by Adam Makos
“Don’t worry, Mr. President,” Nelson said. “There’s still someone supporting you today.”
Truman chuckled, as did everyone in earshot. The president bounded up the remaining steps.
—
Tom stood alone with Daisy as the brass and dignitaries dispersed. Nearby, the journalists were boxing up their cameras. Tom’s family watched from the steps with Clara and the White House staff. A few admirals lingered for a chance to speak with Tom, but everyone gave Tom and Daisy space.
“There are some things I’ve been wanting to tell you,” Tom said softly. “There’s just no easy way to do it.”
“Tom, it’s okay,” Daisy said. “Say whatever you need, I’ll be all right.”
Tom glanced at his toes. “Jesse was so calm through it all, I’ve never seen anything like it,” he said. “When we were on the ground, he was calming me down, when I should have been the one calming him down.”
Daisy cocked her head. “How could he have calmed you? The papers said he passed before you reached him.”
Tom looked up with surprise. “Oh, they got that all wrong.” New life flowed into his eyes. “Jesse was alive. We were together for forty minutes—I was up along the canopy and we were talking.”
Tears welled along Daisy’s eyelids. She shook her head in disbelief.
“When I left the plane to wave in the helicopter,” Tom added, “that’s when he let go.”
Daisy squeezed the bouquet of roses tightly.
Tom looked Daisy in the eyes. “He was thinking of you. He even gave me a message to tell you.”
Daisy gulped.
Tom’s voice choked. “He said, ‘Just tell Daisy how much I love her.’ ”
Daisy lowered her head and her tears flowed. Tom glanced away, his eyes blurry. Everyone watching became emotional, and some wiped their eyes.
Sniffling, Daisy pulled herself together. She blotted her eyes with a handkerchief. But Tom’s head remained lowered. Daisy could tell how much Jesse’s death still weighed on him.
“So, Jesse wasn’t alone,” Daisy said, her voice warming. “That means so much, Tom.”
Tom didn’t look up. “I’m just sorry the result wasn’t happier,” he muttered.
Daisy ducked to see Tom’s face. “Tom?”
He finally looked up.
“I’m just so grateful that you tried to save him,” Daisy said. “Jesse was lucky to have a friend like you.”
Tom’s face slowly loosened and his shoulders lowered.
After a pause he said, “Well, I guess we’d better be going.”
Daisy agreed. Cars were waiting to whisk them to a dinner. That weekend they’d do a radio show together, in Baltimore; then the next month they’d travel to Chicago to be honored by the Chicago Defender newspaper. During the years, Tom and Daisy would make numerous appearances together to perpetuate Jesse’s legacy. This was just the first.
Tom and Daisy turned and walked up the steps. Behind them, the press pool had thinned and the portrait of Jesse had come into sight.
On the steps, Clara took her place at Daisy’s side and asked, “How are you holding up, Mrs. Brown?”
“I’m doing as well as I can,” Daisy said. “This is the price of marrying an exceptional man.”
* * *
*1 The air group’s scholarship announcement read: “In the collective units comprising our democratic society, there are those who through individual ability, perseverance and exemplary character earn the whole hearted respect, admiration and friendship of those who know them. Ensign Jesse L. Brown was such a person.”
*2 Truman’s peace talks would founder over the POW issue. The forces of democracy had captured vast numbers of Chinese and North Korean soldiers, and the communists wanted them returned as terms of a cease-fire. But the forces of democracy held that the POWs should be able to choose to return to a communist land or not. Over this issue, the negotiations would melt down and the war would rage for two more years.
CHAPTER 44
THE MESSAGE
Six days later, April 19, 1951
Fall River, Massachusetts
TOM WAVED SHEEPISHLY from the black Cadillac convertible as it cruised Main Street. Around him, a crowd of all ages waved and cheered. More than forty thousand citizens of Fall River filled the sidewalks and spilled into the street. The townspeople were backed up against the storefronts; some had to stand on their toes for a glimpse of the officer in the navy blazer and white hat.
