“Please, Mom. Please hear me out. Dad, sit down, and I will explain,” Paul pleaded.
He and Wayland sat down on the davenport across from Becky. Paul told the story of how the XO, Commander Petrie, had offered him a job as his aide, stationed at the Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland. “Mom and Dad, I will be one of the youngest chief petty officers in the navy and will be assisting with the training of our officers of the future. The XO even said that I could take night classes at the academy that will transfer to any college I choose. Or I could even seek out an appointment to the academy as a midshipman! Can you imagine? Me at the Naval Academy? All this, and I will be making $151 a month with free room and board!”
Becky drew a handkerchief from her dress pocket and patted her reddening eyes, but the curve of a smile had begun to form on her lips.
Wayland was much less subtle. “Damn, boy!” he exclaimed. “That is a great deal and a helluva opportunity! I need to quit referring to you as a boy because that is some serious adult-like thinking.” He grabbed his son’s hand and pumped it furiously.
“So what did the reenlistment cost you?” Becky asked softly.
“I had to sign up for six more years, but hell, Mom—sorry. I mean, after all, Mom, college is at least four years, and I could only work part-time.”
Becky rose from the wingback chair and walked over to the davenport and hugged her son tightly. “Your father is correct. You have logically reasoned this out and behaved in a mature, adult fashion. It is all a mother could want. But grown man or not, you will always be my little boy.”
Wayland broke in, asking, “As the XO’s aide, in what skills will you be training the midshipmen?”
“Naval gunnery,” Paul said.
Wayland raised a single eyebrow. “How did you ever master the skills necessary to become such an incredible gunner? You never even handled a firearm as a youngster, much less fired anything like a ship’s weapon. How did that happen?”
Paul stuck his hands in his pockets, looked up at his parents, and said with tongue firmly in cheek, “It’s a gift!”
The next few weeks passed quickly, filled with family reunions, high school reunions, friend reunions, and every manner of coming together for all the people who had been separated by the war.
As happens in the South, every gathering was filled with food. Barbecue ribs, fried chicken, thick steaks, and pork chops on the grill anchored the fare, with every manner of green vegetable on the side, usually cooked in salt pork, otherwise known as fatback. Homemade breads, pies, and cakes rounded out the feasting. Paul’s favorite was his grandmother’s pecan pie with fresh-churned ice cream on top, closely followed by his mother’s banana pudding topped with fresh whipped cream. Wayland kept a wooden case of six-and-a-half-ounce Cokes for an occasional Coke float, just in case they ran low on pies and cakes. As the thirty-day leave was drawing to a close, all of Paul’s clothes and uniforms were feeling snug, if not downright tight!
On the day of his departure for Maryland, Paul’s mom and dad drove him to Goldsboro, where he would pick up a transport to Andrews Field outside Washington, DC, and then take a short bus ride to Annapolis.
As they drove through the gate at Seymour Johnson Air Field, Becky instructed Paul on how to conduct himself at the academy and told him to take his job and studies seriously.
Paul nodded and replied, “Yes, ma’am,” to all of her orders and suggestions.
Wayland simply grinned and occasionally rolled his eyes. He parked the 1938 Dodge sedan at the receiving terminal, and they all got out for final hugs and farewells.
“I love you both,” Paul said as they held their last hug. “But remember, I will have weekend passes to come home, and you guys can come stay the weekend with me and visit the academy. There is a great hotel right on the academy grounds, and you guys would love it!”
“Take care, son, and call us when you get settled in,” Wayland called.
“I love you, Paul,” Becky added.
Paul nodded, shouldered his seabag, and started toward the terminal, deftly wiping the tears from his eyes. “God, it was great to go home!” he whispered.
CHAPTER 34
Paul arrived at the Naval Academy on the Sunday after Thanksgiving. The school was bustling as the midshipmen returned from the Thanksgiving holiday and got settled in. Paul reported to the commandant’s office, where his orders were waiting.
