“I’ve traveled a bit in America,” Genda finally asked. “Where are you from?”
“Beautiful little village outside of Philadelphia, Boyertown. A great place for a kid to grow up. Been stationed a lot of places, but still kind of call that home. You should come visit the area some time, glad to take you up, say, in a nice open cockpit. I got a friend there who’d loan us his Stearman. I’m stopping over there for several days to visit family and friends before reporting back to Washington for my next assignment.”
“And where might that be?” Genda asked good-naturedly.
Spaatz smiled but did not reply, merely holding his heavy glass up in silent salute.
“I wish I could take you up on the visit,” Genda replied, “but my duties require me to press on to Washington to the embassy and then to home.”
“And where is home, I mean in Japan?” Spaatz asked.
“I was born in Hiroshima,” Genda said, a touch of nostalgia in his voice. “It is a coastal city, peaceful, on a bay, not far from our naval academy. You should visit Hiroshima some day, sir.”
“Perhaps I will some day,” Spaatz said quietly.
SEVEN
Kailua, Oahu: 6 January 1941
Incredulous, James Watson looked at the telegram that Margaret had handed him. She had been waiting for his return from work, standing at the doorstep of their beautiful home set on the east shore of Oahu, in the town of Kailua, just north of Fort Bellows.
It was a home typical of the community, up against the mountainside, garden a cascade of flowers, fantastic view of the ocean, a fairly contemporary design with open lanai where they spent most of their evenings, listening to the radio and reading, the interior an open design, cooled day and night by the trade winds coming in off the ocean. Margaret, at forty, still looked in his eyes to be twenty, having inherited that beautiful mix of a marriage between a European and a Japanese, dark nearly black hair, the slight Oriental cast to her eyes, nearly five eight and still slender.
She knew his schedule almost to the minute on his daily commute back from the campus on the other side of the mountains in Honolulu, weaving his way down the side of Pali Highway, and he often joked that she must have a telescope hidden away to watch for his approach and to make sure he wasn’t dropping off any girlfriends. Damn how he loved this place. Late afternoons, almost like clockwork, clouds would build up along the crest behind the house, a warm tropical rain washing down, usually breaking apart by sunset, shafts of golden light illuminating the jagged peaks.
It was such a moment now, at least as far as the rain as he stepped into the lanai and looked at the letter before opening it. He scanned the contents.
He looked at Margaret and forced a smile.
“Guess I’m back in.”
Office of the Fourteenth Naval District, Combat Intelligence, Pearl Harbor: 6 January 1941
The telegram had been sufficient to get James through the outer gate of the base and nearly within hailing distance of the squat concrete building he had been directed to, where a well- armed marine, .45 at his hip and a Springfield ‘03 over his shoulder, had stopped him and asked for his identification.
The marine had handed off the telegram to an assistant, a seaman second class, who went into the building. James was told to wait outside and the marine just stepped back, obviously not interested in any small talk.
He had not been on the base since his retirement and thus this afforded the first closeup look in over three years.
Nearly any vantage point from the central part of the island gave a magnificent view of the harbor. Since the fleet had been moved out here, the previous year, forward positioned from San Diego, the harbor was packed with ships, especially on weekends, and Honolulu had been overrun with eager young sailors. The vast majority of them were fairly clean-cut types. The army boys from up at Schofield Barracks had always been a bit more hardscrabble, most of them on long-term enlistments, and had always carried a tougher edge than these fresh-faced sailors, many of them kids barely out of high school. Though the Depression was all but over, thanks to the war in Europe, jobs had still been scarce up until a year ago and many a boy had been lured into the navy with the promise of seeing the world. And for someone from Des Moines or Jersey City, Honolulu was indeed seeing the world, a true paradise.
The once sleepy town of Honolulu of but a couple of years back, which might perk up a little bit when a couple of ships came in from the States loaded with vacation seekers, had taken to “their sailors,” with generally a positive attitude, though many was the father of a teenage girl who made sure his daughter stayed close to home on a Saturday night.
The boys had money in their pockets to burn. Fresh in from the West Coast, they wanted the obligatory photos with hula girls. Sentimental silk pillows for moms and girlfriends and ridiculous printed shirts sold like crazy.
There was a bit of a seedier side now to certain quarters, booze joints that didn’t look too closely at IDs; so-called private clubs that were fronts for gambling, liquor, and girls; and no weekend was complete without a couple of fights between the tougher sailors and brawlers of the army’s Lightning Division, usually the only disruptions to this paradise. In general most of the boys on weekend leaves, which were distributed liberally, went for the beach, looked for girls, and tried to master the unique Hawaiian sport of riding a wooden board on the surf off Waikiki, or just lounged in the sun before returning shipboard for Sunday evening roll call.
For the officers there were several golf clubs to choose from; private parties at beach-front homes; a regular social whirl of dances, receptions, and parties; for the bachelors a paradise as well, especially with the local girls attending the university. And on Monday the ships would weigh anchor and head out for training maneuvers, usually to return by Friday afternoon for another weekend of pleasure.
