxes and silk pajamas. Smoke rose from grills, and the air smelled of sizzling meat and plum wine.
Tom and Cevoli paid their driver and the young man bowed. The other bikeshaws emptied Jesse, Marty, Wilkie, and other high-spirited pilots who flocked to Cevoli and Tom.
This was their last night in Japan before the Leyte sailed in the morning. Although the ship’s destination remained unannounced, Tom and the others had their suspicions. They had last heard that the army and Marines were mopping up in Korea, and the air force was rotating home its B-29 bomber squadrons that had run out of targets. And when the Leyte had anchored in Sasebo, spare parts and new Corsairs were supposed to be waiting—yet the docks were empty. When Tom inquired, he discovered that his requests for spares had been denied, the delivery of new planes canceled. The facts steered Tom and the others to the same conclusion: We’re heading home.
Together, the pilots waded into Black Market Alley, eager to knock out their Christmas shopping early. The Korean War was short—and they’d survived.
Tom absorbed the sights around him as old women hobbled past in wooden clogs. Sailors sat on stools while Japanese artists painted their
portraits. Other sailors tried to sweet-talk Japanese girls, only to hear the commonplace rejection: “Never hoppon, Joe!”
Along the street, Japanese shoe shiners crowded the curbs and polished the shoes of sailors. Most of the shoe shiners wore the same pointed military caps. The postwar Japanese society viewed its veterans as bad memories, so many veterans had to settle for menial jobs.
In clusters, Tom and the others ducked into shops to explore.
—
Beneath a store’s high ceiling and dangling lights, Jesse examined a string of pearls as sailors jostled past. At his side, an ensign named Lee Nelson leaned across the counter and studied several cases of pearls. Nelson was of Scandinavian descent, blond-haired and blue-eyed with boyish features. A pilot in ’32, he also doubled as the squadron’s amateur cartoonist.
The Japanese merchant pointed out the differences among the pearls. Nelson was interested in buying a necklace for his wife, a Northeast Airlines stewardess also named Lee. Like everything in Sasebo, the pearls cost a third of what they would elsewhere.
Jesse trickled the pearls back into their case. He had decided to save his money for the diamond ring he intended to buy for Daisy. Since hearing the rumors that the Leyte would be making a beeline for home, Jesse had been all smiles. The first thing he planned to do was to buy the ring and then present it when he and Daisy were vacationing in the Bahamas.
Nelson told Jesse that he wanted to check for a better price at another shop. The pilots excused themselves from the negotiation and stepped into the street. Jesse and Nelson pulled their white officer’s caps down over their heads and headed toward the next pearl broker.
A jeep honked in the distance, and a whistle pierced the night. Another whistle sounded, this one from the opposite direction, then another. Flocks of Shore Patrol sailors emerged from the crowds at both ends of the street. SPs ran from building to building, while others stopped American servicemen in the street and shouted messages into their ears. The servicemen nodded; even the drunk ones straightened up.
The SPs worked their way closer to Jesse and Nelson. Jesse had always tried to avoid the SPs. During flight training, they often trailed him and Daisy from street to street in Pensacola, unaware that Jesse was an off-duty pilot cadet.
An SP spotted Jesse and Nelson. He pointed and alerted his partner. The two uniformed men hustled toward the pilots, their whistles and night sticks bouncing. At the last second, they stopped and saluted.
“Sirs, liberty is suspended,” the SP said. “Everyone needs to head back to their ships ASAP—something big is happening.”
Jesse asked if something was wrong.
“Shit’s hitting the fan in Korea,” the SP said. “That’s all they’re telling us, sir.” The SPs hurried off to the next navy men.
Jesse’s face fell. He’d just written to Daisy to tell her that he might be coming home.
A full-scale roundup was under way. Along the street, SPs pried sailors from movie theaters, steak dinners, geisha houses.
Tom and Cevoli emerged from a shop, each man wearing newly purchased binoculars around his neck. Tom’s eyes swept the street with alarm.
Even before the SPs reached him, the whistles told Tom what every fighting man dreaded.
Home was going to have to wait.
CHAPTER 28
THE FIRST BATTLE OF WORLD WAR III
Two days later, November 6, 1950
Northeastern North Korea
MARINE HOWITZERS ON THE VALLEY FLOOR barked and sent shells rocketing skyward. Flashes exploded against the charred hilltop. Crack! Crack! Crack! Each blast echoed through the valley. Plumes of smoke rose into the gray afternoon sky.
A seemingly endless string of five thousand Marines watched from the valley floor near the village of Sudong. They were the lead element of the 1st Marine Division. Some Marines stood beside jeeps and trucks parked along a winding dirt road; others stepped from nearby tents. Hands on hips, cigarettes dangling, they stared at the fireworks show on the large, round hill to the north. Korean refugees plodded past the Marines, bound in the opposite direction. The refugees, too, stopped to watch. The top of the hill was charred black, but brown trees still bristled from the bottom.