From the back seat of the convertible, Tom glimpsed children, businessmen, housewives, immigrants—even his childhood bully-turned-friend, Manny Cabral, might have been there. It was a brisk, gray Thursday afternoon and the city’s largest celebration since WWII had begun, an event that the town fathers had named the “Hudner Day Parade.”
Tom’s eyes darted about with confusion, even discomfort. He couldn’t fathom why so many people had turned out to see him. Police officers jogged in front of his car while navy officers flanked its sides. Tom’s parents and sister, all smiles, sat in a separate Cadillac behind Tom’s and a marching band followed several lengths behind. Farther back stretched a motorcade of dignitaries, and behind them came the marching soldiers of an all-black National Guard unit.
Tom continued waving, his smile tight and awkward. This was only the beginning, and he knew it. Life magazine wanted to interview him. Officials from a war bond campaign wanted to put his face on posters and the Baltimore Urban League had asked him to speak at their youth rally. Invitations to a quiz show and a movie premiere were forthcoming.
Tom hadn’t yet committed to a thing. Secretly, he wanted to put his newfound notoriety behind him. On his blazer he wore a small blue award ribbon to represent the medal, but nothing more. Around his neck, Tom wore his navy-issue black tie—he had left his Medal of Honor at home.
A roar bellowed from behind. Tom glanced over his shoulder as four Corsairs raced low over the parade route, then over his head. White Ks stood out on their tails. Their noise rattled the glass storefronts and caused children to cover their ears. Another four Corsairs buzzed Main Street, then came another four. The crowd cheered.
As the Corsairs sped away, Tom shook his head in wonder. His friends were at the controls, including Cevoli, Marty, and Wilkie—all flying to salute him.
I really don’t deserve this, Tom thought.
—
At the end of the parade route, the vehicles stopped in the city’s South Park. Tom stepped out of the Cadillac and headed over to a stage set against a hill of barren trees. A cold bay of ocean lay downhill. Behind Tom, the crowd funneled into the park.
A cluster of dignitaries lined up on the stage to greet Tom. He shook hands with the mayor, representatives from the state, and even the commander of Quonset Point, a rear admiral who’d later say in his speech: “I am very proud to wear the uniform that Tom Hudner wears.”*
At the end of the receiving line waited a cluster of women. Beneath their hats they wore their hair in buns. One of the town fathers introduced them to Tom as the town’s Gold Star Mothers. They’d each lost a son in war, most in WWII, a few very recently in Korea. Tom stepped into the half-circle of women and warmly shook each mother’s hand. With teary eyes, one mother told Tom how brave he was for trying to save Jesse. Another pulled him close and hugged him tightly.
Tom could sense their grief, the same emotional wound that had killed Jesse’s mother. Yet the women all looked at Tom with admiration. Each wanted to shake his hand. As Tom conversed with the Gold Star Mothers, he began to realize the powerful responsibility that came with the medal.
Someone has to speak for those who paid the ultimate price.
—
Eager faces of all ages watched Tom step to the wooden dais. Against the backdrop of barren trees he addressed the crowd.
“This has been one day I shall never forget,” Tom said. “Concerning the incident that happened in Korea last December—just as sure as I am standing here now, if I had been down, it would have been Jesse
Brown who would have helped me out.”
Tom kept his remarks short, then concluded by saying, “To the fellows there now and to those who will never come back from this horrible conflict, I want to thank you all. And to this committee and the people of Fall River—God bless you all.”
—
For the day’s final presentation, a judge from the city’s superior court stepped forward, carrying a silver bowl. “Lieutenant Hudner,” he said into the microphone, “I’d like to present these gifts to you on behalf of the grateful citizens of your native city, Fall River.”
Tom grinned as the judge handed him the silver Paul Revere–style bowl. Tom looked closer and his eyes went wide. Inside the bowl was a check in his name for $1,000—equivalent to about $9,000 in present-day money. Tom shook his head in disbelief.
