Divided We Stand (The Fighting Tomcats Book 2)
Page 7
Dear Samantha…
CAG’S OFFICE, USS CARL VINSON
1411, 29 JANUARY, 1942
Spike walks into Holtz’s office, “Boss, why the hell were we going after some antiquated, pipsqueak, irrelevant aircraft carriers when there was an invasion fleet about to land thousands of fucking troops on Wake Island? I thought it was our job to protect the Marines.”
Papa says, “Spike, calm down.”
“Papa, it was bullshit. I don’t get it.”
From behind her she hears the distinctive voice of Admiral ‘Bull’ Halsey, “Commander, they attacked the aircraft carriers because I ordered them to attack the aircraft carriers. Now, could you please explain to me why the hell you thought it was a dumb idea? We’re fighting a carrier war, are we not?”
Spike spins around, “Um, uh, I’m sorry, sir.”
“That does not answer the question, Commander.”
“Um, yes, sir. Sir, those four aircraft carriers are too small to launch or land the F-4s that Japan is flying. The little Zeros and Zekes they’re flying against us don’t stand a chance, especially now that we all know how to kill them. We had already disabled three out of four carriers. They were not going anywhere. The Marines, though, sir, the Marines really needed our help. Thud and I did what we could, but there were just too many boats. I know a lot of Japanese made it ashore, sir.”
Halsey says, “I see. Commander, did you know that three of those four carriers launched the attack on Pearl Harbor?”
“No, sir. Sir, that didn’t cross my mind. But, I have to ask, sir, are we out for revenge or are we trying to win the war?”
“You don’t pull your punches, do you, Commander?”
“No, sir, I don’t. Even when I should know better.”
“You need to work on that. I can’t have officers spouting off questioning the chain of command. Do you understand?”
“Yes. Yes, sir, I do.”
“Good.”
Papa asks, “Sir, do the Marines still control Wake?”
Halsey turns to Holtz, “No, they were outnumbered four to one and didn’t last three hours.” Looking back at Spike, “Nothing you did mattered. Captain, I want the damage reports up in my office in twenty minutes.” He turns on a heel and leaves.
Papa takes a deep breath, “I’ll have them right up.”
A SMALL FISHING PIER NEAR GOTHENBURG SWEDEN
Captain Louis ‘Shotgun’ Mossberg, USMC, stands, bundled up in a civilian coat, the collar up against the cold. And it’s cold, it’s bitter this far north on the Baltic Sea. The wool cap pulled down over his ears helps. He’s from the south, damn it, and he’s black. This is no place for him. But he can’t afford to fidget. Not here. He’s a Marine and he’s been cold before.
He thinks back on the tortuous path that has led him, a Marine captain on a NATO air base in Germany, to this deserted dock. He barely made it out of Brendenmeyer ahead of the Nazi’s. The holes punched in his F/A-18 causing him to leak fuel, and with the four nuclear weapons stored at Brendenmeyer under his wings, it was clear he knew he wouldn’t make Britain. Instead, he turned north to Sweden. Two miles off the Swedish coast he ditched his plane, sending the devices to the bottom of the Baltic Sea.
He’d planned to swim to Sweden. If it hadn’t been for an old fisherman plucking him out of the icy water, half frozen, he knew his fate would have been with his plane. When ashore he was picked up by the Swedish police. After a few days of interrogation, he was released, but forbidden to leave Sweden. His problem is he knows that Sweden is only technically neutral and there’s Nazi agents everywhere. Vigilance is his only defense. Nazis, Jesus Christ, man. He was still trying to take it all in.
Then the crunch of footsteps on snow alerts him to someone approaching. The man stops at the foot of the dock and using cupped hands, lights a cigarette. That’s the signal. Mossberg walks to the man, startling him, but he quickly regains his composure. “I didn’t see you. I’ll say this, you know how to hide in plain sight.”
“I wasn’t from the best of neighborhoods, man. Can we get this over with?”
“This way.” They walk down the pier and step down into a small fishing boat. Silent, they cast off the lines and prepare to get underway. The man moves with experienced efficiency. A small engine starts up and move away from the pier and out into the harbor. “You can call me Dan. Not my real name, but it’ll do.”
