The Apostates

by Lars Teeney

  “I wonder, it seems like there are so many countries jumping into this conflict. Everyone here in the D.C. are so sure that this war will be over within a year. I sorta have a feeling these views are a bit too naive.” The nurse said worriedly, as she pulled a handkerchief out of her purse and wiped her nose.

  “Yeah, I don’t know. I mean the Brass are optimistic as we are committed. Why wouldn’t we trust our leaders? Not going to lie, I have my worries, but look how big our country is compared to Germany or Japan. Isn’t it no contest?” he tried to prove his point as best he could. He finished his martini and signaled the barkeep for another round.

  “You’re trouble. Well, I suppose anything is possible. Maybe our leaders have some secret plan to win quickly?” She didn’t believe that, but she was trying to stay optimistic.

  Burke took a swig of his fresh martini. He looked at the nurse with admiration, studying her features. He thought that for a split that he would let this woman have his children, but then he remembered he was about to enter a war zone and didn’t want to potentially leave children behind fatherless. But, if he was going to die, wasn’t that more reason to have kids; to leave his biological footprint behind, to continue on? There was another hurdle to consider; whether or not she even wanted kids, and if so, would she even want his kids? He determined that his train of thought was silly. He was jumping the gun; they didn’t even know each other’s names. Burke considered that part of their little game; anonymity, and disguised sexual tension.

  “The President...our mission...we’re transporting the President overseas. That’s why it’s so important. I’m worried about what happens if we’re attacked,” Burke blurted out to the nurse.

  “The President, Roosevelt? On your ship?” she asked, interest piqued.

  “Yep, that president,” he confirmed, taking another drink.

  “Well then. Shouldn’t you be on your ‘A’ game in the morning? Why are you drinking?” she asked, half shaming him.

  “Because I found you,” he flattered; she blushed.

  “I’m serious,” she responded.

  “C’mon, I can handle my liqueur. Besides, I’ve only had two martinis. Look this is fairly routine; it’s what you do on shore leave. Also, I’m compelled to get to know you,” he moved into her personal space, face to face. She looked startled for a minute but didn’t back off. Burke placed his lips to her lips. They kissed like they had known each other in a previous life. They disengaged. He drew his hand through her hair, then, took a sip of his martini. She looked at him lasciviously and licked her lip.

  “Well, sailor, it’s been quite the night. I enjoyed myself. But, I have to be at the hospital early in the morning, tomorrow,” she clued him that she was leaving by getting off the bar stool and walked to the door.

  “Wait, nurse! This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. I’m Alexander, Alexander Burke. Private,” he introduced himself.

  “Pleased to meet you, Alexander. I’m Greta, Greta Sanchez. Nurse,” she shook his hand and smiled. Burke looked at her hoping she would invite him back to her home.

  “Night, Alexander!” she said with some finality.

  “Wait! You know about my mission, now we have to get married, remember?” He was almost desperate by this point.

  “Baby, win the war, then come back to me. We’ll talk then.” With that, she gave him another deep kiss and walk out of his life for the remainder of the war.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  The morning klaxon blared through the ship, and Private Burke was awakened. He had a slight headache but was not hung over. He felt good. He remembered the fun night the night before. He remembered how Nurse Sanchez’s lips felt and tasted. He missed her already. He thought to himself that the war better not last long so he can get back and propose to Greta. Just sail the Iowa directly to Germany and he’d take out the Führer himself.

  Burke dropped out of the top bunk and got himself into his dress uniform. Everything had to be perfect for the honor of the President. He felt that things were starting to happen. Burke always knew he’d be part of something larger than himself, and his destiny was starting to take shape. Or maybe he was getting ahead of himself? Burke hadn’t even been tested in combat or finished a mission for that matter. He thought that maybe he was blowing his load prematurely.

