by Adam Makos
The crowd parted as the skipper, Cevoli, and Dad led the squadron through. The pilots wore green tent caps and leather jackets, and they carried sea bags over their shoulders. Beyond the distant hangars, a navy transport was waiting to fly them to Quonset Point.
As the squadron filtered past, the crowd searched the pilots’ faces for friends or loved ones. Female sailors batted their eyelashes and dignitaries stepped down from the grandstand, eager to pose for pictures.
But the men of Fighting 32 remained in line. Marty grinned at some of the female sailors but didn’t make a pass. Wilkie eyed the telephone trailer but didn’t dart away to call his wife. Tight-lipped, Tom passed the clamoring dignitaries.
He carried two sea bags—one his, the other Koenig’s. Koenig followed behind, arms wrapped around a box. The Leyte had sailed to war with nearly three thousand men and three had been killed in action. The box belonged to one of the fallen.
It was heavy with books—Plato’s Five Great Dialogues, and Love Poems, Old and New, and Jackie Robinson’s life story. There was a well-worn Bible and the drawing of a red, single-story dream house that would never be built.
Eyes set forward, the squadron left the crowd and the carrier behind. The collar of Tom’s jacket had turned reddish all the way through. So had the others’. They were a squadron of veterans now, far from the days of Cannes. This time, the skipper didn’t need to ask.
Everyone stuck together.
* * *
*1 Daisy made Jesse’s last letter available to readers following the Afterword of this book.
*2 While en route to San Diego, Captain Sisson received a message from Elizabeth Taylor’s manager. The starlet had been following the Leyte in the papers and asked if she could greet the crew in San Diego. But Sisson didn’t want the crew to be whistling and cat-calling the actress when they should be remembering the men they had lost in battle. He politely declined Elizabeth’s offer.
CHAPTER 43
THE CALL FROM THE CAPITAL
Almost two months later, March 31, 1951
Fall River, Massachusetts
UNDER THE CEILING LIGHT in his bedroom, Tom scribbled a note at his desk. He sporadically sipped from a glass of scotch. The window behind him was dark except for the light of the streetlamps on Highland Avenue. Tom had returned to his parents’ house from Quonset Point. It was a Saturday night and his parents were away at dinner.
Envelopes lay piled on his desktop, some open, some sealed. A sack of unopened mail sat on the floor nearby. The balsa planes were long gone from Tom’s ceiling and the Boy Scout poster was stripped from the walls. But Tom’s Horatio Hornblower book remained on his dresser.
For months, countless black citizens had written to thank Tom for trying to save Jesse. Some letters contained photos or good luck charms. One woman sent a strip of silk taffeta, her prized possession, for Tom to use as a scarf. For weeks, Tom had come home every weekend to answer the mail. He responded to each letter with a quick note and a clarification: “I’m no hero, I just did what was right to do.”
The phone rang. Tom lowered his pen. At this hour? It rang again. Tom walked into his parents’ bedroom and picked up the phone.
“Mr. Hudner, I’m trying to reach your son, Tom.”
Uh-oh, Tom thought. “This is he.”
The man introduced himself as the White House naval liaison officer. He was a lieutenant commander and he sounded all business. “Lieutenant,” he said. “You’ve been approved to receive the Medal of Honor for your actions in northern Korea.”
Tom’s heart skipped a beat. The Medal of Honor was the military’s highest award. It was so rare that Tom had yet to see anyone wearing one. Tom lowered himself to his parents’ bed and kept listening. He had heard rumors that Sisson had nominated him for a medal but never believed them—until now.
“In two weeks, the president will be presenting the medal to you here in Washington, on April 13,” the commander added. “It’ll be a brief ceremony. Your travel and lodging arrangements will be forthcoming. Any questions?”
“No, sir.” Tom’s voice was low.
“Good. This will be the first Navy Medal of Honor since World War II.”
The commander hung up and Tom sat, stunned. He knew the medal came with responsibility—he’d be placed on a pedestal as a figurehead of the military.