“I’m Louis Mossberg. It’s my real name, because for me, there ain’t no point in lying.”
“You’re an American. How the bloody hell did you end up freezing your arse off in Sweden?”
“It’s a long story and one you don’t need to know anything about. Just know it’s really, really important that I get to Britain.”
“Well, you happen to be on the right fishing boat. It’ll take a couple of hours, then we’ll meet up with the patrol craft and I’ll turn you over. After that, you’re on your own.”
“Yeah, I’m kinda used to that.”
BLACK KNIGHT READY ROOM, USS CARL VINSON
0550, 1 FEBRUARY, 1942
As Spike walks into the ready room all eyes turn to her. The pilots and RIOs are already in their gear and ready to be briefed. “Guys, we’ve been scrubbed from the Marshal Island mission. The staff told me they can’t afford the fuel.”
Lt. JG Lorne ‘Jedi’ Luke says, “What the hell, ma’am? What the hell? We’re the best fucking pilots on the ship.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Swede, could I see you in my office?”
Swede gets up, sharing a knowing look with Gandhi, and follows her into her office.
“I’m sorry, Swede. After Wake Island I mouthed off to Halsey about the carriers and now this. I’m fucking it up for all the guys.”
“Boss, whatever the hell is going on upstairs, you did the right thing taking out those boats. Halsey needs to pull his head out of his ass.”
“Swede, Halsey is the boss. Whenever you mouth off to the boss, you’re wrong. I was wrong. Swede, I’ll go apologize to Halsey, maybe I can make things better.”
NORTH SEA, 200 MILES EAST OF EDINBURG
Dan is good to his word. In the small fishing boat, they continue through the night, transiting through the islands at the mouth of the Baltic, and make it to the North Sea. The seas are picking up when a spot light hits them and a distinctly British voice calls out, “Heave too, and prepare to be boarded.”
Dan says, “There’s no need for that Captain Newby. I do however have a passenger for you.”
“I see. Very good, Commander. Now, who do you have for me?”
Mossberg speaks up, “Captain Louis Mossberg, U.S. Marine Corps. Request permission to come aboard.”
The light plays over Mossberg. Newby says, “An officer of African descent. I didn’t know the yanks were allowing that. All good to me, though. Please, come aboard His Majesty’s Destroyer Echo.”
Mossberg scrambles up a boarding ladder with his pack on his back. Once on board he salutes the flag on the main mast and then the officer in front of him, “Request to come aboard.”
LCDR Cecil Hugo de Boisville Newby, RN, returns the salute, “I’m Lt. Commander Newby, commander of Echo. Please come forward to the wardroom so we can warm you up.”
ADMIRAL’S BRIDGE, 07 LEVEL, USS CARL VINSON
EAST OF THE MARSHALL ISLANDS
0610, 1 February, 1942
Spike, still in her flight suit enters the Admiral’s bridge saying, “Request to enter the bridge and speak.”
Captain Van Zandt, at the admiral’s side, says, “Enter.”
“Admiral Halsey?”
Halsey is looking over the flight deck as the F-14s, F/A-18s, and A-6s launch. He says, “Yes, Commander.”
“Sir, I’m sorry I questioned your judgment at Wake Island. I allowed my emotions to cloud my judgment and I promise you, sir, it will not happen again.”
“Are you saying this because you know you were wrong or is it because your pissed off for being written out of the Marshall’s attack.”
>
“I was wrong, sir. That said, I don’t want my mistake to hurt my guys.”
“You know, Commander, this war isn’t all about you. You were scrubbed because we need to conserve fuel. You were already told that. I know your squadron has racked up a lot of kills. See to it does not go to your head. Dismissed.”
As Spike walks from the bridge, Captain Van Zandt quietly asks, “Sir, could we have saved Wake?”
“I don’t know, Captain. Let’s focus on what is in front of us.”
CHAPTER 11
SUPPLY DEPARTMENT OFFICES, USS CARL VINSON
1400, 2 FEBRUARY, 1942
Lt. JG John ‘Gunner’ Harden, a tall athletic black man, walks into Lt. Donald Troy’s office carrying a pile of flight suits. He places them on the Lieutenant’s desk, “Someone in laundry has decided to change my rank, Lieutenant. Can I get my uniforms fixed?”