  The sailors and crew were summoned to the deck of the battleship. The final preparations were being made for the Presidents arrival. The dress blues and whites lined the deck, and the officers hung excessive amounts of decorations from their chests. The bulwark had been draped in star-spangled, round sectional banners that spanned the perimeter of the Iowa. Star-spangled streamers reached down in all directions from origin points atop masts to lower contact points on deck. A banner with copy was mounted on the bridge superstructure, it read, “Welcome President Roosevelt”. The entire display was fit for some conquering, Caesar. A military band was set up on the periphery of the sailors standing at attention. The band consisted of a rhythm section, a horn section, and a manic, spastic bandleader. They were playing “Hail to the Chief”. There was a stirring on deck and tension increased among the officers. O.S.S. agents came aboard first and shook the officer’s hands then fanned out among the ship, attempting to ferret out any would-be plots against the President.

  At long last the Presidential entourage made its way up the gangplank. Numerous nondescript men in monochromatic suits shuffled on deck. Then the President appeared, a debonair enough looking man, smoking a cigarette from a long, slender holding device. He was sitting down, in a wheelchair, with a plaid blanket laid over his legs and he was being pushed onto the ship by one of his generic looking aides.

  Private Burke caught a glimpse of the scene, but a tall sailor in front of him was blocking the full view.

  “The President is in a wheelchair? He looks pretty fragile,” he thought to himself disappointedly. Burke was expecting a tall, upright man; A conquering hero. Instead, he was greeted with the reality of the situation, a polio-stricken, shell of a man that was the Leader of the Free World.

  The Captain and the officers saluted. The President was helped out of his chair and given a crutch to help him upright. When the blanket was pulled away, the gleaming metal of leg braces was revealed to be encasing the President’s legs. President Roosevelt worked his way along the line of officers, shaking hands and saluting. The President inspected only the first line of personnel because of his limited mobility. Then he was helped back to his wheelchair and carted off somewhere below deck. The band played for a time more until all the suits disappeared, and the crew and sailors were relieved. Burke thought that the spectacle felt awfully empty. He didn’t know how he felt. It was another occasion that he thought would feel epic in scale, but the reality did not match his expectations. Burke stood in his position even as all the other sailors had cleared the decks, then, he proceeded to his action station.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  The battleship had shoved off and was en route to rendezvous with its escorts. It was making good headway into the Atlantic Ocean. The weather was cool and clear, and the Atlantic waters were fairly calm for this time of year. Burke was toiling at his station inside the three-gun turret on the gun deck. He was cleaning the projectile hoist and squirting lubricant into crevasses. Another sailor, Private Jones, who was stationed in the same turret, approached Burke.

  “How about that shindig for the President, huh? I didn’t know he was a cripple, though,” Jones said insensitively, as he leaned on the projectile rammer equipment.

  “I wonder if the Huns know about his physical condition. They’d probably think us weak,” Jones concluded. He wiped his nose on his sleeve.

  “I bet they don’t think much of us in general. They probably won’t until we hand ‘em final defeat. We haven’t really proven ourselves yet, and they are the masters of Europe,” Burke preached.

  “Yeah, well. This is America. We’ve won all our wars so far. We’ll be in Berlin by next Christmas,” Jones was ass
ured that what he said was true. He nodded his head because he had proved his own hypothesis true to himself.

  “What if we can’t handle a two front war? We got the Japs to worry about, remember? Burke retorted.

  “So, we’ll take ‘em both on at once. We have that ability,” Jones argued.

  “Okay, maybe we would be able to fight a war on two fronts at once, but it would be a long war. However, that doesn’t mean our ship will be taking on Germans,” Burke presented his thesis.

  “Why wouldn’t we? They are the enemy,” Jones was confused.

  “Simple, because the only thing between the U.S. and Japan is open ocean. It’ll be a naval war with them. Our country will need a sizable presence there. Where do you think we’re going?” Burke asked rhetorically.

  “You really think our ship is heading to the Pacific? Damn, that’s a downer,” Jones was disappointed. He had never been to Europe and was looking forward to fighting in such a storied location. He rubbed his chin in contemplation.

  “Yeah, I think that’s where we are going,” Burke answered.

  “But, we’re crossing the Atlantic...” Jones trailed off.

  “Somehow I don’t think the President is heading to Europe,” Burke answered.

  “Well, where else would he be going? Jones prodded.

  “Good question. I guess we’ll find out soon,” Burke said.