Tom’s face sank as his thoughts raced to Mississippi. He lowered his head. What will Daisy think of this? Jesse’s gone and I’m getting an award?
Two days later, Hattiesburg
Seated behind a gray plastic dashboard, Daisy clutched the Wayfarer’s metal steering wheel as she drove. Snook sat beside her on the striped fabric seat. It was a Monday afternoon, and the two were running errands.
“So are you going to Washington?” Snook asked over the engine’s purr. The White House had invited Daisy to attend the Medal of Honor presentation, all expenses paid.
“I don’t know,” Daisy said. “It’s just going to bring it all back.”
Snook nodded slowly.
It had been a long and sad winter. First came Jesse’s memorial service at the high school. Then came Christmas, when Jesse’s cousin Ike and his wife, Gwen, came home, distraught. Then Jesse’s mother died. Thirty-one days after her son’s death, Julia collapsed while making her bed. The coroner said that she had died from a stroke, but the family considered her a casualty of the Korean War, killed by the stress of Jesse’s death. John Brown’s depression only deepened.
“Someone should represent Jesse at the ceremony,” Daisy said, thinking aloud. She glanced over at Snook. “The problem is, I’ve got no one to go with me. Will you come with me?”
Snook shook her head vigorously. “No way am I flying in some airplane to some strange city to somethin’ with all those upper-class folks….Are you sure you want to go to all that?”
Daisy sighed. It did sound intimidating.
—
Ten days later, Daisy looked timidly at her toes as she paced through the aircraft’s aisle. She wore a long tan coat and a small hat. Behind her, the sounds of revving aircraft engines snuck through the plane’s open door. It was just another busy day at Hattiesburg Airport. From seats on both sides of the aisle, white passengers glanced up at Daisy. Businessmen dipped their newspapers and women lowered their makeup cases. In those days, it was uncommon to see a black person flying.
Daisy wanted to turn and flee back to the terminal. She had never traveled alone before. You’re representing Jesse! she reminded herself. Daisy dropped into a seat beside a round window with the curtains spread. Behind her, baggage thumped as it was loaded aboard.
Daisy took a deep breath and fastened her seatbelt.
The following afternoon, Friday, April 13, 1951
From the back seat of a Cadillac, Daisy glanced side to side with wonder. To the left stretched the National Mall, its green lawn warm in the mid-afternoon sun. On her right stood the stately buildings of Washington, D.C., every other one with wide steps and tall stone columns.
Daisy held a bouquet of roses on the lap of her coat. The bouquet was a gift from the secretary of the navy, who would be present at the ceremony.
At Daisy’s side sat her escort, Seaman First Class Clara Carroll. Clara was a young black woman, too. Her navy uniform flowed into a skirt and she wore a white hat with a short brim. Her face was round, her chin was thick, and her hair curled behind her ears. The White House had arranged for Daisy to stay with Clara because most of Washington’s hotels didn’t permit black guests.
Daisy beamed as she gripped the roses. Already, she was overwhelmed by the navy’s generosity. Earlier that morning at Quonset Point, the air group had announced their scholarship for Pam. The Leyte’s crew had raised $2,700, equivalent to more than $24,000 in present-day money. It was more than enough to pay for Pam’s college education. The skipper had traveled to New York City and invested the money in a fund so that when Pam turned twenty-one, the money would go to her.*1
Daisy hadn’
t forgotten Jesse’s instructions for herself, either. His life insurance money had arrived, and she knew that he wanted her to spend it on her education and become a teacher like his mama. But Daisy was hesitant to spend the money on herself. She had Pam to raise in addition to something Jesse had never anticipated—his father now needed her care, too.
“Have you met Lieutenant Hudner before?” Clara asked Daisy.
Daisy’s face scrunched. “I’m sure I have, I just don’t remember him because Jesse and I lived off base. All I really know about him is what the papers said—he tried to save Jesse, but Jesse had already passed.”
Clara nodded.
“He was very brave to try,” Daisy added.
