No Ordinary Joes (15 page)

With so many Australian boyfriends, husbands, and lovers gone to war, the women had been deprived of local male company, and the newcomers personified the Hollywood dream: they were described as handsome and worldly, a mixture of vulnerability and brashness, usually somewhat courtly in their manners, somehow less crude than the Australian men they were used to. Plus, the Americans had money to burn. The wartime pay of submariners was three or four times the pay of local men, and the sailors didn’t hesitate to spend it, treating the women to fancy presents and expensive entertainment. The ultimate dream for many of these women was to hook one of these men and eventually move to America.

Relationships quickly developed, ranging from the intensely romantic to the coldly commercial. There were six brothels on Rose Street in Perth, but unlike in Hawaii, attractive local women were available and eager. Most of the men visiting the brothels were older sailors, the guys Chuck liked to say “didn’t want to waste time going out with nice girls to sip tea.”

Sexual liaisons became common knowledge, and it didn’t take long for conventional morality to crack under the American presence. Married women, their husbands off to war, also seemed eager to participate in this new social order. Perth/Fremantle was described as a living lab for demonstrating that during wartime, inhibitions break down.

Some of the Americans exhibited a self-confidence that bordered on arrogance, but the Australians were willing to tolerate the occasional bad behavior and bravado. Of course, not all of the servicemen were just about sex and romance. Most of the men were homesick and lonely and sometimes scared, looking for nothing more than the warmth of human contact; many were invited to private homes for a meal or an evening of talk. Chuck met a pretty blond girl from South Perth who invited him to her parents’ house. He appreciated the home-cooked meal, but he also felt a little guilty because he was really only interested in the girl for, as he put it, “shacking up.”

For Chuck, the two-week leave in Perth had been a wild time. Most of the
Gudgeon
’s crew had stayed at the Wentworth Hotel downtown, and he spent his nights drinking and chasing women, amazed at how many attractive and available women he’d been able to meet. During the day, he usually went to the beach or to the racetrack (he still harbored hopes of getting involved in harness racing after the war). Another daytime diversion for the sailors was going out in the countryside to hunt kangaroo. Chuck tried it once, but he never even got close enough to a kangaroo to fire his Navy rifle. But he still fared better than one of his crewmates, who opened fire on something moving behind a thicket, only to discover he’d just killed a local farmer’s prize horse.

* * *

By October 1942, Chuck had been in Australia for two happy months. He’d transferred off the
Gudgeon
to the
Pelius
, a submarine tender. He was serving on a relief crew responsible for repairing the subs that came into port, readying them to go back into battle while their crews went on leave. Being on a relief crew was a common rotation for men who’d been under the stress of patrol, giving them a break before sending them back into combat. Chuck’s job was helping to overhaul the diesel engines. He was enjoying the respite, but he was also getting anxious to go back out on patrol, back to a higher sense of contribution to the war effort.

But on this day, he wasn’t thinking about torpedoes or evading depth charges. He was fixated on spending the evening with nineteen-year-old Gwen Haughey, a wavy- and dark-haired, brown-eyed beauty he’d met a few days earlier when he and a shipmate were strolling through an arcade in Perth. A private in the Royal Australian Women’s Army who served as a messenger and secretary to the base commander, Gwen had been walking with a friend, and even though she was wearing her unflattering green wool Army uniform, Chuck thought she was just about the prettiest thing he’d ever seen. He got her number, and when he called to ask her out to a movie, she accepted, requesting that he pick her up at her house so that her family could meet him.

Gwen was the middle child of three sisters. Her mother was from England and, to help the family get through the tough times, often took in laundry and ironing. Gwen had warned Chuck about her father, a strict Irish Catholic and an ex-rugby player who’d owned racehorses before the Depression but who went broke because, according to him, the Filipino jockeys he’d hired had lost all his money by throwing races. Now he traveled the countryside shearing sheep. He had always closely monitored Gwen’s dating, regularly taking her to the neighborhood priest for lectures on morality and proper behavior, and once, when he spotted her laughing and having a good time with a boy from the neighborhood, he gave her a whipping—with a whip. Chuck was prepared to be on his best behavior.

