Devotion
Page 34
The carrier was back to business as usual.
Tom lowered his face and hobbled toward the tower. A deckhand opened a watertight door and Tom stepped inside, where an officer was waiting. “Lieutenant Hudner, the captain wants to see you on the bridge,” the officer said.
Tom removed his helmet and tucked it under his arm. After three days on the ground, his hair was matted, his uniform soiled. And now he was going to be punished. Let’s get on with it, Tom thought.
Credit 39.1
Captain T. U. Sisson
—
The sailors on the bridge worked like silent machines. One manned the wheel beside a large compass, while another scanned the horizon with binoculars. Men plotted the ship’s course on charts with depth numbers.
A Marine guard opened a door that led from the catwalk and Captain Sisson stepped inside wearing a green parka. His face was round and ruddy, his nose pointy. He removed his tan ball cap, revealing a head full of gray hair.
Tom snapped a salute. Sisson handed his parka to a sailor and turned to Tom. “At ease, son,” he said, his accent southern and thick. Tom lowered his shoulders a little.
Sisson’s blue eyes were piercing. Golden wings adorned his left breast. As a young aviator, he’d flown search missions for Amelia Earhart over the Pacific, then during WWII he’d planned the carrier strikes for the invasion of North Africa and served as second-in-command of the carrier Saratoga.
Sisson slapped Tom’s shoulder. “We’re glad to have you back, son.”
Tom’s eyes opened wide with surprise.
“Personally,” Sisson said, “I’ve never heard of a more wonderful act than what you pulled out there.”
Tom’s face softened. He thanked the captain.
Sisson meant it. Two days earlier, in a Leyte press release, he’d praised Tom’s rescue attempt by saying: “There has been no finer act of unselfish heroism in military history. From the time of the first reports, we all prayed that our shipmate’s life would have been saved thereby.”
Sisson’s smile faded. He told Tom that he’d sent two recon planes over the crash site that morning. “They saw Ensign Brown’s body still in the wreckage,” he added softly. “He’d been stripped of his jacket and gear.”
Tom looked down at his feet. The finality was hard to accept. Jesse had become the navy’s first black officer to die in battle.
“I’ve got a game call to make and I need your advice,” Sisson continued. “We can steer close to the coast and launch a copter, and the flight surgeon can try to cut Jesse’s body out. The question is: Do you think it can work?”
Tom shook his head slowly. “Sir, those mountains are teeming with Chinese and that helicopter makes an easy target. There’s a good chance more men are going to get killed.” After a pause, Tom added, “I know Jesse wouldn’t want that.”
Sisson stroked his chin. “I’ve got another plan. And I wish there was another way—but we can send a flight up there with napalm and give Jesse a warrior’s funeral.” Sisson studied Tom’s face.
Tom’s eyes met his. “I think Jesse would understand,” Tom said.
Sisson nodded.
“And, sir,” Tom added slowly. “Our squadron should be the ones to do it.”*
Credit 39.2
Sailors crowd the intercom as Captain Sisson announces Jesse’s death. Plane captain Carl Jeckel had his camera nearby and took this picture.
Sisson nodded and turned to a sailor. “Get Dug Neill on the horn. Tell him to put together a four-plane strike.” Sisson quickly corrected himself: “A funeral flight.”
—
The enlisted sailors stood aside with the usual courtesy as Tom limped through the corridor. Their eyes lowered from his matted hair to his soiled flight suit. They may or may not have recognized him. That morning, Sisson had formally announced Jesse’s death to the entire ship and concluded by saying: “The country needed Jesse Brown.”
Tom passed through the mess hall, his helmet under his arm. Officers dotted the tables and stewards cleaned up from breakfast. Everyone looked, but no one said a word.
Tom approached the green curtain to the ready room, spread the flap, and entered. In a rush of green slacks and dark leather, the squadron stood from their magazines and board games.
Tom lowered his head. It was hard to face them, having returned without Jesse at his side. The pilots doused cigarettes and set their coffee mugs aside. In a bunch, they swarmed Tom. Koenig, Marty, and Wilkie slapped his back, and Dad Fowler shook his hand. So many voices overlapped. Cevoli gripped Tom by the shoulder, his eyes misty.
