90 Day Wonder--
Darkness Remembered
by Leon Cooper
& Don Tait
Smashwords Edition
© 2003 Leon Cooper. All rights reserved. leoncooper@verizon.net
Published by 90 Day Wonder Publishing
Design and layout by Selfpublishing.com
ISBN: 979-0-9790584-4-8
From Leon . . .
To Alberta, my late wife, who loved me, helped me, understood me, tolerated me. . .
Jenny kiss’d me when we met, Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get Sweets into your list, put that in!
Say I’m weary, say I’m sad.
Say that health and wealth have miss’d me, Say I’m growing old, but add,
Jenny kiss’d me.
—Leigh Hunt
TABLE OF CONTENTS
1 That Old Feeling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
2 Islands Of Valor. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
3 We Thought They’d Never End . . . . . . . . . .
4 The 90 Day Transformation . . . . . . . . . . . . .
5 Looking For Company. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
6 The Old Coin Trick . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
7 Captain’s Mast. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
8 The Cave . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
9 Bloody Tarawa . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
10 Full Circle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
11 The Stadimeter Gambit . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
12 Music Lover . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
13 After The Ball . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
14 Leslie S. Templewood III . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
15 Getting To Know You . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
16 Say Goodbye . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
17 Leaving The Tyler . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
18 R&R, Who Needs It? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
19 Washington/Alberta . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
20 Get Out Of Town. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
21 The McKinley . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
22 “Volunteer Fleet” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
23 California, Where the Action Is . . . . . . . . .
24 When Johnny Comes Marching Home . . . .
25 Domesticity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
26 The Patent Attorney . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
27 Anniversary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
28 Dr. Metzler . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
29 Catching Up. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
TABLE OF CONTENTS (continued)
30 Foray On The Potomac . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
31 The Reckoning . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
32 Sea Power. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
33 Seize The Day . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
34 I Lose Alberta . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
35 The Gathering . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
36 The Beach . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
37 Strange and Mysterious Ways . . . . . . . . . .
38 The End . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
CHAPTER 1
THAT OLD FEELING
The skies over D.C. had been leaden all day with intermittent showers. It was October and headlights glistened off the street and the wet cars of people heading home. I glanced at my watch; 4:30. I had been out of the Navy for some years but I still saw 1630 hours, not four-thirty o’clock. My wife, Alberta, and I eschewed the umbrella. The mist on our faces felt good and we saw only blue skies ahead. I’d had a brief telephone conversation with a Captain Perry of the Navy Procurement Office about my “perpetual motion” invention for Navy ships. Capt. Perry said, a little indulgently, I thought, “Make a prototype and contact this office when it’s finished. We’ll arrange for a demonstration. Goodbye, Mr. Cooper.” A little curt, but actually that was a tremendous step forward. All I could have possibly wished for. I was sure my prototype
would work.
Alberta took my hand and pressed her head against my shoulder. That made me feel good, too.
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It spoke volumes. She loved me. She was proud of me. She was with me all the way.
We stood at the intersection of 8th and F Streets N.W. waiting for the light to change. At this time tomorrow we’d be home in Malibu. Alberta was ask-ing if I wanted to eat at the hotel or go some place special to celebrate. I didn’t care. I didn’t answer. I was suddenly focused on that black Buick sedan stationary in the left-turn lane. A sailor was driving and there was a Naval officer in the back seat.
“You goddamn son of a bitch!” I shouted. I yanked my hand from Alberta’s and charged the Buick. There was no broken field running, no dodging traffic. It was straight for that Buick and more particularly for the bastard in the back seat. I barely heard the screech of brakes, bumpers hitting bumpers, horns blaring, Alberta’s scream. I yanked on the back door handle. It was locked.
“You mother-fucking bastard, I’ll kill you!” I tried the shotgun door. Locked. I ran around to the other side of the car where he sat. Our eyes met through the closed window. It was he. I was sure of it. “You prick, I’ll kill you!” I punched the glass with my fist and felt no pain. The Admiral leaned forward and gave a command to the driver, punching him hard on the shoulder. The car lurched forward. My efforts to hold it yanked me to the asphalt.
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Alberta was there to help me up and guide me to the curb. Some pedestrians were staring at us, but I felt neither embarrassment nor pain. Just a seething rage.
“It was him! Boda!” “Are you sure?”
“Yes I’m sure. It looked just like him!” I shouted at her. “The mother!”
After twelve years of marriage Alberta knew when to be quiet, what subjects we could discuss rationally, what subjects pressed a button. Boda was a button. She gently steered me toward the hotel.
The neck of the scotch bottle chattered against the rim of the glass I’d grabbed from the bath-room. I tossed a heavy slug down and repeated the process, then hurried to the bathroom and threw up. Alberta was watching me uncertainly when I emerged, wiping my face.
“I’ll clean that up in a minute.”
“Don’t worry about it. Why don’t you stretch out? Can you eat something?”
I couldn’t. I stood at the window and stared at the lights of the Capitol and the traffic below.
“It’s good the doors were locked. I really would have killed him.”
Alberta wanted to help but she knew I was irrational on the subject. “Lee, how could you really see anything through those streaked windows?”
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I didn’t answer. Maybe I was seeing things that weren’t there. That was a sobering thought. Our eyes held.