Like most Australian girls her age, Gwen was fairly ignorant about America. Most of what she knew had come from Hollywood films, which
portrayed a mostly rich, glamorous lifestyle, with no images of the grinding poverty that Chuck and many of the other sailors roaming the streets of Perth had lived through. Her first impression of Chuck fit the image—handsome and well mannered, nicely paid, a young man willing to risk his life to save her country from the Japanese. She’d heard stories about the atrocities at Nanking and that the Japanese were cannibals, celebrating their conquests by ceremonially eating some of the vanquished. For her, these brave American men, risking their lives, were heroes.

Chuck approached the front door of Gwen’s house in Victoria Park, a working-class section of Perth. He checked to make sure his uniform was just right, desperately wanting to make a good impression on Gwen’s parents.

Entering the house, Chuck introduced himself to her family. From his fellow sailors, he’d learned the advantage of showing up with gifts to sweeten the first impression. Perhaps as much as anything, the Americans’ long-term impact in Australia would be measured in what they introduced into Australian culture—Coca-Cola, hamburgers, peanut butter, spaghetti and meatballs, and American-brand cigarettes. To Gwen’s sisters, Chuck gave chewing gum; to her father he presented a cigar and a 5-cent pack of Lucky Strikes; to her mother he gave candy.

As Gwen went to get a sweater, her mother followed her into a back bedroom. A moment later they both emerged wearing sweaters, both of them moving toward the door. Chuck looked puzzled. He held the door open for them, quickly getting the picture—Gwen’s mother would be joining them on their first date.

They went to see Cary Grant in
Penny Serenade
. Chuck ushered Gwen to their seats; her mother took a seat two rows behind them. Along with everybody else in the theater at the start of the movie, they stood for the singing of “God Save the Queen.” He could feel her mother’s eyes boring into him from behind.

After the movie, they headed straight home. On the front porch, Gwen’s mother stood right next to her. Chuck politely thanked them for a nice evening, then watched as they retreated inside. Clearly, this wasn’t the
first date he’d imagined. Still, he was totally smitten, and determined to see Gwen again.

It had been three months since that first date, and he was still head over heels. Being in love was a new experience for Chuck. He’d been infatuated with Irene back in high school, but that was kid stuff compared with this. At night he went to sleep thinking about Gwen, and when he opened his eyes in the morning, she was the first thing on his mind. Their time apart always dragged. They didn’t get to see each other for fifty-one days at the start of 1943; he was in the Java Sea on his first patrol aboard the
Grenadier
, the sub he’d been assigned to after serving on the sub tender
Pelius
for a month. He would lie in his bunk thinking about places they’d been together, especially Leighton Beach and its idyllic, long white beach and gentle, warm surf, where they’d gone several times. Sometimes when he thought about her, he actually felt a chemical rush. And this wasn’t just lust. They’d finally shared their first kiss, but Gwen had made it very clear that she would remain a virgin until her wedding night. That was fine with Chuck. He’d even talked with Gwen’s commanding officer, who’d requested to see him to ask him his intentions with Gwen. He assured the lieutenant that his motives were honorable. He’d told his friends that she was the “marrying kind,” and besides, on some of the nights he wasn’t with her—she didn’t get much time off—he had other opportunities to satisfy his physical needs. On a couple of occasions, he even had dates with two women the same night, getting off a streetcar with one to meet another on the corner. He rationalized this behavior the same way many of his fellow servicemen did—he could die tomorrow, so why hold back? After all, he and Gwen weren’t officially engaged or anything. In fact, the subject of marriage hadn’t been brought up yet. Nor had he actually uttered those three little words.

Chuck was glad to be assigned to the
Grenadier
. When he enlisted he’d said he’d consider staying in the Navy if he made second class chief petty officer by the end of his six-year hitch. He liked the work and the challenge of learning the intricacies of the submarine. He felt a sense of purpose,
and a bond of brotherhood with the other men in the crew; he felt part of an elite fraternity that regular citizens couldn’t understand. How could others possibly know the helpless quivering in your gut while lying several hundred feet beneath the ocean’s surface with explosions shaking every rivet of your ship and driving your heart right past your throat into your mouth? They couldn’t.