A regular navy petty officer showed Paul to the noncom quarters, where he stowed his gear and met some of the other regular navy noncoms who worked at the academy. Everyone was pleasant, and Paul thought there might be some fine friends to be made here. Several of his new neighbors were headed over to the Noncom Club for chow and a beer and asked Paul to join them.
As they walked to the club, one of the noncoms, Petty Officer First Class Roland Kessler, introduced himself. “Call me Rollie,” he offered. “Everyone does!”
“Hi, Rollie. I’m Paul. Where are you from?” Paul asked.
“I was born in Charleston, South Carolina … yeah, I’m a navy brat. My dad was a senior chief on the Enterprise.”
Paul’s interest piqued immediately. “I was on board the North Carolina for four years and saw a lot of the Enterprise,” Paul said casually.
Rollie stopped dead in his tracks, as if he had run into a wall. “Wait a minute! … Paul Hodge? … The Paul Hodge?”
Paul was beginning to feel the slightest bit of discomfort.
“Jesus Christ, guys! We got the Gunslinger from the North Carolina! My dad told me all about you.”
The other noncoms gathered around Paul, each wanting a turn to shake his hand and slap him on the back.
Paul’s discomfort grew as Rollie continued, “This guy is a walking legend!”
“Knock it off, Rollie,” Paul whispered through his teeth.
Rollie was having none of it. “They say this son of a bitch can put a round up a gnat’s ass at a hundred yards. He was credited with six kills of Japanese aircraft, and I heard he waged a personal war with Mitsubishi engine parts, and that is where the two Purple Hearts came from!”
“Rollie, you have to give me a break here,” Paul begged as his face reddened.
The banter continued until they reached the Noncom Club and all had ordered a beer and some burgers. Paul felt welcomed and liked and looked forward to working with these guys.
That night, back at his room, Paul opened his orders. He was to report to Commander Arthur G. Petrie at the Naval Operations Building at 0800. There he would be given indoctrination and training schedules necessary to fulfill his role as aide to Commander Petrie.
He wondered how he would react to the desk-job aspect of this function. He also wondered how his ship was faring. He had gotten word from a shipmate that the North Carolina was slated for an overhaul in New York and then exercises in the waters off New England. He wondered if he would ever see her again.
Paul immediately excelled as aide to Commander Petrie and became not only the commander’s right-hand man but also a trusted colleague and confidant.
Paul struck up an instant rapport with the midshipmen, many of whom were only a few years younger. He was promoted to chief petty officer and was recognized as one of the youngest men ever to have achieved that rank. Some older chiefs grumbled but relented when reminded of Paul’s war record. But with all of this, Paul missed his ship. He wondered if his sea legs would abandon him. The next time he was on board, would the roll of a ship send him instantly to the rail to empty his stomach? This was something that had never occurred during his entire time at sea. Trips home on leave helped, and he loved it when his parents came to stay the weekend. It was all great! But he missed his ship.
In late May, still several days before graduation, Paul received a call from Commander Petrie, telling him to meet him in the commandant’s office at 0900. It was 0830, so he grabbed his cover and spr
inted over to the administration building and to the commandant’s offices. He saw Commander Petrie waving him over and joined him in an outer reception area. The door to the commandant’s office opened, and the admiral waved them in.
Petrie and Hodge entered and strode up to the admiral’s desk as he took his seat. At full attention, Commander Petrie spoke. “Commander Arthur Petrie and Chief Petty Officer Paul Hodge reporting as ordered, sir.”
“At ease, gentlemen, and take a seat,” the commandant said. “Arthur, I have a summer job for you and the chief. The North Carolina has just undergone an overhaul and is ready for sea duty. I have authorized a summer training cruise on her for a crew of midshipmen and experienced seamen. I wondered if you two would like to volunteer to join the party. The new captain is an experienced battleship man, but he doesn’t have an experienced XO or gunnery noncom. So what do you think?”
Paul could scarcely contain the grin that broke out across his entire face. He opened his mouth to speak, but Commander Petrie spoke first.