“Why don’t I call Dr. Metzler?” she said. “Because this has nothing to do with how I feel
about my father,” I shouted. “I liked my father. I loved my father. It’s that prick Boda that I hate. Why is that so hard for people to understand?”
It was after eleven; Alberta was in bed. I was still wearing the torn clothes from this afternoon. The sandwich and soup she’d ordered up for me sat on the cart untouched.
“Come to bed, Lee.”
I shook my head. “I know I’ll have that dream
— tonight for sure.”
“Honey, why don’t you go back there like you talked about? You can go alone or I’ll go with you. Metzler said it might help.”
I knew Alberta had gathered brochures with dates and prices for cruises to many of the Pacific islands. “Islands of Valor” the tour company called them. There was Guadalcanal, Tulagi, Savo Island and others in the Solomons. The Gilberts and the Marshalls, too.
“I’ll see.”
I started unbuttoning my shirt with my left hand.
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CHAPTER 2
ISLANDS OF VALOR
There were 30-something in our Islands of Valor tour group. It included a former P.T. boat commander and a Marine who had actually been there. Some were with wives, some alone.
We went ashore by Zodiacs as we sailed from one island to the next among the Solomons, New Guinea and the Gilbert and Marshall Islands. Our Islands of Valor tour group tagged behind the tour director who at Tulagi led us to the far side of the island where we stopped to view WWII detritus everywhere — abandoned bulldozers and Jeeps in heaps. Here, virtually an entire machine shop. Over there, a beached landing craft. As the direc-tor droned on — he’d made this trip many times before — I could hear some bull-necked CPO barking, “Leave it. Kiss it goodbye. Orders are we don’t take anything back to the States.” I learned later that the President’s economists had told him we’d have another depression if our war supplies were to be brought back. I was particularly interested in
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the beached LCVP Higgins Boat resting at an angle partially buried in the sand, its stern still in the water. I had bedded and boarded with the boats for three years. Why was it run aground? How many of the 30 Marines got off? How many didn’t? Ragged holes inside the boat told part of the story. Machine gun fire? I felt Alberta’s hand on my arm. The tour group had moved on.
“How you doing, Honey?” she asked, brightly. “Okay.”
That was not exactly accurate. Though I had not been on these particular islands I was mentally reconstructing the action that had taken place here. The softening-up barrage, the landing, the often doubtful holding, the mopping up, the clean up including body removal, establishing a base. The letters home. Over it all, the ghastly image of hat prick Boda and hearing his voice: “Are you questioning me, Cooper?” The veins standing out in his neck. “Are you awake, Cooper?”
I knew Alberta was extending herself to keep my spirits up, being unnaturally pleasant, pointing out items of interest, asking me questions, any-thing to distract me from any troubled, brooding thoughts. But the rage was starting to simmer again beneath the surface and I wasn’t always able to keep it suppressed.
Midway into the three-week cruise Alberta and
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I found ourselves seated with a couple who had emigrated from Budapest during the “Hungarian Uprising” of 1956. Nothing of any significance in the way of conversation took place during the dinner
— when, to my surprise, the man asked Alberta, “Are you and your husband Jewish?”
“No,” Alberta replied, “Why do you ask?”
The Hungarian mumbled something and returned his attention to his food. This seemed like such an off-the-wall subject to bring up, I pressed the point. “Why do you ask?”
Again, a mumbled response from the Hungarian. “Honey,” Alberta interjected, “He was just
making conversation.”
At this point the bullet-headed Hungarian said, “I thought you’d like to know about our recent trip to Dauchau.”
“For Crissakes,” I shouted, “What the hell’s the matter with you?”
Bullet-Head’s porcine wife tried to calm matters, putting her hand on her husband’s arm. Alberta grabbed my arm, too, attempting to pull me up from my chair in order to leave the dinner table. I said to her, “Just a minute, dear,” and turning to Bullet-Head, I asked, “What’s your point? What are you trying to tell us?”
I had jumped to the conclusion that he was going to defend or minimize the Nazis’ atrocities
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in the concentration camps or, worse yet, try to justify them. And I still think it was one of these, but not finding a supportive listener, he let it drop. However, I was not ready to let it drop. I’m sure, because of my “condition,” I was just spoiling for a fight. If Boda wasn’t handy, this guy was.
“Are you going to say there weren’t six million Jews killed — only two million, because you saw the record at Dauchau”?
His porcine wife clutched her husband’s arm tighter — so did Alberta’s mine. “Let’s go,” pleaded Alberta.
Turning to the Hungarian, I said, “I want you to know that about 18 million U.S. servicemen were in a war to make it possible for a piece of shit like you to come to this country, free of the tyranny you experienced in Hungary. I don’t know why you brought up this subject, or whyinfuck you are on this cruise to begin with.” I wavered for a moment— should I punch his ugly face? Alberta pushed me away from the dinner table. Bullet-Head took great pains to avoid me during the remaining days of the cruise. A prudent decision.
Bloody Tarawa was still several stops away. But this morning found us at Bougainville to view the remains of Japanese war material. We followed our tour leader and listened to his authoritative spiel. He must have been three when this happened
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if indeed he had even been born. We followed him to an abandoned airstrip... here among bomb craters was the wreckage of perhaps eight or so Zero, Kate and Val planes, all active players in the Pearl Harbor disaster. In a clearing a hundred yards away there stood a Betty, miraculously almost unscathed. This medium bomber was the type in which Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto made his last flight from Rabaul to Guadalcanal on a morale-building trip to buoy up the troops that were in a last-ditch stand against the Marines. The Admiral’s plane was gunned down by a flight of P-38s, alerted by a code breaker, ironically located in Pearl Harbor, giving details regarding “Chrysanthemum’s” flight schedule.