Upon first being transferred off the
Gudgeon
, Chuck missed the buddies who’d been with him on that first patrol when they were the first American warship to sail out of Pearl Harbor. In comparison, his new crewmates on the
Grenadier
seemed inexperienced, many of them on their first patrol. But he had confidence in its hard-nosed skipper, Captain James Fitzgerald. Fitzgerald wasn’t a leader who demanded respect; he earned it, and he was friendly and accessible to his men. He was only 5 feet 7 inches, but as a collegiate boxing champ he had gained a “hard as nails” reputation; one of the officers on the ship, Lieutenant Al Toulon, called him “a little bantam with a tough face.” On that first patrol up into the Java Sea there was a calm professionalism about Fitzgerald that Chuck appreciated, a leader not likely to buckle under the pressure, yet maybe a little more approachable than the other skippers he’d served under. Once while walking with Gwen in Perth, he’d run into Fitzgerald, and when he introduced Gwen, he was struck by how friendly and polite the captain had been.

Chuck slowly untied the bow of the little package Gwen had just given him. It was March 19, 1943, and Chuck knew that sometime within the next forty-eight hours he would be shipping out on his second patrol aboard the
Grenadier
. The crew never knew precisely when they would sail—departure times were kept secret during wartime—but they usually knew within a couple of days. He had traded with a crewmate to get this time off, and Gwen’s commanding officer had generously granted her request for the evening off to be with Chuck. It seemed that Chuck had made a favorable impression on his visit.

Chuck opened the small gift box and removed a Saint Christopher’s medal, a symbol of devotion to the patron saint of travelers, including sailors.

He slipped the chain over his neck. “It’s weird,” he said. “For the last few days I’ve had a feeling that something is going to happen on this patrol.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. It’s just a feeling that won’t go away.”

“Why do you think that is?”

He took her by the hand. “Probably because for the first time in my life I have somebody I really care about.”

It was the closest he’d come to saying he loved her.

She put her finger to his lips. “You’re going to be all right,” she said. “And I’ll be waiting for you when you get back.”

He rubbed the medal. “I’ll never take this off,” he promised.

W
aiting on the pier at Hunter’s Point in San Francisco Bay, Barbara Palmer could barely contain herself. It was April 29, 1942, and the submarine tender USS
Pelius
, with her husband Bob on board, was due in from Pearl Harbor within minutes. He was scheduled to be home on leave for three weeks, and they planned to cram as much living as possible into their time together. She’d even rented a studio apartment for the two of them in the same building on Pine Street where she’d been living with her Aunt Fern and cousin Margie. A month earlier she’d written and told him that she’d had a miscarriage. Maybe when the war was over she’d confess to the abortion, but not now. The procedure had taken place without any complications, and in fact she walked the two miles from the clinic back to her apartment afterward—in high heels.

Bob was proud to be part of the war effort, and especially proud to be part of the crew of the USS
Tuna
, as good a group of men as he ever hoped to serve with, but when he learned that the
Pelius
was returning from Pearl Harbor to Mare Island for repairs, he saw a chance to get back home to see Barbara. He’d thought about her constantly, especially after getting her letter about the miscarriage. He wasn’t trying to escape combat, but he’d finished the first patrol on the
Tuna
with an earache that needed medical treatment. That was the excuse he needed.

On a building behind the pier where Barbara waited, two large signs offered evidence of the nation’s war footing and fear of saboteurs:
LOOSE
LIPS SINK SHIPS
and
KEEP YOUR TRAP SHUT
. In San Francisco, an almost palpable paranoia had spread regarding enemy saboteurs, with constant warnings to be on the alert and to report any suspicious behavior to the FBI. One sign warned:
THERE IS NOTHING TOO VILE FOR AXIS SABOTEURS TO STOOP TO TO ACHIEVE THEIR EVIL PURPOSES
.

Eleven days prior to Bob’s homecoming, sixteen B-25 bombers under the command of Major James Doolittle had taken off from the USS
Hornet
and conducted a daring raid on Tokyo. After dropping their bombs, the planes flew to China, where they all ran low on fuel and the crews either crash-landed or bailed out. Although the raid inflicted minimal damage, none of the men were killed and the raid helped lift the spirits of the American people. Doolittle received the Congressional Medal of Honor.