The crowd parted as the skipper barreled through. Tom’s shoulders sank. Here it comes, he thought. He braced for the words Your court-martial will convene on…
With everyone watching, the skipper extended his hand. Tom shook it.
“Thanks for risking your life for Jesse,” the skipper said. “We’re all mighty proud of you.”
Tom glanced around. The others were nodding, their eyes filled with gratitude.
“Cevoli says that what you did was the finest act he’s ever seen,” the skipper added, “and that’s sayin’ something.” Just the skipper, Dad, and a few others knew how Cevoli had earned the Navy Cross during WWII: Flying his Hellcat off the coast of the Philippines, he had single-handedly strafed the Japanese super-battleship Yamato.
The skipper placed an arm over Tom’s shoulder and steered him from the circle. “Be sure to get to sick bay to tend to that limp. And stay off your feet as long as you need.”
Only later would Tom realize what had changed. The skipper’s edict—“It’s bad enough to lose one pilot. We can’t lose two”—was based on the concept of a nameless, faceless downed pilot. But when that pilot was Jesse, everything changed. The skipper never mentioned a court-martial for Tom. He’d later write the squadron’s combat history and record Tom’s actions as “outstanding heroics.”
The skipper departed to plot the funeral flight and Tom turned back to his friends. His brow was still furrowed, his thoughts far away, focused on someone Jesse had spoken about endlessly. Tom’s mind now held a single question.
Does she know yet?
* * *
* Pilot Herb Sergeant flew the recon mission that confirmed Jesse’s death. He says it was “the saddest flight” he ever made. Another ’32 pilot, Bryan Rudy, flew the funeral flight; he remembers that as they dropped napalm on Jesse’s remains, one of the pilots recited the Lord’s Prayer.
CHAPTER 40
WITH DEEP REGRET
A day later, December 8
Hattiesburg, Mississippi
ARMS LADEN WITH SHOPPING BAGS, Daisy followed her best friend, Snook Hardy, into the apartment building of Snook’s parents. It was a Friday afternoon, around 4 P.M.
The girls shed their winter jackets. Underneath, they wore sweaters and skirts. Snook was tall and thin, and glasses encircled her cheerful eyes. Back when they were children, the two had lived next door to each other and worn a path through the hedge between their yards. Everyone called them “Pete” and “Repeat” because whenever one was seen, the other was nearby. The girls sank into couches and giggled as they slid paperboard boxes from the bags.
Daisy held up a colorful new dress. She had purchased it in preparation for her upcoming trip to the Bahamas with Jesse. Daisy’s other bags contained Christmas presents for Pam. In a letter, Jesse had suggested specific presents Daisy should buy for their baby.
The phone rang and Snook bounded into the kitchen. “Yes, ma’am, she’s here,” Snook said, then shouted over her shoulder, “Tootie, your mama’s calling!”
Daisy entered the kitchen and held the phone to her ear.
“Come home, child, you have company,” her mother said simply. Her voice sounded strange. Daisy asked who had come to see her but got no answer. Daisy’s eyebrows furrowed. She hung up the phone and turned to Snook.
“All she’d say is there’s someone there to see me,” Daisy said.
—
Her mother, Addie, came to her side. Addie was robust, with a strong, oval face. Her eyes normally beamed, but not today. “Give me your bags, Daisy Pearl,” she said, her voice shaky. “I’ll take them upstairs.”
Daisy’s face twisted. She handed over the bags and her mother disappeared. Daisy heard murmuring, and she stepped into the living room. Her younger sisters and brother were there, and Jesse’s close friend M. L. Beard, and a Caucasian woman who wore a Red Cross pin. Everyone turned to face her. In confusion, Daisy glanced from one somber face to the next.
M.L. approached Daisy. He was twenty-five and tall, but his thin mustache made him look older and wiser. His eyes were bloodshot.
“Shouldn’t you be at home in bed?” Daisy asked. M.L. usually slept during the day because he worked nights, stocking a local department store while saving up for medical school.