  “Anyway, what’s the story with that nurse you met before we shoved off. Did you seal the deal?” Jones elbowed Burke in the ribs.

  “In a manner of speaking. She told me to find her when the war is over and then we are going to get married,” Burke reported reluctantly, wiping his brow with his sleeve and rubbing his hands on a rag. For a moment, he reflected on his time with her that night. Was he a fool to fixate on what she had told him? Was it just a casual dismissal? Maybe he should just go on with his life and get lost in the war effort?

  “You what? You didn’t screw her, but you’re talking about marrying the broad? What planet are you from, Burke?” Jones mocked him. Burke thought about it and concluded that he was being a fool. After all, the world is filled with broads. Wherever they go, any port will be filled to the brim, with babes waiting for U.S. Navy sailors, to spend their meager military wage. Burke reasoned that he could find an attractive, “oriental” girl, waiting to be rescued and to be brought to the Land of Opportunity. He reckoned that she would be dutiful and know how to treat her husband, not like those frisky, American city girls, who’s only need was to “tie one on”.

  “Well, Christ man, I guess you are right,” he conceded with despair in his heart. What a damn fool he had been. He flagellated himself over being such a sentimental fool. Burke told himself to “man up”. He was a sailor, not a boy. He attempted to strike her from his memory; she was epoxied to the wall of his mind.

  The emergency klaxon reverberated through the cavernous war-ship. An emergency announcement rang out, “Attention all personnel, action stations, we are under attack! This is not a drill!”

  Instinct kicked in and Burke and Jones rushed to their positions. They began preparing shells for deployment and primed the projectile rammer. They waited for further instructions. As the tension mounted, another emergency announcement sounded, “Attention personnel, torpedo launch detected, brace for evasive maneuvers and impact!”

  Burke rushed toward a railing and gripped it for support. He wondered what was transpiring in the surrounding waters. Burke speculated whether they were under attack by the Krauts. How did they find the task force so quickly? Was there a spy in the flotilla? Burke was half expecting to meet his end in this engagement. He could not help how he felt; it was in his cynical nature.

  On the bridge the helmsman was carrying out the Captain’s orders, he steered the ship in an evasive course; a zigzag formation. The rear of the ship deployed countermeasures, to create wake trails in the water that attempted to “fool” the torpedo to alter course.

  “I want to know who the hell launched that torpedo!” Captain John McCrea barked out the order, readjusting his captain’s hat.

  An ensign on the far side of the bridge traced the trajectory back to one of their own, the ‘William D. Porter’, it was one of their own escort vessels. Could this be right?

  “Captain, sir! It was discharged from the ‘William D. Porter’!” the ensign reported.

  The Chief of Naval Operations, Ernest King, was on the bridge following the drama, “What in Sam hell! Are they trying to assassinate the President! Fucking Kraut spies!” He was red in the face.

  Captain McCrea wiped sweat dripping into his eyes, then blurted, “No dammit, that can’t be it! Train all batteries onto the ‘William D. Porter”, and prep fire...but wait for my order!” He covered his mouth with his hand, and wiped some more sweat away, then shouted another order, “Hail the ‘Porter’, try to raise them. Use signal flags if you have to!”

  The ensign acknowledged the order and opened a radio hail to the ‘Porter’, but no response came.

  Captain McCrea demanded a status report on the path of the pursuing torpedo. It was found to only slightly alter course, but on a collision course with the Iowa, but if they turned a hard to port, the torpedo might hit the Iowa’s wake. The Captain ordered the maneuver and the helmsman turn hard to port. Massive waves were generated by the ships sudden turnabout, and the wake emanated out from the stern of the ship, creating a wall under water. The torpedo skimmed through the depths at a stable speed. Its warhead armed, detecting a moving object, but the object was the ship’s wake, and so the torpedo detonated, sending a plume of water up. It created a veritable tower. Shock waves careened through the murky abyss toward the Iowa’s hull, slamming into it. The interior of the ship was rocked violently and sailors lost their footing. One the bridge personnel were rocked to and fro. The Captain braced himself on a table. The Chief of Naval Operatives fell onto his rear end.

