Reluctant Warriors (21 page)

She would nod, and they would go back to reading the book. Of course, he had missed
a certain part of the early childhoods of the rest of us, so he had his catching
up to do.

My parents so loved this farm and the life it provided, which is now mostly gone.
It was the same for me. Mama spoke to me many times about it. “Baby, look out on
to the fields. This is God's face that we see here. His hand is in everything that
happens here. He saves the land for us by giving us
the winter, lets it rest and
renew itself. Then He makes it bloom and flourish with little work from us, so we
can feed the people in the cities so busy with their own work.”

My parents' reverence for this life touches me very deeply. Theirs was a life of
contradictions. While our acres and crops remained the same, with the birth and death
of animals, and the growth of us kids, it was a different place each year. The renewal
of life here is so awesome. An observer seeing the farm in January or February, when
everything is so dormant, dead, would think it impossible that anything could ever
grow here again. But within a matter of weeks, the same land has a bounty beyond
comprehension! My parents felt great satisfaction in growing food that nourished
so many people. Lastly, we've all felt a sense of the power of the land, due to the
sheer vastness of the Plains and its closeness to nature. Sometimes there is so little
here that speaks of any human influence.

I think of my parents now and the world in which they lived. It was a world of turbulence,
a time when life was cheap. But they did their best to value life, and helped make
a world better than the one they found. They were involved in difficult battles that
would be too much for most people today. Yet they wound up as the same people that
they were at the onset. I think that's a great accomplishment. I can't say which
of them had the harder struggle. Different people would answer differently. Yes,
my father was almost killed, and he served far away and against a pitiless enemy.
But my mother took care of the thing they both valued the most, our family. In many
ways, she had a more complicated and stressful time of it.

I can see us now so clearly in those old days: Papa on the tractor toting little
Karen in his arms, gently patting her on the bottom; Mama mixing something for supper
and me steadying the bowl; all of us kids running someplace, just playing. How I
miss those times! But they are gone, gone as far away as the crops we harvested.

Now Joe and I are long retired, I from teaching in the same grade school I attended,
Joe from the telephone company. My beautiful little brothers, Danny and Toby, run
the Perdue farm implements store my great-grandfather began four generations ago
in 1899. Little did we know, looking at shy little
Rudd, that he would make a career
of our little games of running around the farm. He has just retired at age sixty-five
from forty years of being the head track and baseball coach at a high school not
far away. And Karen, the little sweetheart of our tribe, now has three grown girls
who were just as pretty and frilly as she and two grandchildren. Her husband has
the largest law firm in Cedar Rapids, in which two of her sons-in-law are now partners.

I think I'll just go up to the Five Brothers and think about those old times.

Theodore Rodgers Stories

Mackson

South Pacific, October 9, 1942

S
eventy-two hours. That was as long as his first command had lasted. He had savored
the idea of having a command for his entire adult life, and it had lasted only a
matter of hours. As he lay in the captain's cabin with a broken leg, Commander Theodore
R. Rodgers, Jr., thought back on those three days.

He had been speedily driven from the dock as soon as the PBY amphibian plane landed
and came ashore. It was 6 October, and they were at the big US base at Noumeo, New
Caledonia, some eight hundred miles south of Guadalcanal. He was immediately ushered
in to see Rear Admiral Lakeland W. Wells, a staff member of Admiral Thomas Ghormley,
Commander South Pacific.

“Kip,” Wells said, using Rodgers' old Academy nickname, “this is a real emergency.
I'm going to give you verbal orders. There's no time. You probably saw the destroyer
and tanker in the harbor as you were coming in. Those are
Mackson
and
Mineola
. We
were bringing you here to take command of the destroyer
Garnet
, but that'll have
to wait. She's been delayed getting here.”

The old man looked Rodgers squarely in the eye. “I am hereby ordering you to take
command of
Mackson
as of this moment. You are to run
Mineola
up to Guadalcanal. We
wish we had ten destroyers to send with you, but
Mackson's
all we can scrape up.
Next week, we could send you with more. But that'd be too late.” Wells leaned across
the table. “You are to protect that tanker with everything you have. If they send
a battleship against you, you attack. You understand me?”