When he returned to his seat, Tom examined the silver bowl as the ceremony wrapped up. One of the town fathers tapped him on the shoulder, leaned in, and asked in an excited whisper, “So, how are you going to spend all that money?”
—
The next day, the sounds of aircraft maintenance echoed through the hangar at Quonset Point as Tom climbed the steps to Fighting 32’s briefing room. Clad in his leather jacket and green slacks, Tom moved with a bounce in his step. He carried an envelope containing his check from the city of Fall River.
Tom entered the squadron briefing room and set the envelope in the outgoing mail bin. The envelope was addressed to Mrs. Daisy Brown, T-116 Robertson Place, Hattiesburg, Mississippi. Inside, Tom had signed the check over to Daisy. His decision had been easy.
If the Leyte’s putting Jesse’s daughter through college, then Daisy should go, too.
Tom dropped into a seat beside his buddies and readied a pen to take notes. The skipper was coming, the briefing about to begin. Tom was back.
Five months later, Labor Day weekend, 1951
In a dark blur, the Corsair raced low over the hidden inlets of the Massachusetts coastline. The mid-morning sunlight stretched over cottages and train stops nestled behind the beaches. From his seat in the Corsair’s cockpit, Tom flew with a mischievous gleam in his eyes.
Marinas stocked with sailboats zipped beneath his right wing, so close his wingtip nearly clipped their masts. Tom had never flown this low before—never stateside, anyway.
It was September 1, the Saturday of Labor Day weekend. Everyone had gone home from Quonset Point for the holiday, so Tom had seized the opportunity to pursue a personal mission, one he’d been considering since his first flight with Jesse.
Tom thought of Jesse often, and Daisy, too. Daisy had written Tom a gracious letter and had used his gift to enroll at Alcorn College, about three hours from Hattiesburg. She was in classes now, on her way to becoming a home economics teacher.
One day she’d remarry, after waiting seven years. She’d find someone whom Jesse would have approved of, an army medic named Gilbert Thorne. From the start, Gilbert would admit to Daisy, “I know I can’t take Jesse’s place, but I’ll do the best I can for you.” Gilbert would love Pam as if she were his own and together the family would move to Germany on a deployment. There, in a quaint village, Daisy would secure her dream job, teaching kindergarten to the children of military parents. And there, she’d buy a red Sunbeam convertible and race the autobahn.
But that was all to come. On the horizon, Tom’s target appeared. His eyes tightened. Ahead and to the right lay swaths of green grass along the coastal cliffs. Neat clumps of trees dotted the green. This was it.
Tom nudged the throttle forward and steered the Corsair lower.
—
A golfer flexed his knees and the spectators turned silent. He swung his club and hit the ball. As the ball rolled to a stop, the spectators clapped politely. The golfer waved, then walked to make his next shot and the small crowd followed, talking buoyantly. The Acoaxet Country Club’s annual golf tournament was in full swing.
Tom’s father was on the green, wearing khakis and his polo shirt with the club logo on the front pocket. He and several friends had founded the club in 1919, and he never missed a tournament.
Tom Senior didn’t see the black W-shaped silhouette diving from the sky behind him. None of the club members did. But the silhouette stretched larger and larger, aiming straight for them.
—
Tom leaned to see around his gunsight and steered the Corsair’s nose at the crowd on the golf course. As a boy, he’d spent his summers at the club, sailing from its beach. Back then, he loved everything about the place. But lately, he had become frustrated with certain members—namely, his father’s friends. In Korea, the battle lines were locked in a bloody stalemate around the 38th parallel, yet his father’s friends had stopped following the news. They were back to worrying about the stock market and their golf scores, as if young men weren’t still dying in Korea, as if there wasn’t even a war going on.
Rather than sit idly by, Tom had written a letter to the Fall River newspaper in which he encouraged his neighbors to extend the same support they had shown him to the troops overseas.
“With all the cold, the mud, the blood and horror they are living in,” he wrote, “there is never anything so demoralizing or dangerous as the feeling we at home don’t have too much interest in what they’re doing and going through.”