Before this, the Marines had been making good progress marching north. Their orders were to push the North Koreans over the Chinese border—just eighty miles away—and go no farther.
Then, the massive hill appeared in their path, at the opening to a pass through the mountains. The hill stood 891 meters above sea level, so men called it “891.”
From atop 891, a formidable force had fired down on the Marines and stopped the column in its tracks.
Now the Marines fired back.
Anyone watching could see and feel the Marines’ fury, but not all eyes were fixed on the hill….
—
Red Parkinson took a few steps from his buddies and unslung his carbine. His eyes settled across the road, where a mass of North Korean refugees was resting.
One of the refugees, a man in a peasant’s long coat, had strayed from the group. With his back to the others, he strolled over to a handful of Marine trucks parked by the roadside. Marines were unloading boxes to set up a supply depot. The refugee lightly waved a finger, as if counting the trucks.
Red’s eyes narrowed. “Charlie, take a look at this,” he muttered. Charlie Kline stepped to Red’s side. The refugee held a palm to his chest and bowed his head, scribbling something.
“Can you believe this joker?” Red said. “He’s taking notes.”
“He’s awful curious,” Charlie said.
Several Marines gathered around Red and Charlie. Red lowered his carbine and shouted, “Hey, you!” The refugee glanced over his shoulder and slipped something into his pocket.
Red took a step toward the man, and the refugee took off running.
“Halt!” Red shouted.
But the refugee kept sprinting through a field.
Red raised his rifle and took aim.
The refugee was twenty yards away. Then thirty. Then forty.
Bam! Red fired, and smoke rose from the carbine’s barrel. A puff of filling burst from the back of the refugee’s coat. The man lost his footing, steadied himself, and kept running. Bam, bam, bam! Red fired again. More filling jumped from the man’s back but he kept going. The carbine’s pistol-like bullet had little effect. In disbelief, Red lifted his face from the stock.
“Out of the way, Red!” said another Marine. He calmly leveled his M1 Garand rifle on the running man. Bang! A chunk of filling flew and the refugee flopped to the ground.
Charlie and the other Marines hustled toward the fallen refugee while Red stomped over to the nearest tree. He was finished with the lightweight carbine and knew of a field hospital where he could find spare M1 Garands. With a crimson face, he flipped the carbine upside down in his hands, grabbed it by the barrel, and swung it like a bat against the tree. “Piece of junk!” he shouted. The rifle shattered and Red tossed the bits by the roadside.
—
Within the circle of curious Marines, Devans crouched and rolled the body over. He had recently been promoted to sergeant and Red had been made a corporal. Red caught up and saw that the dead man was Asian, probably in his twenties. His face appeared full, and he was well-fed, almost too well-fed to be a refugee. Devans scratched his chin.
Charlie glanced at Red with a raised eyebrow. “A refugee wouldn’t run like that,” Red said. Devans flapped the young man’s long coat open. Beneath was a second layer, a quilted white jacket that was reversible, brown on the inside. Red had heard of this attire. He felt a knot form in his gut.
Devans fished through the man’s pockets and retrieved a notepad. Red peered over Devans’s shoulder as he thumbed through pages filled with drawings.
“Well, I’ll be,” Devans said. “He’s got our positions marked up and down the road!”
The Marines muttered in disgust. “Sarge, is that one of them?” a Marine asked. The others looked to D
evans.
“He’s no refugee,” Devans said, shaking his head. “He’s not North Korean, either. Take a look at that jacket.”
All eyes settled on the white jacket. One man spit and another nervously fished for a cigarette. Something about the dead man’s attire told them that the fighting wouldn’t be over by Thanksgiving, as General MacArthur had boasted.
The men remained silent and somber. No one congratulated Red for spotting the suspicious character. Instead, their eyes followed the sounds of gunfire back to 891, where something ominous was brewing.
Soon after, around 4:30 P.M., on the hill
“Come on, Coderre, reach!” Lieutenant Reem shouted over the gunfire.
Ed Coderre glanced up from the base of a small embankment and saw Reem reaching down to him. Beneath his helmet, the lieutenant’s eyebrows hung low over his steady eyes.
Deep in a hillside gully, Coderre had never felt so far from his baseball diamond back home in Pawtucket, Rhode Island. Gunfire barked from uphill and green tracers zipped down over the gully.
Coderre lunged and seized Reem’s hand. Reem was burly like a fullback and he yanked Coderre up and over the bank. “Get your squad moving,” Reem shouted. “We gotta reach the crest together!”
Coderre nodded and scrambled to a crouch. Centuries of water runoff had scooped the gully into the hillside, creating U-shaped walls that curved twenty feet above the men. Snap! Snap! Lines of tracers wove over the gully and cracked through the dead trees above. The enemy was raking the hill’s lower slopes. Coderre flinched, his black eyebrows arching high with alarm. Reem noticed and yelled with a shrug, “They’re just firing blind!”