“Yes, sir!”

“If you fail, come back on your shield. I doubt we can give you any air support.
We'll try. But there are ninety thousand gallons of aviation fuel on
Mineola
and
they must reach Archie Vandegrift on Guadalcanal as soon as possible. His Marines
are holding on by their toenails. We could lose this whole show if we don't take
some big chances. It's that close. We must take the chance that you can sneak in.

“Admiral Ghormley just relieved
Mackson
's skipper two hours ago, for reasons that
need not concern you. This job should only take you seventy-two hours. We'll have
a skipper for her by that time, and we'll have a seaplane bring him up and get you
out.”

The two men stood. Wells shook Rodgers' hand firmly, grasping his right forearm with
his left hand as well. “Go, my launch is at the pier waiting for you!”

“Yes, sir!”

Whatever ordeal
Mackson
's crew had been through that necessitated the relief of her
commanding officer, Rodgers only discovered later. As the ship left the harbor at
Noumeo, her crew seemed to be in some shock. But it did not last long. As soon as
he was on the little destroyer, the new skipper, but an experienced sailor, he initiated
the command style that was to make him a household name in the United States.

He saw that every man on board was a vital cog in her welfare, each more capable
than he could ever be. He was confident that they would perform heroically with even
minor encouragement, giving their lives if that was what was needed. A captain did
not need to micromanage them, or even to really run the ship. The executive officer
could do that. Rodgers saw a captain's role as being apart from the crew. He had
no intention of picking up binoculars if someone could see for him, or disciplining
or second-guessing anyone. He would not curse, worry, lament, or show any weakness
in front of the men, ever. He was there merely to provide leadership.

He toured the engine room first. He met, shook hands with, and spoke with every man,
visiting and taking his time as the ship sailed on. Though a shy person at the social
gatherings his wife lived for, Rodgers was a born
leader. The leadership he projected,
the affability and basic goodness, were completely natural and had remained sincere
as he had ascended the ladder to high rank. In five hours, the handsome and smiling
thirty-nine-year-old had met about half of the crew, and they had forgotten the past
troubles.

He left coordination with
Mineola
and the zigzag movement to the executive officer,
Lieutenant Samuel P. Cashion, an Academy man from the '34 class. Rodgers had chatted
with Cashion for only about ten minutes. He had only set the direction and the speed
to be whatever the tanker could make. Within twenty-four hours, the new captain had
met every person on board.

By daylight on the third day, the two ships were making about ten knots, about eighty
miles south and west of Guadalcanal. Within four hours of dawn,
Mackson
's SG radar
reported a contact about eight miles distant.

Rodgers went down and looked at the screen himself. He then returned to the bridge
and motioned for Cashion to come over.

“Sam, that is obviously a search plane. He's made no move to attack, and he appears
to be shadowing us. We've been seen for sure.”

“Looks like it, sir.”

“I see from intelligence reports that there are several Japanese bases within striking
distance of us in the Solomons, like Buka.”

Cashion nodded.

“I know it's early, but let's make sure that every man in this command has his lunch
as soon as possible,” Rodgers said. “We won't have time for it later, and we'll all
be needing it.”

“Yes, sir.” Cashion hurried off.

About 1300, on a somewhat overcast day, the radar began to pick up a number of bogeys
to the northwest, about twenty miles off.

Rodgers took immediate action. Speaking with only a trace of a Southern accent, the
Alabaman nodded to Cashion. “Sam, it looks like what
we thought. I suspect they're
going to stage against us now. I want you to get on the horn [TBS voice system] to
Mineola
. Ask Captain Bennings to head for that squall to the west. Tell Freddie to
stay in there—if he can—until it gets dark, about six hours from now. They've seen
him, no question. But if we keep the enemy busy for a while, maybe they won't be
able to wait him out, and he can sneak in to the ‘Canal tonight. Order him in my
name not to turn back, no matter what happens to us.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let's wait as long as possible to go to ‘Boots and Saddles.'” That was the term
Rodgers liked to use for General Quarters. “Then we can go to Battle Stations. That
way, the men will be as relaxed as possible for as long as possible.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rodgers turned to the helmsman. “Mr. Raguzzi, there will probably be a lot going
on here in a few minutes. But I want you to watch me very closely. I'm not going
to say much, but you watch my hands and turn this thing just as fast as you can in
whatever direction I indicate.”