The young man glanced at his feet and told Daisy that her mother had called him. He didn’t look up. “When was the last time you heard from Jesse?” M.L. asked, his voice quivering.
“I got a letter from him today,” Daisy said. “Why?”
M.L. walked over to the family’s radio against a side wall. The radio was square and tall, like a small jukebox. Daisy’s mother always placed her mail on top.
There sat what looked like a white postcard.
“We just received this,” M.L. said. He took the postcard, passed it to Daisy, then turned away. Daisy saw M.L.’s shoulders bobbing. He was crying.
Daisy noticed that the “postcard” was actually a Western Union telegram. Her knees became weak. She lowered her purse to the floor. Her legs automatically carried her to the couch and she sat down. She glanced around the room again. Her siblings were crying and M.L. was looking away. The Red Cross woman had lowered her head. In the kitchen, Daisy’s mother paced in circles with Pam in her arms.
Daisy gasped, and the telegram shook in her hands. She read a few words: It is with deep regret…She looked away and held the telegram at arm’s length. Her tears began flowing as waves of horror came crashing down. Daisy peeked back at the telegram. Through blurry tears she read it.
It is with deep regret that I officially report the death of your husband Ensign Jesse Leroy Brown….
The telegram fell from her fingers. Daisy buried her face in her hands and cried. Her muffled sobs filled the room.
She felt someone sit beside her and pull her close, but she didn’t lift her head. She sobbed and sobbed into her hands. Her chest kept heaving.
After some time, Daisy lifted her face, sniffled, and sucked in air. She saw M.L. at her side. Someone handed her a handkerchief. She wiped her eyes and nose. Her rib cage ached. A vision of Jesse’s parents entered her mind. John and Julia lived alone in the countryside, without a phone. Their children had all grown up and moved away.
Daisy staggered to her feet. M.L. moved to steady her, but Daisy waved him away. She retrieved her purse from the floor and rummaged through it. Daisy produced her car keys and moved for the back door. Her mother blocked her way with Pam in her arms. Addie shook her head. Her eyes were sad but stern. She had been widowed at the age of thirty and never imagined that this would befall her daughter too. The Red Cross woman pleaded with Daisy to sit.
“I’ve got to get to the Browns’,” Daisy said, her voice shaking. “I want to be there before they get the news.”
“Child, you’re in no state to drive,” her mother asserted.
Daisy turned to M.L. “Will you drive me?”
M.L. nodded. Daisy passed him the keys and led the way out the door.
—
Twenty minutes later, Daisy climbed the rickety steps to the Brown family’s porch. Before she entered, the wails stopped her where she stood. Daisy nearly broke down herself but took a deep breath and entered the cabin. M.L. followed.
On one side of the room, John Brown sat rocking in his chair. His wife, Julia, sat across his lap. Her arms were locked around him and she sobbed with her face pressed against his shoulder. Julia glanced up and saw Daisy. She ran and embraced her and the two cried together. M.L. knelt at the side of Jesse’s father. John Brown kept rocking, his eyes fixed blankly across the room.
Julia was gasping for breath and clutching her chest, so Daisy guided her to a chair at the kitchen table where Jesse and his mother had once played “the word game.” Now, instead of a dictionary, a telegram sat on the table. Daisy moved the telegram out of sight and held Julia’s hand.*
Daisy glanced over and saw John Brown still rocking, locked in a stupor. M.L. shook his head. Daisy stood. “M.L., bring Daddy Brown to the car,” she said. “We’re going to the doctor.”
Daisy led Julia down the rickety steps toward the Wayfarer and M.L. followed with both of his arms wrapped around John Brown to keep him from collapsing.
This time, Daisy drove.
—
That night, Daisy clutched the railing as she climbed the back steps of her mother’s apartment in the dark. Her mind felt hazy. One last task, she thought. M.L. followed close behind her. The doctor had given Jesse’s parents sedatives and they had insisted they’d be okay.
Daisy staggered into the kitchen and heard more voices in the living room. Snook peeked into the kitchen and approached with open arms. After a long tearful hug, Daisy picked up the telephone from its cradle and cranked the handle. She huddled over the handset and asked for the long distance operator.