I climbed aboard so Alberta and others in the group could take my picture seated in the cockpit. Upon alighting I heard a small plane landing at an airstrip nearby. Just as we all began to leave the area, three young Japanese men came noisily upon the scene, showing little respect for their countrymen who had fought and died here. They were laughing boisterously while one of them climbed into the cockpit I had just left. I stared at the three, feeling anger and hatred welling up inside of me, just as I had been conditioned years ago. I learned from combat veterans who had served in Europe that they were not so conditioned to hate the “Krauts” or “Dagos” as we in the Pacific were to hate the “Japs.”
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To us in the Pacific it was a visceral thing. With the brainwashing we had had and the tenacious fighting of the Japanese, they had become not only a different race, but a different species — not human at all — which is why I and everyone I served with viewed with indifference the killing of prisoners which happened on all of the islands we took from the enemy. We knew, too, that the enemy had a like attitude toward Americans who surrendered. In fact, the Japanese looked upon surrendered Americans as beneath contempt. In their samurai warrior credo, beheading was the honorable method of executing these “cowardly Americans.”
I had warned Alberta right after we were married that she should expect to be awakened at least now and then by this damned sound I would be making. I couldn’t speak in this dream because I was afraid I would be swallowing sea water. I was sitting on top of a Sherman tank 15 or 20 feet below the water, on top of a coral reef... so all I could do was moan in this fairyland of bright coral colors, blues, greens, yellows. There was this kid sitting on the tank next to me, a young Marine. Later in the dream I’m with this same young Marine, only now I’m looking at him as he lies among the wounded and dying that I’m bringing back from Tarawa, in the hold of my landing craft. He keeps moaning for water... is that him or me moaning?
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“It hurts,” he says over and over, so I give him a shot of morphine, taking care to put a tag on his bloody uniform noting the date and time of the shot. “Water,” he takes up the refrain again. More pleading, so I hold his head up and pour a little water in his mouth from my canteen. He stops talking. One of the other wounded Marines calls out, so I crawl over to him on the deckboards of the boat and try to comfort him. I crawl back to the first Marine... I suddenly become aware that I’m sobbing and moaning... I’ve killed him, is all I can think, by giving him water. Then I’d feel my wife gently tugging me, awakening me, telling me, “It’s going to be alright, Honey.”
In our Islands of Valor tour we’d sail at night and in the morning find ourselves either berthed or anchored off some island or atoll. A few of their names were only vaguely familiar.
This morning, a bright sunlit morning, I was up early on deck staring off at Tarawa. It was beauti-ful. Relentless nature had healed the scars. It was lush and green. The palms stood upright, but if I looked hard, I could see the remains of a prostrate palm trunk or of a stump. I could visualize Marines huddled behind them waiting for a break in the firing to rush forward to another fallen palm. Anything to hunker down behind, to gather oneself, to talk to the guy pressed against you.
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“Can you see where it’s coming from?” He’d shake his head. One, probably both, were trembling.
Then there’d be other Marines running past them, moving ahead firing. Time to get out from behind the stump and move forward. Often it was the unspoken opinions of your comrades that made you get out from behind that stump and charge forward. When it was all over, and if you were still alive, you didn’t want to find a couple of guys looking at you and having to avoid their eyes. So you got up and you ran forward to the next enemy position.
Guadalcanal, Iwo Jima, Okinawa — these amphibious assaults during WWII upon Japanese-held redoubts stand out in the nation’s memory. The rest of the some dozen invasions of Japanese strongholds in the vast Pacific theater have by now faded into the annals of battles. But one stands out in my memory, scarcely recalled by any except the participants — Tarawa, an equatorial atoll. It was my first battle experience as a landing craft officer, responsible for landing assault troops on enemy-held beachheads.
In November, 1943, the nation was shocked to see photos in Life magazine of “Bloody Tarawa,” as it was famously termed. Pictures of U.S. Marine dead — taken before the burial crews did their “clean-up” work — of corpses floating in the water,
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of others sprawled on the seawall, of still others huddled near the stump of a coconut palm. And then there was that photo in another issue of a young/old hollow-eyed soldier with the “hundred-mile look.” This was warfare close up — almost a tactile experience for the Life magazine reader
— and for the nation. Never before had the public seen a display of such carnage, such horrors, of dead Americans. But then came other battles and less graphic photos... Tarawa faded with time. But not for me.
Why Tarawa? Why was Tarawa selected as the first in the “island-hopping” campaign in the Central Pacific? A naval officer and president of the Naval War College, Alfred Mahan, published his seminal work in 1890, “The Influence of Sea Power Upon History,” in which he argued that com-mand of the seas was the key to victory in all U.S. wars. Mahan’s thesis evolved into the “Orange Plan,” a strategy devised by U.S. Navy planners in the early 1900s for defeating the Japanese in the event of war. The Japanese Navy’s annihilation of the Russian fleet in 1905 in the Battle of Tsushima Strait made it seem obvious to the U.S. Navy high command that the Japanese Navy would be a formidable adversary in the struggle for command of the Pacific. An important factor in the battle plans was the seizure of certain Central Pacific
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islands en route to the Japanese homeland.