He held each arm up at various angles. “This will mean two points to starboard, this
to port. This means four, and this means eight. Now, I want you to head toward that
sunshine two points to starboard.” Rodgers pointed.

“Yes, sir,” Raguzzi replied.

“Mr. Hodges,” Rodgers told the signalman, “get through to Noumeo. Say this in plain
language. There's no time for code: ‘We are confronting a large force of enemy aircraft.
Request immediate air support.' Give our position. Make sure they acknowledge.”

Rodgers stood up from the captain's chair and spoke to the men on the bridge, his
voice calm and reassuring. “Men, you report to me what is happening, what you see,
nothing more. When you see planes, tell me where they are and how many, the direction
they are heading, and what kind of planes they are. There's no reason to get excited.
If you say it in a calm voice, that will help me quite a bit. Let's do the best we
can. Let's put on a good show for these people.”

By 1330, planes began appearing to the northeast as well. It was growing apparent
that this would indeed be a major attack. By 1415, the planes began their moves,
with two distinct flights, one from the west and one from the east.

An anvil attack
, Rodgers thought to himself, judging from what the lookouts reported.
“Mr. Farrow, ask Chief Clark to give us all the speed he can. Let's see what she'll
do!” he said in a matter-of-fact voice.

Ten minutes later, “Guns” opened fire at extreme range with the four five-inch, .38-caliber
main guns. Fitted with the new high proximity fuse, these fifty-four-pound shells
had an immediate effect. They drove off the first wave, shooting one plane down and
sending another heading away trailing smoke.

The second wave came closer. Clearly visible but out of range, the anvil attack commenced
with a flight of eight “Kate” torpedo bombers to the west and ten “Val” dive bombers
to the east, paralleling
Mackson
until they were several miles ahead. Then, abruptly,
they turned in toward the little ship at the same time, so that whatever direction
the destroyer turned, she would be hit. With the thirty-five-knot speed of the warship,
this too came to nothing, and a second aircraft was brought down.

Under a patch of brilliant sunlight, the 1,500-ton Craven class destroyer opposed
some thirty Japanese planes, weaving and twisting like a contortionist, guns blazing.
In the next twenty minutes, they beat back a third attack. Another aircraft sputtered
away, smoking.

Rodgers sat calmly on the bridge as though nothing were happening, chain-smoking
his beloved Camel cigarettes. Only once did he rise, curious to see if “B” turret
would finally bring down a Kate that he'd watched aim directly at the bridge from
several miles out. It passed not thirty feet above the mast and made its way off
to the northwest. Rodgers shrugged, surprised that her torpedo had missed.

Twice, when planes made strafing runs on the bridge, he sat unaffected as bullets
came close to his head and other personnel hit the deck. He joked
with the helmsman
and signalman, seemingly completely unconcerned about the chaos and desperate circumstances
that surrounded them. Only a keen observer would have noticed his left hand in his
pocket. He was running his thumb over a coin his mother had given him when his father
had been killed, and which was engraved with part of the Rosary:

Holy Mary Mother of God
Pray for us sinners now
And at the hour of our death

The power and coordination of the fourth attack doomed the little warship. There
were just too many planes and not enough guns. Rodgers managed to comb the wakes
of several torpedoes, but he could not avoid both the bombs and the torpedoes.

Four five-hundred-pound armor-piercing bombs struck
Mackson
within a very few seconds.
The first hit in front of the bridge, just missing “A” turret, and went all the way
through the ship and out the bottom without exploding.

Mackson
was not so lucky with the others. The second bomb struck near the fantail
and exploded above the engine room. The third hit amidships near the funnel, heeling
the ship over almost forty degrees.