Troy looks at him quizzically and picks up a flight suit. He finds the collar where the rank should be and sees the needle holes in the fabric where the single silver bar was cut off. Instead, in ink is the word ‘nigger’.
Troy’s lips tighten, “I see. What stateroom are you in?”
“03-174-4L”
Troy consults a binder, then picks up the phone, “Chief Arpao, I need Seaman Dillard in my office immediately.” He hangs up, “Lieutenant, we will fix your uniforms and get them back to today.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Dillard knocks and walks in. When he sees Gunner, he smirks.
Lt. Troy shouts, “Seaman, wipe that smirk off your face immediately.”
Dillard looks at his commander, surprised.
“Dillard, can you explain the damage to these flight suits?”
Timidly, “Yes, sir.”
“Well…”
“Sir…” and glances at Gunner, “It was just a joke.”
“Where are you from, Seaman?”
“Steward, Alabama, sir.”
“And you transferred here from the Duncan after it sank.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Explain to Lt. Harden why your little joke was funny.”
“Sir?”
“You have disrespected a superior officer, defaced government property, and used hate speech, which is conduct unbecoming. You say it was a joke. Explain it.”
Dillard turns to Gunner, “Sir, I grew up in Alabama. I was telling the guys that no white man should ever do laundry for a, um for a nigg…um, someone…a darky. I mean where I’m from it is nig…darkies who do the laundry for us. It isn’t disrespect, it’s just the plain truth.”
Gunner shakes his head, “Seaman, you are from the Jim Crow south. Where and when you grew up it was acceptable to murder a man because of the color of his skin. My own grandfather was hung from a tree in his own front yard by someone like you. All that changed in the 1960’s. People like you either learned to behave civilly or rotted in jail. Those people who persist in their prejudice keep silent about it or find themselves on the fringes of society.
“The Navy cannot control what you think, but it can control what you do. In this man’s navy, you do not EVER address a black person as nigger. There are some on this ship who would beat you for doing so. I will not because my mother taught me to respect mankind. That is a lesson you’d better take to heart.
“Now, by rights, I could ask the Lieutenant to send you before the Captain. With the Lieutenant, and the SUPPO’s permission, I suggest another solution. I, and a number of other black officers, will be served our dinner by you in wardroom 1 tomorrow. Seaman Dillard, you will do so with the utmost respect and dignity, or you will see the Captain.” Turning to Troy, “Is that acceptable to you, Lieutenant?”
“It’s perfect, Lieutenant.” To Dillard, “Before your serve the meal your uniform will be inspected, seaman. If you fail in anyway, it will be the brig and bread and water. Am I clear?”
Shaking, Seaman Dillard says, “Yes, sir.”
PIER 3 PUGET SOUND NAVAL SHIP YARD, BREMERTON WASHINGTON
1105, 3 February, 1942
Slowly, the USS San Francisco, CA-38, comes into view. Behind her is the USS Long Beach, CGN-9, with her distinctive box bent forward. Captain Warren, bundled up in his pea coat, notices the workers on the pier slow, then stop and stare at the odd vessel. He says to Lt. Hughes beside him, “She looks a little worse for wear.”
“Yes, sir, she does.” Shawn is wearing dress pants, a white button up shirt, a heavy wool jacket, and a white hard hat stenciled with the letters NRRO. They stand for Naval Reactors Regional Office. “Captain Tenzar is going to hate what you have to say to him.”
Warren sighs, “I know, but it has to be done.” Addressing the men and women watching the Long Beach, “Gentlemen. There is work to be done.”
The workers touch their hands to their hard hats and get busy. Hughes laughs, “If you’d talked to me like that, I would’ve mouthed off.”
“I know, Shawn, but I didn’t have four stripes on my jacket then. It seems to make a difference.”
“I wonder who they’ll dislike more, you or me? I mean you’re bearing bad news, but I’m the dreaded NRRO.”
Warren smiles, “I don’t want your job. You’re good at it, I know, but I wouldn’t want it.” NRRO are nuclear power program inspectors. They have the power to discipline even the smallest violations of procedures or maintenance. They are important and necessary but reside somewhere below IRS agents in popularity.