It is impossible for me to shake loose from my memory even the most trivial details of the battle for Tarawa... the Navy’s traditional “Battle Breakfast” — steak and eggs — at 0300 hours on November 23... the shrill bo’sun’s whistle over the ship’s PA system, then the barked command: “Now hear this! Away all boats! Away all boats!” On my way to my boat station I saw Bill Cochrane, a Marine Lieutenant with whom I had made fast friends during our trip from New Zealand. We gripped each other’s hands, then said something nonsensical before climbing down the debarkation net into waiting landing craft.
Did Cochrane survive? I never found out.
Alberta came up beside me, choosing her words carefully. If she said, quite accurately, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she knew there was the chance I’d snap back, “To you, maybe.” So she asked instead if I’d had breakfast. I hadn’t. I continued to gaze off at Tarawa, an atoll; Betio was the island of which it was a part. Fifty-five years ago some-body had decided it essential that we take it as we moved toward Japan. Seeing it resting there, calm and verdant in a sun-dappled sea, it was hard to grasp that. The price for
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that little piece of real estate was almost 10,000 dead and wounded, mostly dead, during 72 hours of fighting, including 3,500 Americans and 6,000 Japanese and non-combatant Koreans — along with some “comfort women.” There were few, if any, statistics on prisoners. They were prisoners only briefly. Terrible atrocities took place here.
There was the normal talk and some laughter in our group as the Zodiac headed toward Tarawa. Alberta and I sat silently. I noticed the P.T. boat Captain looking at me. We both managed a wan smile, then glanced away. Some of the passengers were aware that this trip for me was more therapeutic than sightseeing. Helping hands made certain we stepped ashore safely. Then there I was actually standing on it again, bloody Tarawa. I could feel Alberta’s eyes on me. I glanced her way and nodded reassuringly. She seemed relieved. Soon we were all ashore. There followed some orientation information from our guide, and we were given the option of staying with him or going off on our own. Alberta waited for me to make the choice. We would go on our own. We walked along a jungle path, one worn by hundreds of years of walkers, on our way to the village. Orchids tumbled in abundance over breadfruit and papaya trees in between the coconut palms. I tied a bougainvillaea
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flower over Alberta’s right ear while she smiled at me “Why did you do that, silly?” she asked.
“Because,” I said, “It means you belong to me.”
At just that moment I felt a tiny, warm hand in mine. Two Gilbert Island girls had joined us on the trail. They were going to the Seventh Day Adventist Church in the village.
“Are you going to church?” one asked.
“No, not today,” Alberta answered.
We walked in silence in the still heavy perfume-laden air. After a bit, Alberta said, “I feel like we’re in the Garden of Eden.”
One of the girls asked, “Do you know any hymns?”
Alberta said, “How about...” and then she began in her soft, sweet voice,“Amazing grace, how sweet the sound...”
The girls joined in, word for word, singing all the verses. When we finished, one of the girls asked me, “Do you know any?”
I started off, clumsily, “You are my sunshine —” the mantra for all military personnel in the South Pacific during that war. Again, the girls joined in, word for word.
We came to a fork in the trail, the girls were off to church, Alberta and I were taking the trail toward the sea and the Japanese defenses. “God bless you,” the girls said in unison, and
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moved off. Tears formed in Alberta’s eyes as she watched the girls walk away. Tarawa? Hardly the one I remembered.
A curve in the trail brought us to a perfect view site. Below was our glistening white ship still on that cobalt sea. A warm breeze made it all perfect. There really must be something different about tropical air, like there is weight to it as it flows over your face.
We stopped and took it all in. Alberta looked like she wanted to be kissed and I obliged. I continued to hold her as she asked if I was glad we had come. “So far,” I said.
Another landfall in the Solomons group. I had misgivings about returning to the island of “The Cave,” where years before I had witnessed at first hand the cruelty I had only heard about. The zodiac put us ashore at Rendova, the beautiful volcanic island with the beautiful name.
En route to Rendova the tour director had warned us about a site some of us would not want to visit. I knew he was talking about “The Cave.” Alberta looked at me: I told her, leaving out the worst parts. Even so, this was not on her list to see.
Alberta and I had wandered away from the main group, then decided to re-join them, hearing their voices in the distance. The group, led by the tour director, was descending from a steep hill that
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had been a Japanese stronghold.
There was not the usual chatter. Their heads were down. They said nothing in passing and seemed to be very interested in their footing. Then there it was, the entrance to a cave protected by concrete and palm logs. The entrance now had been ringed with a fence. Newly constructed stairs led down to the entrance. I looked back for Alberta. She had fallen behind coming up the trail and seemed to be breathing heavily. I waited for her, my hand out, and led her to a spot a few yards from the entrance.
“I was standing about here. They’d heard Japanese voices coming from inside. They brought the Lieutenant over and he told them to empty both drums of gasoline down there.” Alberta could hear the tension building in my voice and wanted to stop me, but I was reliving it. I was back there. Some of the other tour group members were now watching me. “The Sergeant threw a grenade down the cave after it, then another, and we all backed away. There were two explosions, one right after the other. Then screams, then silence.” I looked around at the people staring at me and came back to the present. I started toward the entrance.
