Reluctant Warriors (5 page)

“The old backroom politician died and went up to Heaven where he saw St. Peter at
the gate.

“‘My son,' the Heavenly One said, ‘we would like to give you a chance to see if you
would like to remain here with us, or would rather live in Hell. So, take a few moments
here to look about.' The politician looked around very carefully, noting that everyone
was wearing white, playing harps or flutes, reading books and doing a lot of skipping.

“In a few minutes he took the elevator down to Hell. It took a long time. When the
door finally opened, he saw a lot of voluptuous women scantily clad, the finest Canadian
liquor free for the asking, and lots of gambling. He seemed to fit right in, and
in the short time he was there having lots of fun, laughing and carrying on.

“Later, when he went up to see St. Peter, the old gentlemen asked where he would
like to wind up. ‘Well, Pete, you have a good thing going for you here, but I think
I'll take my chances in the other place.'

“Again he entered the elevator and in a few minutes the door opened in Hell. All
he could see was a desert of unspeakable heat. People were suffering terribly, moaning,
sobbing, and pulling on his clothes, begging for a drink. The Devil happened by just
then. ‘Hey,' the politician asked in shock, ‘what had happened to the all of the
things I saw a few minutes before?'

‘Oh,' the Devil said, ‘those were just our campaign promises!'

“This last one he told to a group at women's club:

“A woman went to the doctor for her annual checkup.

After all of the tests, the doctor came in and said, ‘Well, Delores, you're in fine
shape for a woman your age, but there is one thing I should tell you, you're pregnant!'

In shock, the woman burst out of the room, rushed to the phone in the outer office
and dialed a number.

“I can see him right now, a wry smile on his face, and an occasional lifting of an
eyebrow.

“‘Are you sitting down for this one?' she yelled into the receiver.

‘Yes, I think so,' he answered timidly.

‘I'm pregnant!' she screamed.

His tone changed.

‘That's impossible!' he said determinedly.

‘No, I'm serious. I'm pregnant!'

Just as determinedly, he said again, ‘That's impossible!'

‘I'm here in the Doctor's office,' she said, talking down to him, ‘and he says I'm
pregnant!'

‘Who is this?' he asked.”

“Of course, there was another side to Daddy that we came to discover. The war had
been very destructive to him. As children, Bye and I had no idea of the damage it
had done. When they were old enough to understand that he had been a pilot in the
war, we were intent on asking him all about it. We wanted him to fly us places on
great planes, or at least see him fly, but we never did. Flying was still new enough
then to be magical in itself for most people. The harsh aspects of people he loved
being killed in the war completely eluded his daughters.

“The war was fascinating to us: a desperate foe defeated by my daddy and other men.
Good versus evil. These men were uncompromising heroes on the
order of the Knights
of the Round Table. It has been my lifelong wish to read as much as I could about
that generation to aid me in my writing.

“Father's plane was of great interest to me and in time I came to read about the
plane's proclivity to go into a ‘flat spin' which fascinated and puzzled me. I could
not imagine what it was. It remained in my mind until one day when I was home from
college I came right out and asked Daddy about it.

“‘Oh,' he said. He sat in his chair in the living room for a long moment and then
began. ‘The P-38 was a very hard plane to fly. At high altitude, it was such a delight!'
His face brightened. ‘Your vision was just wondrous; its maneuverability was like
that of a dancer. But lower,' and his voice flattened, and he paused and shook his
head. ‘Lower it had many faults, like in diving and in that spin. I told you of diving
to get away from Zeroes one time.'

“‘At Dobodura,' I chimed in.

“‘Yes. It was so heavy that it didn't do well diving at lower altitudes. It was so
heavy up front with those two big motors that it was hard to pull out of a dive.
It was sort of like maneuvering with a cement truck.'

“He laughed weakly and so I thought it was okay to press him about the flat spin.
I asked and he nearly cut me off.

“‘It was very bad,' he said.

“My heart sank with a serious look on his face that I might have brought bad memories
back to him. But it was too late and he went on.