They watch the damaged vessel pull in and moor. A crane maneuvers a metal brow into position, as a dark gray navy sedan pulls up. Both men salute as RADM Klindt, RADM Charles S. Freeman, and CDR J.C. Morong climb out of the car. The five officers and several civilian project planners go onboard. Admiral Klindt smiles at his friend, Hughes, and whispers, “Don’t forget, you’re not supposed to salute.”
Captain Tenzar waits for the official party as they salute the flag, then himself, “Naval Reactors arriving, Naval District 13 arriving, Captain, United States Navy, arriving, Naval Yard Puget Sound arriving.” Tenzar smiles, “Welcome to USS Long Beach, gentlemen. Sorry, I don’t have the wardroom to host you in, but I do have a make-do office.”
Hughes asks, “Sir, can you point me to your rad con office? It seems the shipyard is lacking in dosimetry.”
Tenzar turns to Klindt, “We have NRRO already? Does he know what he’s doing?”
Klindt looks Tenzar square in the eyes, “As I recall, you turned down the job of NAVSEA-08. Are you now telling me how to do it?”
Tenzar looks away and sighs, “No, sir.” Turning to Hughes, “Rad con is forward of the enlisted mess second deck starboard side. You’ll find my ship and my crew in order.”
Shawn smiles, “Yes, sir, I’m sure I will.”
WARDROOM 1, USS CARL VINSON
1730, 3 February, 1942
Seaman Dillard walks up to the designated table. Lt. JG Harden sits there with four other black officers. “Good evening, Seaman. I would like a cup of coffee, please, and the meatloaf.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you.”
Lt. Jones from Reactor Dept., says, “I would also like the meatloaf. Could you please get me some Coke?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you.”
Lt. Lonnie ‘Tripod’ Guiles of the Tomcatters is next, “Good evening, could I please have two bowls of the beef soup, a salad with ranch, and a cup of coffee?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you very much.”
Dillard takes the rest of the orders, then fetches their drinks. As he brings them their food, the officers thank him. Later, as he clears their plates, Harden says, “Seaman Dillard, could you please get us each a bowl of soft serve ice cream, and one for yourself, as well.”
Dillard eyes widen, Yes, sir.”
As he fills the bowls with the ice cream, he asks the mess decks master at arms, “They told me to get a bowl for me, too. What do I do?”
“You get a bowl for you and join them. It happens.”
/>
Seaman Dillard sets a bowl in front of each officer, then one at the empty chair, and sits down. He says a quick prayer and looks up. The officers have started eating, so he takes a bite.
Lt. JG Harden says, “Now, Seaman Dillard, isn’t it much better when we all get along?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I recognize you have to overcome the worst parts of your upbringing, and that is difficult, but I promise you, if you put in the work, you will be a much better person for it.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Gentlemen, Seaman Dillard is from Alabama. I think it is time we got acquainted. And, Seaman Dillard, thank you for our meal.”
HANGAR BAY 1, FORWARD, USS CARL VINSON
1800, 3 FEBRUARY, 1942
Sam stands, relaxed and ready, waiting for Gandhi to move on her. He moves in, fast, low, and smooth, reaching for her left hand. She side steps, locking up his right hand, and dropping him to his knees. Then releases him and steps back with a bow. Over and over they practice, taking turns, until they are both sweating. After an hour of Aikido, they switch to Okinawan karate. They work the kicks, punches, stances, and kata for another hour. “Okay, Gandhi, I’m done. You?”
He laughs, “Me, too. Wow. That was a good work out. You’re getting better and better. Sure, you don’t want to continue?”
“Gandhi, no. Oh, you’re teasing me. Actually, I have a lot to do and I have to go. Thank you. It was great.”
“Right on, boss.”
BRIDGE, USS CARL VINSON, SIDNEY HARBOR AUSTRALIA
0915, 4 FEBRUARY, 1942
LCDR Hunt watches Swede organizing the Black Knights as they man the rails in their dress white uniforms. She puts the binoculars to her eyes, “Pilot boat is inbound at 320 relative, “Helm, right standard rudder.”
“Right standard rudder. No new course given.”
She replies, “Very well.”
“Passing 280. No new course given.”
“Belay passing heads.”
“Belay passing heads, aye.”
“Helmsman, steady as she goes.”