—
Beneath the covered entrance to the White House, the driver opened Daisy’s door. She stepped from the car. A navy-colored dress peeked from beneath her tan coat and she wore white gloves. Her hair was curled beneath a hat with a scalloped brim, and a borrowed mink stole draped her shoulders. From behind a wrought-iron fence, tourists snapped photos. The spring air was crisp.
A White House staffer led Daisy forward. Two Marines opened the double doors for Daisy and stood ramrod straight in their dress blues. Whenever the Marines were around, it meant that the president was near. Daisy could see a chandelier inside and a small army of staffers waiting to greet her.
She took a deep breath and stepped inside.
—
Tom and his family funneled into the White House Cabinet Room behind the presidential secretary, a man in his forties. Tom wore his navy blue uniform with the usual black tie and white shirt, and his hair was swept back.
Tom’s family admired the long table where the president held meetings. Thick leather chairs surrounded the table and light poured in from tall windows beside it. Tom’s mother was all smiles in her thickest fur wrap. His father stood quietly content in a gray three-piece suit. Tom’s sister and brothers were there along with his three uncles and their wives.
Tom’s face scrunched and he turned to the secretary. “Where can I find Daisy Brown?” he said. “I really need to talk with her.”
The secretary told Tom that Daisy was waiting outside but that Tom couldn’t go out yet—he needed to meet the president first.
“Okay,” Tom muttered.
He had tried to find Daisy at the hotel but she hadn’t been there, either. Tom’s uncle stood quietly by. He knew why Daisy wasn’t at their hotel, but he held his tongue to not spoil Tom’s day.
The uncle was from Tom’s mother’s side and his last name was Brown, like Jesse’s. He’d decided to come to Washington at the last minute and called the stately hotel on 16th Street, where the White House was housing the Hudner family. The uncle told the reservations clerk the reason for his visit and asked, “You’ve heard about Jesse Brown, the colored pilot who died in Korea?”
After a pause, the clerk replied, “I’m sorry, Mr. Brown, but we’re all filled up.”
Tom’s uncle found this odd. So he called a friend in Washington and asked him to try to make a reservation for the same night. His friend called him back. “You’re all set to stay there,” the friend said. “The problem was that when you said your last name was ‘Brown,’ they thought you were a Negro, someone from the Hattiesburg Brown family.”
—
“Everyone, please gather around,” the secretary said. Tom and his family congregated. The secretary told Tom’s family that they could watch the ceremony from the stairs behind the president. He then turned to Tom and said, “Just a warning, but expect to see a lot of cameras—far more than usual.” The secretary sounded annoyed at the thought. Tom knew why the media were turning out.
Two days prior, President Truman had made a controversial decision.
With the battle lines in Korea seesawing along the 38th parallel, Truman’s administration was suggesting peace talks with the communists. General MacArthur, however, wanted to bomb targets across the Yalu and airlift Nationalist Chinese troops from Taiwan into China. He’d even written to Congress to request authority to expand the war, with complete disregard for the Soviet Union’s defense pact with China.
Truman had little choice. Rather than watch the legendary general spark World War III, he fired MacArthur.*2
The door to the Cabinet Room opened and Tom turned. From the hallway, the president’s snappy midwestern twang sounded.
“I want to meet this young man!” Truman said loudly. “Where is he?”
—
When Tom and President Truman stepped onto the porch, thunderous applause erupted. Countless flashbulbs popped and Tom blinked. Dignitaries lined the sides of the staircase and more than three hundred people crowded the Rose Garden lawn below.
Truman flashed a cheery grin and waved to the crowd. His face was round, his nose sharp, and he wore wire-rim glasses. A red tie provided a splash of color to his gray suit. Few presidents had ever made as many big decisions as he had. Truman had authorized use of the atomic bombs to end WWII, he’d ordered the desegregation of the military, and he’d committed American forces to the war in Korea.