Given his job of long ago during the last war, in a sense he was appalled by it all. Anyone, sitting on a nearby slope, could on a daily basis count which ships were in, and which were out; at times battleship row, as it was called, was packed with all the heavy battlewagons of the main Pacific Fleet. Walk into any bar in a few hours, have your eyes and ears open, and you knew exactly which ships were in, where they had been, what they had been doing, and where they were heading come Monday.
Enterprise, deck loaded with planes, was out in midharbor, guided by tugs, heading back out to sea. A few sailors nearby were watching the show, chuckling.
“Old Bull got a hair up his butt again,” one of them said. “Those poor bastards, another weekend out there steaming in circles just to make his point. Launch and recover, launch and recover. You’d think there was a war on.” The other laughed and they walked on.
Across the bay, at Ford Island, a PBY was coining in, low and slow, descending from the north, dropping down, flaring, water spraying up, recovery crew waiting by the ramp to guide it up onto land. Another minute and a second came into the pattern, this one from the west. Morning patrols were returning, work done for the day, pilots and crews eager to fill out their reports and get into town.
“Mr. Watson?”
He looked up. The marine who had gone inside was approaching.
“Sir, sorry to keep you waiting out here, but the admiral will see you now.”
James followed, the doors into the main administrative building opened by the marine, and to his surprise the corridor was cool, the luxury of air-conditioning.
There was another security check at the doorway, this one a formality, the marine escorting him leading the way, straight to the end of the corridor, an end office, name stenciled on the door CIC 14 NAVAL DISTRICT, ADM. BLOCH.
James took a deep breath, nodding his thanks as the marine opened the door and stepped back. A petty officer at the outer desk stood up and motioned to the inner office where Bloch waited, on his feet, smiling. He motioned for James to close the door.
“Sir, good to see you,” James said, wholeheartedly. He had served under Bloch before and had t
he utmost admiration for the man. He looked every bit the admiral, in his mid- to late- fifties, features still trim, eyes deep set, shoulders square, and James wondered just how he looked in return. The last couple of years as a professor had not necessarily been conducive to good fitness. A month’s warning about this interview, and he’d have gone to work on trying to drop those extra few pounds, so the double-breasted suit he wore this morning was deliberately chosen with broad shoulders and a bit of cover for a slight paunch that had been developing.
“How’s Margaret?” Bloch asked, coming around from behind his desk to shake James’s hand.
“Lovely as ever. I’m blessed.”
He could see Bloch pause for a second, wanting to ask but deciding not to. No, there were no other children now. There had been no others, and the void was still a daily ache. Bloch most likely knew--word like that traveled through the old network--but sensed it was better not to ask. James tried to smile.
“Margaret and I are okay,” he finally said.
Bloch offered him a seat and James sat down, resting his left arm with the rubber artificial hand on his lap.
Bloch nodded.
“I heard about your getting wounded on the Panay. Damn bastards! I’m sorry it cut your career short.”
“Thank you, sir. But after our boy died, I should have retired anyhow. It was tough on Margaret. Maybe it was for the best.”
“That’s the spirit, James. Now I’ll cut straight to the point,” Bloch said. “You know we are mobilizing backup. Orders for new ships pouring in, manpower just exploding, and I need every fit young officer I can find out there, training the new men, getting ships ready for sea duty, and all the time trying to keep what is out there afloat and battle ready.
“CinCPac, Admiral Kimmel, is up my backside nearly every day on manpower, expansion of facilities here, you name it, it somehow falls on my desk.”
“So you want me back, sir?” James asked.
He wasn’t sure just how to react. Yesterday morning he had left campus having finished his syllabi for the next semester. Wrestling as well with whether he should take the dean’s offer of a promotion to department chair, an extra four hundred a year, which they could use, but a job with endless headaches and petty squabbles, especially since he only held a masters in higher mathematics and probability theory and the younger PhDs in the department would surely kick up a squawk about his “qualifications.”
“Definitely want you back,” Bloch said enthusiastically, and he made it a point of picking up a file folder and opening it.
“Annapolis, 1914, eighth in your class, MIT, 1921, your advanced degree in probability theory and statistics,” he put the folder down for a moment, “definitely not a career builder but interesting I daresay.”
“Just one of those things,” James said with a smile, “and the navy was willing to spring for it. They saw some uses for it.”
“Several sea tours, the Oklahoma, Lexington as their signals officer...” he paused, “and that interesting assignment in London in 1918. Something called Room Forty.”
He looked over the folder at James.
“Interesting experience?”
James smiled and said nothing. Though the story of Room Forty was no longer classified, still he was always reticent to talk about it.
He put the folder back down.
“How are you physically?”
“Fit as a fiddle.”
“Well, James, I’ll be blunt. I didn’t call you in here to reactivate you for sea duty.”
Again, a mix of feelings. He let it register for several seconds. No, sea duty was out; besides, even as he drove over here, he dreaded the thought of telling Margaret he was going back to sea. He knew though that the prospects of that were absurd. It had been a long time since one-handed sailors had put to sea.
“I didn’t expect that, sir.”