“Maybe you shouldn’t,” Alberta said.
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“Don’t you want to come?”
She shook her head. I started down the steps. Electric lights had been brought into the cave; still, it took my eyes a few minutes to adjust to the darkness. Blackened skeletons here and there, more than 100, perhaps 150 still in the cave. Surprisingly, their relatives had not come after the war, to gather up the remains of the incinerated soldiers. There was a pack of skeletons gathered at the far wall of the cave where they had crowded to get as far away as possible from the exploding gasoline. Canteens, rifle clips, helmets and, in a corner, a case of blackened bottles. Sake. It was over fast, I’m certain. I moved hurriedly toward the exit, pushing past other visitors.
Alberta later said I had that “hundred-mile look” when I came out of the cave. I didn’t protest when she suggested we return to the ship.
There were more Islands of Valor to see before we circled back to our home port of Honiara in Guadalcanal. I left the ship only a few times. I did spend a lot of time at the bar. Alberta read in the lounge and drank hot tea. The bartender, a nice enough guy, said he’d played tight end for Wisconsin. But I didn’t give a shit about the big game with Minnesota and I think that became obvious to him early on. He shut up and tidied his bar. When he saw my glass was empty, he said,
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“Another, Mr. Cooper?” The answer was usually yes. Captains on these smaller cruise ships would often appear among the passengers and chat them up. The passengers were flattered and it was good P.R. for the line. He paused this morning, resplendent in his whites, when he saw me at the seat I’d claimed as mine at the bar.
“Good morning, Mr. Cooper.”
I nodded. I didn’t want to get drawn into a conversation.
“Have you been enjoying the trip?” “Parts.”
“I understand you’re Navy.”
“I was.” I never looked up from my drink, hoping he’d move on.
“I noticed you didn’t go ashore at Choiseul. It’s really very beautiful.”
I looked up at him. “Is that mandatory, sir?” Suddenly it was not this Captain, but Boda who was in my face.
“Cooper, you jumped ship —” “Cooper, you’re confined to quarters!”
“No, of course not,” the Captain smiled, “I just thought —”
“Good, can I take this with me, sir?”
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I grabbed my drink, gave the Captain a look and went to my room. The Captain stood dumfounded. He looked at the bartender, who shrugged.
I was slumped in a chair holding the empty glass when Alberta entered the cabin. She’d seen me walk through the lounge and knew something was wrong.
“Now what?”
“That fucking Captain got in my face and started grilling me about not going ashore.”
“Just like Boda?”
I overlooked the sarcasm, but recognized that she had a point.
“Most cruise ship Captains,” she continued, “don’t get in the face of paying customers, Lee.” There was an edge to her voice. It was the first time my wife had lost patience with me on this trip. She dug two aspirin from her purse and swallowed them without water.
“Am I giving you a headache?” “No.”
I tried to find another drop in my scotch glass. It was not there. It was not there the last time I emptied it, nor the time before.
“Look at you,” she said. “It’s not even eleven o’clock and you’re drunk. You’re getting worse!”
She went into the bathroom and closed the door. I looked up at my reflection in the plate-glass
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mirror on the wall. The flesh on my face sagged. My eyes were bloodshot. I looked mean. God, how did I come to this?
CHAPTER 3
WE THOUGHT THEY’D NEVER END
Though my major at the University of Illinois was mech-anical engineering, I was far more interested in my minor, music.
This particular Saturday morning, however, neither engineering nor music held my attention. My mind was on softball and our all-important game in half an hour with the Slugs. I was at the keyboard in one of the practice rooms playing a Chopin etude and demonstrating to Professor Phelps how much my technique had improved since last Saturday. I had sense enough not to bring my mitt into the practice room, but I was dressed for the game in cords, Keds and a sweatshirt that bore the word “DODOS” and also had a crude illustration of this extinct, flightless bird.
I played while Professor Phelps listened and paced. He held a conductor’s baton while he paced. I think he had secret aspirations beyond teaching music to uninspired undergraduates. He moved to the piano and irritably tapped the upper right hand corner
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of the sheet music with the baton saying, with appropriate intonation, “Pianissimo, Mr. Cooper, pianissimo.”
In my effort to give Phelps and Chopin what they desired in that passage, I hit a clunker and Professor Phelps rapped the piano firmly with the baton. I put my hands in my lap.
“I believe Chopin is playing second fiddle to the Dodo Birds this morning and the...?”
“Slugs. We have to beat them, Professor Phelps, or we’re eliminated.”
Phelps closed his eyes momentarily, obviously seeking guidance from a higher source. “I’ll catch the outcome on the evening news,” he said. “And your game will also provide a pleasant respite for Mr. Chopin. He can stop spinning in his grave.” Phelps closed the cover on the keys ending the session.
“I’ll be able to concentrate better next week,” I offered lamely as I got up from the bench.
“All of musicdom awaits that moment.”
As I hurriedly stuffed the music back in a carrying case, Phelps added, “Meanwhile I will retire to the Hutch. I don’t usually imbibe this early in the day, but you’ve driven me to it, Mr. Cooper. I’m only sorry Mr. Chopin can’t join me. We both need it.”
I backed out mumbling apologies and goodbyes.