“Where will the exercise be held, sir?”
The admiral looked up at Petrie over the orders in his hand and raised an eyebrow. “Does it matter, Commander?”
Petrie straightened in his chair slightly and answered, “No, sir. It does not.”
The admiral slid his gaze to Paul and said, “How about you, Chief?”
“No concerns, sir,” Paul replied.
“Good! I am glad that you both are amenable regardless of the location. But since you asked, it is scheduled for the Caribbean.”
“You can count on us, sir,” the commander replied.
“Then it is settled, and you are dismissed!”
Paul and Commander Petrie rose from their seats, as did the commandant. They stood at attention and saluted the admiral.
The commandant returned the salute, saying, “Have a good trip, gentlemen!”
The two had just turned to leave when the commandant asked Paul to stay for a moment. A question mark crossed Petrie’s face, but he continued through the door and out of the office. Paul returned and stood at attention.
“Stand easy, Chief.”
Paul relaxed as much as one can relax in the presence of a three-star admiral.
“How do you stand working for that officer?” the admiral questioned with a sly grin.
Paul returned the grin. “He is the best, Admiral! The absolute best!”
The commandant reached across his desk and shook Paul’s hand. “I know he is, and I will recommend his promotion to captain when he returns from this exercise. He knows this, so there are no secrets. I need you to back him up and, with all your talents, ensure a successful training mission.”
“Consider it done, sir! I will have his back.”
The summer cruise was a huge success, with student officers learning navigation, gunnery, fire suppression, and ship maintenance. The crew-in-training returned to Boston as happy and fulfilled as if they had been on vacation. Chief Hodge had been a popular instructor as he shredded aerial targets with the quad 40mm and passed on the skill and instincts needed to be successful.
On one day, the range keeper had failed, and there was no way to accurately aim the big Mark 6 guns. Over 1,000 midshipmen groaned in disappointment when told the sixteen-inch guns would remain silent. Commander Petrie called for Paul to meet him on the bridge with the captain. When Paul got there, Petrie was already into his argument.
“Captain, I know he’s never fired one before, but he has an instinct like I have never seen. If he can see the target, he will hit it!”
Paul stood motionless and quiet until the captain spoke.
“Okay, Arthur. I will authorize one shot from turret 1 on a target at fourteen miles. Chief, can you do it?”
“Aye aye, sir,” Paul replied. He retrieved a small paper wheel from his pocket with numbers written all over it, superimposed over another wheel that turned on top. He sighted the towed target at fourteen miles downrange and manipulated the wheel. “Turret 1, gun 1. Load one Mark 8 shell and six bags, elevate to thirty-two degrees. Speed and bearing to follow.”
Paul eyeballed the target one more time and called out speed and bearing to the gunner. “Sir?” Paul said, looking at the captain.
“Go,” the captain said.
“Turret 1, gun 1 … raise elevation to thirty-three degrees and stand ready.”
“Ready,” answered a young midshipman who was literally shaking in his shoes.
“Fire!” Paul called, and a huge flash of fire issued from the Mark 6, followed by a deafening roar. All sights were on the towed target as the shell made its way out. In exactly three seconds, the shell found the target and obliterated it.
A cheer went up from the entire ship’s company. Chants of “Gunslinger! Gunslinger!” arose from all decks.
The captain looked on in amazement, and Petrie looked on with assurance. “So, Captain, should we prepare a broadside?” asked Petrie.
Another cheer went up from the crew.
“Negative, XO. We have seen enough!” the captain said, grinning widely.
The XO issued a “secure from battle stations” order as Paul made his way off the bridge and down onto the deck.
Secretly, Paul wondered if his skill would ever be needed again. He had heard rumors that the North Carolina was to be decommissioned and ultimately sold for scrap. After the cruise, Paul learned that she was to be decommissioned and stricken from the records as a ship of the line. He also found out that she might be bought by the citizens of North Carolina.