“‘The plane was sort of rectangular is probably the best way to explain it,' he said.
‘It had the two fuselages with a motor at the front of each, both hooked together
by a nacelle which held the pilot. Fifty-two feet wide but almost forty feet long,
I forget the exact length. Anyway, at low altitude, in maneuvering around, the plane
could get out of control and begin to spin flatly. I know that sounds crazy, a plane
spinning like a Frisbee. But unless you could get out of it, the plane would continue
to spin, losing altitude, until you crashed.'

“I shouldn't have, but I couldn't help but ask the obvious question. ‘Did it ever
happen to you?'

“‘Yes, twice,' he said, lowering his voice. ‘I should have known better by the second
time. I was just a kid.'

“He paused for a while, obviously reflecting.

“‘The only way out of it was to, well—picture yourself spinning around quickly but
flatly. If it was a dark day, I never saw anyone get out of it. But if it was a bright
enough day that you were able to pick out an object on the horizon, and you could
gun the engines each time you spun around to that object. Gradually, the spin would
become an ellipse, and you could fly out of it.”

Claire looked up at the audience and smiled as most smiled back at her. “My parents
had a good life together. I am sorry for all of us that Daddy was hurt so much by
the war, and is not here rubbing and scratching our backs. But he got to see his
grandchildren and was loved very much. We were lucky to have had him in our lives
for as long as we did. We were luckier than many families whose loved ones never
came back.”

Harry Connors Stories

Mojarra

Dorance, Iowa, April 5, 1970

H
arry Connors' Kiwanis friends had specifically asked him to go to the town meeting,
and so he went, even though his wife, Dell, could not accompany him. Today's topic
was the Vietnam War. The meeting was supposed to end with everyone making some kind
of resolution about whether the town should support it. He could think of a million
other things he'd rather discuss than America's latest war halfway around the world.
In fact, cleaning the chicken coop at the farm would be more appealing. If he was
doing that, at least he would get to be outside on this sunny day.

Instead, here he was, in the library meeting room with its smell of mildew and sound
of buzzing fluorescent lights. Others began the discussion, and he sat quietly, having
no intention of saying anything.

“We must support our government,” Cal Werts said. “If the government calls, we must,
must
answer! It's our duty as good American citizens, whether we personally agree
with the cause or not.”

Daryl Felton spoke next. “I can't support this much. I don't like us putting ourselves
in a foreign basket. If these people bought farm products or had any prospects of
being business customers any time in the future, maybe I could see it. Otherwise,
why should my boy go way over there? There's nothing in it for us. Those people are
nothing to us. They don't even like us.”

Bob Anderson, the local pharmacist, stood and spoke. “I suppose there is something
to going overseas. My mother-in-law grew up in what is now
East Germany during the
war. She says communism is very bad. I know these Vietnam characters are in league
with the Soviets, so that is not good.”

Others spoke. Several of the men looked at Harry as if they expected him to speak,
but he did not volunteer. He sat still, lost in thought, ignoring the uncomfortable
folding chair.

He was jolted to awareness by the sound of Major Kirkman's voice. “Folks, we have
a real war hero here with us, Harry Connors. Harry commanded a submarine in World
War II and won the Navy Cross. Harry, we would like you to say something.”

Everyone turned Harry's way. Reluctantly, he stood. He was a slight man in his middle
fifties, with graying temples on his black hair. Though he had not been in the service
for more than two decades, the military bearing that never left him was apparent
to all. As respected as any person in the community, he projected an air of basic
decency and honesty.

He looked around at his friends and neighbors.
I wish Dell was here
, he thought.

With a long look on his face, he began, in his deep baritone voice: “Well, to tell
you the truth, I wish I had never seen the damn medal. Please excuse my language.”

People stared at him. He knew many of them had never heard him swear. He paused for
a second, and then went on, slowly.

“I got that medal over the death of several of my closest friends. Since that day,
I would have traded it a thousand times for one of their lives. They were good men,
much better than I could ever be. Good husbands.” He nodded. “Good fathers. Just
. . . good men.”

He paused again.

“Some of you are veterans and will probably agree with what I'm about to say. I think
the rest of you will have trouble taking the words of an old hand like me. So, take
them for what they're worth, if anything.