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In the hall I could hear music and singing from the other rooms. I grabbed up my mitt from the floor and broke into a run.
It was early November – and a little cool for baseball — actually softball — but the Saturday morning games were vitally important to us all, so we bundled up and played on the university athletic field or in some park. A few of the sweat-shirts had University of Illinois printed on them in large black letters, including some ribald limericks. Most were just gray. You’d also see the team names crudely printed on the front or back of the shirts, and there were even attempts at illustrations of the animals that the teams represented. In this league, for reasons long forgotten, the teams chose to represent lower forms of animal life. The Fighting Slugs, Amoebas, Road Kills, Ratpack, come to mind. We were the Dodo Birds.
I think these names showed a certain disdain for logos such as Lions, Tigers, Wolverines and other more worthy but less sophisticated monikers. Though we were cavalier and cute about team names, we were very serious about the competition. I don’t think anyone, certainly no one on the Dodo Birds, thought that a little physical activity mixed with the midnight oil was good for our health. In those days, and at that age, we were not very health-conscious. It was just fun, intense fun. Somebody, somewhere,
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must have been keeping a win-lose record, but I never saw it.
We were just aware of our own record, which wasgame with the Slugs. It was bottom of the seventh. Only seven innings were allowed so more games could be fit into the short days. The score was Slugs 5, Dodo Birds 3. We had two men on and I was at bat with two strikes on me. I’d be graduating in a few weeks, the Winter Class of ‘41, with a B.S. in Mechanical Engineering. I had an important job interview in Washington that next week for a position as Associate Engineer with the government. Not exactly a dream job but it was security and I could always keep my eyes open for something better.
These things were all big happenings in my life, but the most important objective at that moment was getting a hit or maybe even a homer, and saving my team from ignominious defeat at the hands of the Slugs. The Slugs’ pitcher, a lanky farm boy, had a wind - up like a fly wheel . The batter was never sure when he was going to release the ball. I was expecting a change-up, but here came a fast ball right down the slot. I swung with everything I had. He wasn’t going to get me looking like he had the last two. I must have connected with the ball just south of Louisville. There was not that disappointing sound of a pop-up or a fly. It was entirely
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different. There was no vibration in my wrists, it was right on the sweet spot. The ball sailed over their center fielder’s head and he took off after it.
Two Dodo Birds came in. There was wild cheering as I rounded third. The ball was relayed in. I slid home, keeping my body away from their catcher, but I definitely felt my foot touch the base before I felt the back of the catcher’s mitt on my calf. The umpire, a volunteer, shouted, “Out!” complete with the traditional dramatic gesture. Several Dodo Birds got in his face but he was not swayed. Slugs 5, Dodo Birds 5. A tie game, over. Please clear the field. As we gathered up the stuff, Foster, our catcher, said, “You don’t have to buy a round today, Coop.” I didn’t argue. Money was tight. I needed that job.
Half an hour later six of the Dodo Birds were squeezed into a wooden booth at a student watering hole called Farwell’s. We had not gotten around to sex, we were still talking the game and how we was robbed. Yantis, who was from a hamlet in Colorado, told us about a semi-pro game with a visiting team from the next town. But the game was called when a dog ran off with a fly to left field, and that turned out to be the only ball in town.
Since someone kept filling my mug from the pitchers of beer, I did the polite thing and drank them. I soon had three pints of draft in me
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and I felt loose, good.
I said, “I’ve got a story about a dog and baseball that’ll top that.” I didn’t usually tell jokes, so they gave me the floor. Skelly even said, “Shut up, Foster, and let the man talk.”
“Okay,” I started, “There was this guy with an Australian sheep dog, very smart.”
“Who, the man or the dog?” “Shut up and let him talk.”
“The dog. They’d been together constantly for years. This guy was always training the dog. Anyway, they were in this town, Findlay, Ohio, on a hot day. The guy was down on his luck but he was dying for a drink so he took the dog into this bar. It was empty except for the barkeep who was listening to the World Series on the radio. When the barkeep sees the dog he says, ‘Sorry, no dogs. City ordinance.’ My friend replied, ‘This is not a regular dog. This dog is very smart. He can talk.’”
There was a groan from the others in the booth. “Is this a joke?”
“No, it’s God’s truth,” I assured them. “I know the guy well. He told me this happened to him...”
The skeptics quieted down and I continued.
“The barkeep said he was very sorry, but it was a Health Department rule. They’d have to leave. “
‘Tell you what,’ said my friend, ‘I’ll make you a deal. You can ask this dog any question you want
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and if he can’t answer it we’ll leave quietly. If he does answer it, you give me a double bourbon on the house.’ This bartender figures the best way to handle this is to humor my friend, so he says to the dog, ‘Okay, poochy, who was the greatest baseball player of all time?’
“The dog says, ‘Ruff,’ and my friend says, ‘There you are, Babe Ruth, greatest baseball player of all time. Oh, and bartender, just a touch of ice in that drink, please.’
“The bartender comes around the bar, grabs my friend and his dog by the back of their necks and throws them both outside into the alley. My friend sits up, dusts himself off like Oliver Hardy and looks over at his dog disgustedly.
“‘Well, who was it?’ asked the dog, ‘Joe DiMaggio?’”