Tom scanned the faces along the staircase. Halfway down, on the right, he spotted Daisy. She was facing him and smiling, tight-lipped but friendly. She held a bouquet of roses in the crux of her arm and was clapping. Tom released a breath of relief. Daisy stood between Clara and a middle-aged black officer. A thin mustache lined the officer’s oval face; he was Lieutenant Dennis Nelson, and during WWII he’d become one of the navy’s first twelve black officers.
Truman turned to Tom and asked, “Shall we?”
Tom smiled and nodded.
Truman descended the stairs, followed by Tom and his family.
—
Truman stepped to the podium, where microphones were waiting. Tom took his place at the president’s side.
Cameramen hunkered down behind movie cameras and photographers raised hand-held still cameras. Reporters flipped open notepads. More cameramen climbed ladders in the background. Behind the press pool, a large portrait of Jesse in his uniform stood on an easel. The White House staff had enlarged the photo so that the journalists could capture Jesse’s likeness for their stories.
Truman glanced nervously at the press pool. He was in no hurry to face their questions. The American Legion’s commander had just come out against his decision to fire MacArthur, and MacArthur himself had gone silent in Tokyo.
Truman looked across the audience and began in a steady voice: “The President of the United States takes pleasure in presenting the Medal of Honor to Lieutenant Thomas Jerome Hudner Jr., United States Navy.”
Applause sounded.
When the crowd quieted, Truman recited a summary of Tom’s actions while Tom stood at attention, his eyes locked forward. Admirals and generals dotted the crowd of men in fedoras and women in shin-length dresses. Captain Sisson was among the brass too. In the background, the Washington Monument stood tall against a blue sky.
Truman’s voice lowered as he read the final line: “Lieutenant Hudner’s exceptionally valiant action and selfless devotion to a shipmate sustain and enhance the highest traditions of the U.S. Naval Service.”
The president removed a felt-covered box from the podium. He opened the box, revealing the bronze, star-shaped Medal of Honor. “You earned this,” Truman said to Tom. “This is the greatest honor anyone can get.” He draped the medal around Tom’s neck and snapped the blue ribbon closed.
“Thank you, sir,” Tom said.
Truman shook Tom’s hand but didn’t let go. His eyes lowered to the medal. With his free hand he lifted the medal from Tom’s neck and said, “I would rather have this than be president.”
Tom grinned.
A cameraman shouted from the press pool: “Mr. President! Can you stay there so we can get some close-ups?”
“Sure,” Truman said. “Let’s do even better.” He turned to Daisy and called, “Mrs. Brown—would you be willing to join Lieutenant Hudner and me?”
Credit 43.
1
Daisy, President Truman, and Tom during the White House ceremony
Daisy nodded. She descended the stairs like a princess. Truman wrapped his arm around her and steered her close. Daisy glanced at Tom and smiled; not a single tear had slipped from her eyes.
She’s just like her husband was, Tom thought. An extraordinary person.
Truman turned to face the press with Daisy on his right and Tom on his left. “Okay!” he said loudly. “Get your shots, movie men.”
The journalists laughed. Cameras flashed and movie cameras panned on their tripods. Daisy had never been under a brighter spotlight. So this was Jesse’s world, she thought. Her husband was special, she had always known it. But not until she was the only black person on the White House lawn did she understand his accomplishments.
Daisy smiled across the sea of cameras and didn’t blink.
—
The president’s secretary indicated that Truman needed to be going. The president nodded and shook Tom’s hand heartily. Truman then turned to Daisy and said, “Mrs. Brown, the nation is grateful for your husband’s sacrifice.”
“Thank you for remembering him, Mr. President,” Daisy said. She explained that she had brought a photo of Jesse and left it with his secretary.
Truman’s eyes turned moist. He shook Daisy’s hand and said simply, “Thank you.”
The president began to climb the steps. A chorus of voices shouted from the press pool: “Mr. President!”
Truman stopped and gave them a wave. “Sorry, gents, this is not the time or the place.” Truman wheeled to resume climbing and caught his foot on a step. He lost his balance and was about to fall when Lieutenant Nelson—the black officer—snagged him by the arm. Truman regained his footing and paused, flustered.