“Fine then. I wanted to make that clear at the start. You’ll be behind a desk, and from what little I understand of the job, a lot of hours behind a desk most likely bored silly or driving yourself half mad.”
Bloch smiled.
“Still interested?”
“Well, sir, you aren’t giving me much of a lead.”
Bloch leaned back in his chair. ”Funny position I’m in, Watson. You see, your name’s come up several times for this, shall we say, thing. The problems are twofold. First of all, there isn’t a medical board out there that would pass you based on current standards, but I can pull that string easy enough. Second, until you say yes, I can’t say a word; and then when you do say yes, you’ll have to go through some clearances and even then they might wind up saying no, and that can take weeks.”
Watson leaned back in his chair now and stared out the window, which gave a panoramic view of the fleet. More Liberty Boats were plying the narrow channel to the mainland, sunlight reflecting off the water, a sparkling glorious “winter” day for Hawaii. And the war, the threat of war seemed a million miles and a million years away.
“It’s going to come to us,” James finally said, breaking the silence. “Anyone with their eyes open can see that; before the year is out we’ll be in it up to our necks.”
Bloch nodded in agreement.
“I’m not offering glory, James. It’s a job, a very important job, but from what I’ll call the team you’ll be working with, and believe me they’ve looked at hundreds of files, you fit the job.”
“What about my professorship? The semester starts next week. Mobilizing up or not, it’ll put the university in a tight spot finding a replacement.”
“I can give the dean a call, he’s an old golf buddy.”
“Good enough.”
James did a quick mental calculation. Tenured, offer of department chair, it was going to be a tough hit financially.
“I can make the patriotic appeal,” Bloch said. “Don’t worry, I already know what you are making now, and it isn’t all that much for a man with your knowledge. Back in the forty-eight you’d be making double, triple in some industries right now, but I know that’s not where your heart is.”
James looked back out at the fleet and took a deep swallow. “Let’s get started,” he said softly, taking his glasses off and pulling out a handkerchief to wipe them clean, doing so adroitly with his one good hand.
It was turning into a very long day and he was exhausted. The life of a prof had indeed softened him, perhaps too much for what was going to be expected. Once he said yes, the interview with Bloch was over, his chief petty officer came in, led James out, marched him over to the infirmary, and without fanfare, twenty minutes later, he was standing stark naked, being poked and prodded, the admiral’s chief standing to one side, staring at the ceiling during some of the more humiliating moments of this “interview.”
“The admiral really wants him passed?” the doctor asked.
The chief simply nodded.
Sighing, the physician scratched a signature on a form and handed it back to the chief.
“Get dressed, drop this with the nurse at the front desk on the way out. You are passed for limited duty and, frankly, God save this country.”
From there it was over to administration to get started on the mountains of paperwork, though the petty officer, with thirty years of hash marks on his sleeve, finally just scooped them up and said someone in the Admiral’s Office would take care of them later.
Back to the Admiral’s Office, and it was now one in the afternoon and he was starving. Standing in the Admiral’s outer office, the petty officer wished him luck, dropped the mountain of paperwork on a desk, and walked out, and James stood there for a moment, thoroughly confused. Hell, one doesn’t just go up to an admiral’s closed door and knock on it uninvited and ask what he should do next. Was the day over? Was he to go home and wait?
“Mr. Watson, I presume?”
He turned sharply, half expecting the absolutely wearisome jokes about Sherlock Holmes to now start. The sight that greeted him was a bit startling. The officer, a ca
ptain, extending a greeting hand was several inches shorter than James, eyes enlarged by thick glasses, dark mustache with flecks of gray not at all neatly trimmed. His uniform was rumpled, as if he had been sleeping in it for days, a very visible coffee stain on his pants.
He was every bit the antithesis of what a naval officer should look like.
“I’m Captain Collingwood, Tom Collingwood. Figured you might be hungry,” and he held up a battered lunch box and two opened bottles of Coke.
A bit taken aback, James simply nodded and followed Collingwood out of the building, his guide walking past security as if they didn’t exist and, in turn, they didn’t even take notice of him.
“Nice little spot down by the waterfront,” Collingwood said, pointing the way. They weaved their way across the base, Collingwood barely acknowledging the salutes of enlisted personnel, a couple of lieutenants passing, faces deeply tanned, snapping off salutes and then one loudly saying after they passed so that he and Collingwood could definitely hear the comment, “I’d love to see his ass at sea; do that slob some good.”
Collingwood ignored them. They reached the waterfront, a small parklike area shaded by a few trees and a couple of benches to sit on. The two settled down.
“A couple of ham sandwiches, hope that’s okay, wife always packs the same.”
James nodded his thanks, opened the wax paper and looked a bit suspiciously at the offering. It looked to be a day or two old. Suddenly he had a real longing for the faculty dining room on campus--always a good selection of Western and Asian food to choose from, and dam good conversations to be found. Here he now sat with a disheveled captain who, he suddenly realized due to the direction of the wind, was in serious need of a good shower.
Pearl Harbour - A novel of December 8th Page 17