  “Goddammit! Give me a damage report, right away!” the Captain ordered under stress.

  “Captain, you can not wait for communication back from the ‘Porter’! You have to sink her right this minute! She’s prepping another tube as we speak. I’m ordering you!” Chief King demanded.

  The Captain ignored the Chief who struggled to get off his butt due to his huge gut. The Captain weighed his options internally.

  “Gunnery Chief! Stand by for a broadside against the ‘Porter’! Ensign, keep hailing the ‘Porter’! Where’s my response!” The Captain was furious.

  Down in the Mark Seven, three-gun turret where Burke was stationed, he had just finished moving three shells from the hoist to the breach of each gun barrel. The rammer was prepped, and he was standing by for orders. Just one word is all it would take for Burke to send these shells flying toward the ‘Porter’; these guns could open her like a tin can. What if it wasn’t an assassination attempt on the President? What if it was just accidental fire? If that were the case he’d be sending fifteen hundred innocent sailors to their doom. But, even if it was an assassination attempt that meant innocent sailors would still pay the price. He mulled not carrying out any firing orders, to potentially save soldiers. Then he realized that the Porter could just as easily sink the Iowa, and what’s more, even if he disobeyed the order to fire, there were still two other Mark Seven turrets that would happily fire their guns, more than enough firepower to send the ‘Porter’ to the bottom. The ‘Porter’ was a destroyer and smaller than the Iowa. Burke waited in silence, and the chaotic thoughts swirled in his head.

  “U.S.S. Iowa, BB-61, please respond! This is the U.S.S. William D. Porter, BB-579! Stand down! Stand down! We are confirming that the egg was rotten! I repeat! We confirm that the egg was rotten! Do not fire!” A voice rang out over the radio from the U.S.S. William D. Porter; they had finally broken radio silence. The ensign confirmed security codes with personnel from the ‘Porter’.

  Captain McCrea gave the order to the Gunnery Chief to stand down. The Gunnery Chief used a speaking tube to relay the orders to Bu
rke in his turret and the other turrets. A chorus of sighs of relief sounded out on the bridge of the Iowa. The Captain plopped into his command chair, limp from stress exhaustion. The Chief of Naval Operations ran over to the bay window to look out over the water in the ‘Porter’s’ direction, he was not convinced that they were being truthful and still wanted the Iowa to open up on the ‘Porter’. No one listened to him. An O.S.S. operative rushed into the bridge, and demanded an update for the President, who instead of cowering below decks had instructed his O.S.S. attendant to bring him on deck and to the side of the ship in his wheelchair so he could witness the detonation of the torpedo. They brought the O.S.S. operative up to speed, and he departed to relay the information back to the President.

  “Inform the William D. Porter that they are expected to suspend all operations immediately. They are to assemble their officers and crew on deck, where they will be taken into custody, pending an inquiry into this matter. If they do not comply will we fire upon them,” the Captain ordered the radioman to send the message. Chief King agreed with the Captain’s orders and the message was sent to the ‘Porter’. The ‘Porter’ had complied without protest.

  Burke later learned about the conclusion of the inquiry following the incident; it was revealed that the ‘Porter’ was under orders to maintain radio silence, as to not attract the attention of German U-boats. When during a training demonstration a lone torpedo tube operator failed to remove the primer from the torpedo that he launched, resulting a live round in the water in the direction of the Iowa. The William D. Porter tried to signal with searchlights but signaled the wrong message. At that crucial point, the Captain of the Porter made the decision to break radio silence, which probably had saved the lives of his crew. The ‘Porter’ was promptly boarded, the officers were relieved of command, and officers and crew were all arrested.

  Burke observed that the United States Navy had come closer than any of its enemies to decapitating itself, something that at most would have knocked America out of the war, and at the least delayed offensives until the leadership question was resolved. That figurative torpedo was dodged, however. Burke made the observation that the incident had been the first time in U.S. Naval history that one of its own vessels was boarded and the entire crew arrested. The lone torpedo tube operator who was responsible for the incident was made to fall on his sword and was sentenced to hard labor. Burke would later find out that President Roosevelt himself intervened on the man’s behalf to get his sentence commuted.