“War is a terrible undertaking not describable with any words I can find. It's almost
useless for me to try to say anything. But if you
are
determined to
go to war, I
would say two things to you that are pretty much for certain, two things you might
not have considered.

“The first is that you
will
kill innocent people. However you define the word innocent,
no matter how small, you will kill some of these people by accident just because
they'll be in the wrong place at the wrong time. You will kill women and children
who are innocents in any Christian sense you can find.

“I contributed directly to the deaths of, I am sure, hundreds of people who were
in the ships we sank. Some were enemy soldiers or sailors that I was pledged to kill.
But probably the majority were innocent civilians. We may have killed some of our
own people who were prisoners of war on those ships. That's a hard thing to live
with.

“Second: your friends will be killed. In war, due to the stakes involved in risking
your lives with others, they become friends unlike any that you have known, or will
know. They become like brothers, but more.”

He paused, looking around at everyone. Then he continued, his words measured.

“They become a part of your soul. Nothing that anyone could ever say or do will ever
change that, not even your own death. And these are the ones who will be killed right
in front of your eyes, and you will watch them die, and not be able to do anything
about it.”

He nodded in respect to those present.

“Thanks for listening to me. I did not mean to talk so long.”

Harry didn't look at anyone as he walked back to his seat. He picked up his jacket
and walked out of the room. As the door closed behind him, he realized he could hear
the discussion resuming behind it. He paused, wondering if he'd had any effect on
things.

One young man—it sounded like Danny Buckson, the feed store clerk—said: “I think
we should support this. Americans believe in democracy. We need to help the rest
of the world in becoming democratic and resisting communism. It is really an evil
system.”

Someone else, whose voice Harry couldn't place, spoke up. “I'm sure war is no fun,
but we must support our country.”

Harry decided he'd heard enough.

He left the library and walked across the parking lot to his '68 Chevrolet Impala.
As he opened the door and sat inside, it all flooded back.

There was never a face or recognizable voice that went with it. All he could remember
was the outline of a head and a man's voice. It spoke to him so weakly, so hauntingly,
“Harry, I . . . hurt bad! What happened? The . . . whole side . . . caved in.” The
voice slipped away, but Harry could
not
move to help. He had tried so hard to move!
Sometimes he awoke in a sweat, thinking he was there in the submarine again, trying
to move. But he could not. He was stunned, and it felt as though a great weight were
on top of him, pressing down, paralyzing him.

It was one of the memories of the war that troubled him the most. He racked his brain
there in the parking lot, as he had thousands of times before. But his mind was blank.
He heard the words and saw the vague shape of the head. The great weight had held
him down, making it impossible for him to move.
Yes, I had an excuse,
he thought
,
staring forward. I sit here in my car, twenty-seven years later, safe in Dorance,
Iowa, knowing that I was hurt. But it's never enough, is it? It's not a good enough
excuse. It's bad enough that I didn't help the man, but I don't even know who he
was. Was he an officer? Is that why he called me by my first name? Or was he an enlisted
man who called me “Harry” just because he was so badly hurt? If he was an officer,
who was it? Was it Don Forbes, or Larry Montain, or Simpson, or Cordell? It might
even have been Walter Wood. They all perished in the sinking . . .

October 14, 1943, Central Pacific

The submarine
Mojarra
, on which Lieutenant Harry Connors was serving, had been making
an “end run” at a top speed of twenty-one knots on a convoy off the western edge
of Mindanao in the southern Philippines. Several hours earlier, at about 0600, they
had seen a large convoy come out of the mists and head due north, directly away.
The only thing to do was to try to race around the flank of the convoy and get in
front of it for a torpedo attack. A
submarine on the surface during the day with
the periscope raised and on four-power could see the smoke from ships for many miles,
while its little silhouette allowed it to remain almost unseen.

Captain Fostel was on the bridge, barking out orders that were obvious to everyone,
as usual.
There goes “Hostile Fostel” again
, Harry thought, exasperated. The truth
was that Fostel was too old to command a submarine. He wasn't aggressive enough to
take the calculated risks necessary for successful command, but was quick to blame
that lack of success on others. Harry had witnessed many occasions when Fostel had
ridiculed an officer in front of the crew for some triviality.
Mr. Wood, he would
say, you would have done much better if you had done it this way instead . . .