Somebody threw the dregs of his beer on me but there was laughter all around. It had been a great day. I’d hit that inside-the-park homer. My grades were good. My prospects for the job were good. Life was good. I was happy.
Anyone who was ten years old or more at the time, and is still alive, probably remembers where they were when they first heard Pearl Harbor had
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been attacked.
I was in my senior year at Illinois and had just been interviewed in Washington for that engineering job with the government. It looked pretty certain I’d get the job. After the interview, the bureau chief, Peterson, showed me around. He was already talking as though it was a done deal. He introduced me to Stucke, a tall, lean guy with high cheekbones and a prominent nose. Stucke didn’t seem particularly happy to see me coming aboard. “This will be your desk, Mr. Cooper, and you’ll share Alberta here with Stucke.” Peterson tapped the desk of a pretty girl who was winding paper into an Underwood standard.
“That’s just for secretarial services, of course,” the girl added without looking up. We all laughed. Peterson flushed.
“Excuse me, Mr. Cooper. This is Alberta.”
She smiled and our eyes met and for some reason I gave an extra squeeze as our hands parted. God, why did I do that? That wasn’t like me. I hoped she didn’t read anything into it.
Peterson patted my back reassuringly and said I’d be hearing from them. He headed back to his office.
“Nice to have met you, Alberta.”
She glanced up and said, “Same here, Mr. Cooper.” Did her eyes linger a little longer than propriety would advise? Was her smile warmer
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than one might expect under the circumstances? These thoughts were on my mind in the elevator.
I had taken the train back to Chicago and anoth-er to Champaign, all the while in a state of high euphoria as I walked from the train station to my apartment building on Green Street. I remember an Italian lady leaving Florio’s grocery store. She was pushing a pram loaded with groceries and an outsized kid. He was slavering over a sucker. The kid was too big to be in there. Hell, it wasn’t my problem, I had a job, nay a position — Associate Engineer — I hadn’t even moved the tassel on my mortar board and already I’d found security plus. The plus was I’d be seeing that girl every day. God was in His heaven and all was right with the world. Everything looked pretty normal on the streets. Cars were rolling. Pedestrians were walking. Two boys on bicycles zipped past me going too fast. As I entered my apartment building there was a student on the wall phone with another guy waiting. The door to the apartment I shared with two other undergrads, Yantis and Skelly, was open and there were other people from the building crowded around my cathedral-shaped table-top radio. It was a Philco.
Chapter 3 We Thought They’d Never End
“I think I got it,” I said.
Yantis put his hand up to shush me.
I moved closer and asked softly what was happening. Yantis said the Japs had attacked Pearl Harbor. It was a moment before I responded. I was having trouble grasping the significance of the situation.
“What do you mean, attacked it?”
“They bombed the shit out of it. Where have you been?” asked Skelly.
Someone said, “Turn it off. All the stations are saying the same thing. They don’t know any more.”
“Or they don’t want us to know.”
“Roosevelt is supposed to address Congress tomorrow.”
“Shit, he’s not going to tell us what the damage was. That’s the worst thing he could do.”
The Philco was turned off and someone in the room asked, “What the hell were the Japs thinking? Have you seen Japan on the map? It’s about that big.” He held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart.
The tall blonde guy slumped in the chair smiled indulgently. This was Langford.
“Did they tell us what to do?” I asked.
“Jerkoff here is joining the Marines,” said Yantis. Skelly, rather apologetically, explained that his
dad had been a Marine. He’d expect it.
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“Semper Fi.”
“Semper dead,” said Langford.
Langford was a history grad student. It seemed like he should have been out of school long ago. Maybe he was going for a doctorate or something, I don’t know. But he’d been around for years.
“Do you think they’ll come here?” Yantis asked Langford.
“No.” He said this with authority. “They’re upset because we cut off their oil and without oil they can’t control all the territory they’ve taken in the Pacific and Asia. They’re hoping we’ll sue for peace and stay out of their business.”
“Fine with me,” one of the visitors said. “Let the yellow perils work it out amongst themselves.”
We were a typical bunch of college students getting intellectual and solving the world’s problems. But we forgot about global strategy when Langford said the United States would be at war in a couple of days with Japan and Germany. “We don’t have an army to speak of. We just gave fifty destroyers to England and who knows what the damage was at Pearl. We’re really in no position to get drawn into a war, but we will be.”
Though Langford didn’t live with us, he had claimed the chair near the Philco. We always turned to Langford if we needed to know something. Trouble was if you asked him what time it was, he’d give
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you a dissertation on Babylonian water clocks. Langford didn’t talk about girls, like the rest
of us, about ‘copping a feel’ or getting laid, or dry humps. But he was the guru around there. He was the pontiff. He might have been gay for all I know. There wasn’t much talk about gays at the time. Not like today. I’m not sure we used the word gay.
“Well, what are we going to do about it?” someone asked the whole room indignantly.
“Who’s we?” Langford asked sardonically.
“I don’t know, the fucking Army, the Navy. That’s what they’re for, isn’t it? We’ll kick their ass so hard they won’t know which end of their kimonos to drink tea out of.”
“Bullshit. Japan’s tough. They kicked China’s ass.”
Langford said “We” were right here in this room. Silence.
Langford put our troubled thoughts into words when he pointed a long finger at Yantis and then me and then Skelly.