For some time, Daisy talked in a low voice, pausing only to wipe her eyes. Finally, she hung up and turned to Snook. “Now Jesse’s brothers know,” Daisy said. In search of better opportunity, Fletcher, Lura, Marvin, and William had moved to Chicago, where they lived in an apartment building owned by their uncle.
With Snook at her side, Daisy entered the living room. Her pastor, Reverend Woullard, was waiting with her family. The reverend shepherded Jesse’s church in the country and the city church that Daisy attended. Daisy hugged the older man, then excused herself to freshen up.
As she started up the stairs, her feet felt heavy. The light bulb at the top began swirling. Tunnel-like darkness began squeezing her vision from the sides, turning everything blacker and blacker.
Daisy fell unconscious to the stairs.
* * *
* The telegram to Daisy read: “It is with deep regret that I officially report the death of your husband Ensign Jesse Leroy Brown US Naval Reserve which occurred 4 December as a result of action in the Korean area. When further details are received concerning his remains you will be informed immediately. Your husband died while in the performance of his duty and while serving his country. I extend my sincere sympathy in your great loss.—Vice Admiral John W. Roper, Chief of Naval Personnel”
CHAPTER 41
TO THE FINISH
Three days later, December 11
Northeastern North Korea
WITH DROOPING EYES, Red watched his shadow walk beside him. The shadow was hunched, dropping one foot in front of the other. Its breath puffed in the frigid air.
Red glanced up. The road ahead snaked downhill through a corridor of rock.
He glanced down again and kept hobbling. Red resembled a survivor of a polar expedition. His red beard had filled in and bristled with ice crystals. Dark bags hung beneath his eyes. Ice wrapped the bayonet of his rifle and his parka had turned black in spots.
Behind him, Jack plodded amid a line of twenty Marines. The youngster’s black mustache was thick and unkempt. The men mumbled now and then. No one talked anymore—they lacked the energy to finish a sentence. Alongside them, drivers steered jeeps
and hauled the wounded.
Yudam-ni lay seventy-eight miles behind the Marines. They had fought their way here, to Korea’s eastern coast, in a grueling trek that the men were calling “the Big Bug-Out.” Once sixty Marines strong, the detachment had been whittled almost in half, to thirty-five men. Among their losses was the detachment’s only MIA—Charlie Kline. No one had seen him since the creek bed.
Red’s eyelids sank as he slogged along. The cold masked his scent—he hadn’t showered in fifty-three days. He sporadically slapped his cheeks to stay awake. Red caught glimpses of other units ahead, snaking downhill, and he heard orders shouted from units behind him, around the bend.
With every yard, the rock wall on the left diminished a bit. Red glanced to the side and his eyes widened. Far below lay a harbor partly ringed by snow-capped hills. Sunlight glistened on the sea and rows of American transport ships lay against the dark sand, their doors open.
Red almost bumped into the man in front of him. The column slowed and men wandered to the roadside. Their eyes feasted on the sights.
The road ahead wound down to a tent city on the beach where cranes transferred nets of cargo onto the ships. Marine units were marching through the tent city and onto the ships. Deeper in the harbor, more ships lay at anchor and planes buzzed in from aircraft carriers beyond.
This was the ramshackle port of Hungnam, and one of those ships would be Red’s ride out of North Korea. Red and the men at his sides remained silent. At that moment, he knew it: Devans was right.
—
At the base of the hill, Red hiked faster, surging with a desperate rush of adrenaline. He panted and struggled to keep his footing. The gate to the tent city—the finish line—lay a field’s length away.
Behind the gate, Shore Patrol sailors directed traffic, waving in each unit of Marines, urging them to move faster. The forces of democracy were evacuating North Korea and fourteen thousand fighting men were arriving from the Chosin, not to mention the units from other areas. Horns honked and jeep engines sputtered. Military interpreters shouted to crowds of North Korean refugees to remind them that they had to wait for the troops to board first. Time was of the essence—the army’s 7th Infantry was holding a perimeter in the hills. About forty-five miles down the coast, Wonsan had cleared out the day before.