Years later, Governor Luther Hodges initiated the “Save Our Ship” program, in which thousands of Carolina schoolchildren donated their spare change and lunch money to buy the ship and move her to North Carolina. Stricken from the Naval Vessel Register in June 1960, the battleship was purchased from the navy for $330,000 by the state of North Carolina and towed to her ultimate location on the Cape Fear River in Wilmington, North Carolina.
Paul Hodge, with the permission of Captain Petrie and Fleet Admiral Chester Nimitz, accompanied the battleship to her final anchorage in the Cape Fear River, directly across from the city of Wilmington. As she was towed into position, her towlines hit and sank a former troop ship, now a restaurant called Fergus Ark. She never engaged in action again for the next forty years. She was designated a battleship memorial, and for the next several decades she hosted thousands of tourists and visitors on her decks.
All was normal for several decades, until the day a very special new superintendent arrived.
PART FOUR
A Final Broadside
BB-55
CHAPTER 35
The clock radio clicked on at 6:00 a.m. EST. She had set the radio to a beach music station and was rewarded with “Under the Boardwalk” by the Drifters. What a great way to greet the new morning and begin a new adventure in their lives.
Donna Hager arose from the lusciously comfortable king-size bed in their riverfront suite at the Wilmington Hilton, pulled on one of the Hilton terry cloth bathrobes, and headed toward the small kitchen area to start the coffee. She glanced out the riverfront windows and saw the ship that had led them to Wilmington.
“Ken, time to get up!” she called.
The answer from the bedroom was a snort, a pillow fluffing, and an extended sigh from her husband of thirty years.
“Thirty years,” she thought out loud. Her thoughts filled with warm and precious scenes from their life together. She remembered flying out to Great Lakes Naval Training Base with his mother to watch him graduate from basic training. She remembered walking hand in hand with him after graduation, listening to him describe his posting to gunnery school, and how happy he was. Mostly, she remembered them talking about a future together.
“Ken, you are going to be late for your breakfast meeting with the Historical Commission,” she called out with the slightest incr
ease in volume.
A healthy snore emanated from the bedroom, and Donna’s memories invaded again—graduation from Carolina, a wedding in Hawaii, graduate school in marine sciences at the University of Hawaii, three sons (William, Chester, and Elmo), and a career along with her husband that circled the globe. They had lived in the Philippines, Japan, and Guam; in Rota, Spain; and on bases in the United States at San Diego, Alameda, Norfolk, and Pensacola. Her boys had grown up strong, smart, and confident, and her husband had reached the pinnacle of his chosen field.
The coffeepot chimed its readiness, and Donna poured two cups before heading back to the bedroom. “Master Chief!” Donna barked.
Ken’s eyes flew open, and his feet hit the deck. “Aye, Dr. Hager,” he answered. “Master Chief Petty Officer Hager of the navy and future superintendent of the battleship memorial, reporting for coffee.”
Donna laughed, and Ken pulled on the other terry cloth robe before walking toward the kitchen and his wife. As they stood next to one another, both broke out into howls of laughter. The hem of Ken’s robe hit him at the knees, and Donna’s dragged the floor.
“Anybody ever told you that you were short?” Ken teased.
“Anybody ever told you they would rather be dead than red on the head?” Donna shot back.
Ken pretended to think about her question and then said, “Well, not since the third grade.”
They finished their coffee, and Donna offered to shower first while Ken laid out his uniform.
His rank insignia and service bars were impressive enough. The medals on his chest augmented and described a highly successful career. The ribbons, badges, and medals covered most of the left chest of his jacket, bearing out his combat service in Vietnam and the Persian Gulf. Marksman badges, recruiting badges, two Purple Hearts, and three Silver Stars punctuated the depth of his years in service.
Ken laid out his socks, his spit-shined black shoes, and his hat alongside the uniform and stood back to confirm he had everything. In six weeks he would be retiring from the navy as master chief petty officer, the top enlisted post in the navy. Although his was an enlisted rank, his billet was the same protocol equivalent to a vice admiral.
A Final Broadside Page 13