“Uncle Sam wants you ... and you ... and you.” A couple of guys from upstairs left and went
back to their own apartment. After that talk got around to the merits of the different branches of service. It was pretty much agreed that an infantry grunt was the worst.
“Shit, man, did you ever see pictures of those
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guys in the trenches in World War I, sloshing around in a foot of freezing water, stepping over some clown that’s been dead for a week?”
“Where you supposed to sleep?” “Where do you take a crap?”
Langford said, “When a German tank opens up with an 88, the decision will be made for you.” There was laughter — nervous laughter — at the gallows humor.
Langford also said there wouldn’t be trench warfare this time. The Germans were using a blitzkrieg tactic that was proving very effective.
Yantis offered that the Merchant Marine was the same as being in the service, and the pay was great.
Langford agreed that Merchant Marine was good— especially if you liked hot oil baths.
Most votes were for the Navy or the Air Force. At least you’d have a place to sleep and three squares a day. “But don’t drop the soap.”
We talked about sharks and even about which uniforms looked best. When the conversation waned, Skelly asked Langford what he was going to do.
Rising from his chair, Langford said, “Somehow I think they’ll find a desk for me in Washington. It’s a rotten job, but someone’s got to do it.”
There was no response. One of the visitors said he had a quart of Pabst if anyone wanted some. There were no takers and he left to drink it himself.
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I learned later that Langford became a “chicken” Colonel in Air Force administration. More power to him. The future belongs to those who prepare for it.
CHAPTER 4
THE 90 DAYTRANSFORMATION
”Hut! Hoo! Hee! Hor! Hut! Hoo! Hee! Hor! Column left... Hartch!”
The detail of 18 midshipmen in Columbia University’s Midshipmans School turned left. There was a little confusion and skipping on the part of some to get back in step.
“Left! Left! — I had a good wife but she left! Left! Left!” the Ensign D.I. shouted impatiently.
“By the right flank... Hartch!” The majority of our detail turned right sharply, but not everyone.
“Detail... Halt, Hut! Hoo! Order... Harms!” The rifle butts did not all hit the ground in unison. Not by a long shot. We stood rigidly as our D.I., Ensign Prentice, paced, digging for patience, struggling, apparently, for control. He was pompous and arrogant, overwhelmed by a sense of his own importance. Worse than that, he had what some Texans have, an irritating twang when he spoke. He loved the role. It couldn’t have been better casting. Ensign Prentice finally gained enough composure
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to speak.
“This is my seventh class of midshipmen, and you are the sorriest sad sacks of shit it has been my misfortune to meet.” He paced and took deep breaths. “You are here because the Navy needs officers!” Pause. “You — those of you who are still here when I’m through with you — will be expected to be lead-ers of men. Sailors will be put in your charge and you will be responsible for their lives — and some of you don’t even know your right from your left. Officer candidates? God help the Navy!”
He paused to let that sink in, then continued, letting his eyes pass over us. “You’ve got your classes and you have to pass those, no question. But let me remind you that I turn in a report on your ability to learn — your ability to receive, understand and execute orders. And trust me, not all of you are going to be here in ninety days. Some of you are going to bilge and take that long walk.” His posturing was fascinating to watch. I was mesmerized.
“Cooper!” “Yes, sir.”
“Did I put this detail at ease, Cooper?”
“No, sir.”
“Then you’re still at attention. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
Prentice came up to me and got inches from
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my face. “Then your head and eyes should be facing straight ahead. Isn’t that what you were told, Cooper?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then what in the fuck are you looking at me for?”
Still shouting for the benefit of the rest of the detail, Ensign Prentice ordered me to police the area, and if he found so much as a leaf or a fleck of tobacco on the ground, I’d be out there tonight with a flashlight.
“Detail. Dismissed!”
During Midshipman’s training I think I started to develop an attitude toward the Navy. It could well have been Prentice who triggered it. I tried to be objective as I wondered if Prentice was giving me more shit than the others. Maybe I didn’t take orders as blithely as some, but I obeyed. I executed the order promptly and efficiently. But was there a little passive resistance that the ordering officer could sense rather than actually see? Quite pos-sible. I really didn’t like taking orders — especially when they were shouted in my face. Rather than intimidating me, it angered me.
I made the cut. My grades were good enough and I knew my right from my left and in 90 days
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I became an officer and a gentleman. Prentice was right, however. Not everyone did make the cut. I met some great guys, good students, and already gentlemen, but apparently lacking something the Navy wanted in their officers. We watched them make that “long walk” across the parade ground carrying their belongings in the suitcases they had brought with them. I’m sure it was a memorable walk for those who flunked.
At the graduation ceremonies in Riverside Chapel, I tossed my midshipman’s 7G hat in the air along with the other 200 new Ensigns. As we filed out of the church a number of officers stood at the entrance to greet us. We saluted and thanked each one. Ensign Prentice, our D.I., was there. I saluted him and looked him in the eye but withheld my thanks. I was kind of proud of myself for not making up to the bastard. What did I care? I wouldn’t be seeing him again, or so I thought at the time.
When I was alone in my room I checked myself out in my new uniform and adjusted my officer’s hat to a more rakish angle than perfectly upright, and even gave myself a quick salute. John Payne did it better, but it looked fine. Some guys never did learn to salute. Strange, such a simple thing. Orders for our new assignments would be cut tomorrow. We all wondered what our fate would