“What does he know about respect?” Harry mumbled to himself. No explanation or excuse
of any type by the victim held any weight with “the Boss,” as he liked being called.
In fact, excuses only made it worse. The captain would stubbornly cross his arms
and frown at the man without responding. Reprimands took the form of unsavory duties
like being on garbage detail, where, just to get it done, the officer would help
“Cookie” dump sacks of garbage overboard. The men, officers and enlisted alike, soon
learned to just accept Fostel's criticism and scorn, say nothing, and go about their
duties. Named after an insignificant little silver fish,
Mojarra
was an insignificant
and unhappy boat.

And an unlucky one. It went all the way back to Lake Michigan.
Mojarra
had been built
at Manitowoc, Wisconsin, and the crew first assembled there for the commissioning.
Fostel first got on everyone's nerves during the lake trials. That was long before
Harry joined the boat for its third war patrol.

Harry's friend, Don Forbes, told him about one day on the lake in February of 1942,
with the temperatures well down into the twenties. As
Mojarra
labored against the
choppy waves, spray splashed onto the bridge and froze almost on contact. It was
caked two or three inches thick on everything, from the two periscopes to the safety
railings that held in the lookouts. Fostel ordered the boat submerged, but the twenty-four
inch wide air intake vent, which had to be closed to make the boat watertight, had
frozen solid in the open position. The bridge personnel, busy trying to keep from
freezing, had not noticed the open hatch.

As diving officer, when the light on the Green Board showed “red” for the intake,
Forbes had cancelled the dive and blown the ballast tanks. This quick action had
saved the boat. Had she submerged, it would have been only a matter of minutes before
the ice on top of the open valve melted, water poured in by the ton, and the boat
went down, carrying the entire crew to their deaths.

Fostel had yelled, “This is the end! My God, we can't even submerge this goddamn
boat!”

That was a bad thing to say on a submarine. The men in the conning tower had looked
askance at the captain, not wanting their submarine to be the object of scorn.

Fostel went on. “What will happen next? Mr. Forbes,” he said, his voice rising, his
head nodding as he walked toward the young officer. “You are the diving officer.
I have made SOO-perhuman efforts to give all of you people a chance to learn the
difficult, difficult job of commanding a warship. I would think that you could respond
by arranging it so we could
SUBMERGE!
After all, what are we?”

No one dared speak or even look directly at the captain. Fostel went on anyway, speaking
even louder, spittle flying from his mouth.

“We are a submarine! S-U-B-M-A-R-I-N-E!”

He did not seem to notice or care when it took three men with hatchets twenty minutes
to chip the solid block of ice from the air intake so
Mojarra
could indeed dive.
Forbes hadn't dared say anything to Fostel, then or now, but Harry knew he was still
pretty upset about the whole mess.

Forbes was hardly the only one Fostel bullied. The result was an inefficient boat
on which men squabbled with each other over nothing, and no one wished to take responsibility.
In its five war patrols, all under Fostel, the submarine only sank three ships. Fostel
always blamed the poor record on “bad luck.”

Younger, more aggressive men were gradually replacing the older commanders. But that
took time, months even. When Vice Admiral Charles
Lockwood, better known as “Uncle
Charlie,” took over the submarine command in May of 1942, everyone on
Mojarra
hoped
he'd remove Fostel. No such luck. Hostile Fostel was still in command. In the meantime,
competent officers that came to
Mojarra
had unsavory experiences and so transferred
out as quickly as they could, in a continual revolving door of personnel.

Harry had come to the boat as executive officer. Due to a curious incident, he was
the only officer of the nine aboard who became exempt to Fostel's continuous barrage.
Harry had actually upstaged the captain in firing two torpedoes at a freighter at
the last second. With Fostel on the scope in the conning tower, all of the preparations
for firing had been completed. The enemy ship was just seconds away from an optimum
firing setup when the captain began to berate one of the crew! Harry never knew who
it was. He had been watching the Combat Data Computer, a very complicated calculating
machine, as the diatribe began. It became obvious to Harry that they had to fire
immediately or the torpedoes would miss.