Tom didn’t know if the letter had an effect or if anyone had even read it. So he devised another way to get his message across.
He held a shallow dive, just like a strafing run in Korea.
Gotta be low enough! Tom thought, his eyes tightening as the crowd slipped closer. They need to see that this is a navy plane.
—
The crowd must have been applauding a well-placed shot, because no one heard the sound of the twelve-thousand-pound plane bearing down on them from behind.
With a furious roar, the Corsair ripped over the crowd at 250 miles per hour, flattening the sea grass and blowing hats from heads. Golfers dropped their clubs and spectators sank to their knees, soiling their clean khakis. The plane’s thick shadow whistled across the green and kept going.
The spectators glanced up and saw a flash of curved wings, a white star, and the word NAVY on the plane’s flank. A puttering sound trailed the Corsair’s tail.
The plane kept running out over the sea, now low above the waves.
From their hands and knees, the golfers and spectators scowled.
“Who the hell is that?” someone shouted.
“He should be grounded!” yelled another.
Someone chuckled nervously. One by one, the faces turned to Tom’s father. He was cowering on the green like the rest of them, a grin lining his face. The others glared at him and shook their heads. Tom’s father just shrugged.
The perturbed golfers and spectators stood. They pranced around, trying to clean their knees off. In his cockpit, Tom could see them through his rearview mirror. He broke out in laughter. They looked just like storks.
Tom remained low and fast over the leaping waves. He almost shook his head with wonder.
Jesse was right.
He should have done this long ago.
* * *
* Massachusetts congressman John F. Kennedy would attend a subsequent function in Tom’s honor. Incidentally, as a teen at Andover prep school, Tom had played intramural football with George H. W. Bush, who later became the forty-first president. And at the Naval Academy, Tom knew his friend’s roommate, a young man from Georgia who would become the thirty-ninth president, Jimmy Carter.
AFTERWORD
AFTER THE BATTLE OF THE CHOSIN RESERVOIR, the Korean War raged for an additional two years and seven months along the 38th parallel, the prewar border. Neither side gave or gained much ground.
Four months before the war ended, Joseph Stalin died, having seen his dreams of communist expansion crushed by the free world. After his death, with the Soviet Union gripped in a leadership struggle, the Chinese and North Korean communists abandoned their demands for mandatory prisoner repatri
ation and returned to the peace table.
In July 1953, the Korean War concluded after claiming five million lives—nearly thirty-seven thousand of them American. Of the communist prisoners captured by U.N. forces, 30 percent of the North Koreans elected to remain in the south, and 70 percent of Chinese prisoners chose not to return to communist China.
Today, the Korean War is often called “the Forgotten War.” But the men who fought there know it by a different name: The Forgotten Victory. Today, thanks to the United States and United Nations forces, some fifty million South Koreans live in freedom.
—
In January 1955, Dick Cevoli was on duty in Florida when his wife, Grace, gave birth at Quonset Point. Their fourth child—Richard Jr.—was born mentally disabled.
After hearing the news, Cevoli took off in rough weather in a Cougar jet to hurry home. When a priest entered Grace Cevoli’s hospital room, she thought that something had happened to her baby. Instead, the priest delivered the news that Dick had crashed and died.
Today, a post office in East Greenwich, Rhode Island, is named in honor of Dick Cevoli.
—
After his tour in fighters, Marty Goode became a navy helicopter pilot. Whenever he came in to land, sailors and aviators would line Vulture’s Row to see a helicopter land like a fighter.
Marty later became a navy test pilot at Sikorsky and retired as a commander, far from his humble beginnings as an enlisted seaman. Along the way, he met a beautiful Hungarian artist named Paula at a theater performance. Then and there, Marty’s days as a ladies’ man ended; he was certain that Paula was the girl he’d been looking for. He married her and adopted her two young daughters from a previous marriage.
These days, Marty and Paula go out weekly to dance the Argentinian tango.
—
Bill Koenig remained in the navy and became a master naval parachutist and commander who oversaw the development of ejection seats and escape systems.