Reluctant Warriors (16 page)

Then, just as abruptly, at 1757, the Japanese ship changed course again and turned
back toward the subs.

Now the battle commenced in earnest. As though on a millpond, the
warships flailed
away at each other, the water around them like glass. The American salvoes began
to come close to the gunboat, but none hit.

At the same time, the enemy fire came much closer, putting a shell within one hundred
yards of
Bluefin
. Both the Japanese and
Bluefin
began to weave, while, of course,
Goby
continued in a straight line to the west as fast as she could.

The Americans remained on average four hundred yards apart, despite the gyrations
of
Bluefin
. The strange contest between the two implacable foes continued on until
1826, when the first shell hit
Goby'
s bow, destroying the port bow plane, penetrating
the deck into the forward Torpedo Room, and killing six men.

Despite the additional damage, the boat continued unimpeded. Unfortunately, at 1841,
the sub was rocked again, this time above the after Torpedo Room. Five of the crew
were killed, including two in the gun crew, but the shell just missed the engineering
spaces. Again the boat continued on at thirteen knots.

By now the sun's descent was proving a serious problem for the Japanese. Their only
other hit, also on
Goby
, came at 1922, in the extreme aft of the boat. It penetrated
the engineering spaces and knocked one of the two remaining diesels completely out
of operation but killed no one. The submarine's forward speed dropped off immediately.
It appeared to be only a matter of time before a fourth hit would sink the boat.

On board
Bluefin
, Phelps called down wearily to Rudy Ferrell. “Listen, Harry's about
finished. One more hit and I'll give you the word to submerge. I don't care if you
get a Green Board. I want you to take her down fast, so they'll have as little fix
on us as possible. We'll come around and torpedo this guy when he comes in to make
sure of Harry.”

At the same instant, one of the two subs—no one could ever figure out which one—landed
a shell on the Chidori's bridge. There was a terrific explosion, easily visible without
binoculars. The Americans on both bridges waited, in shocked silence, to see the
result.

The gunboat continued directly toward the Americans for another two minutes, but
no more shells were fired. Either the captain had been killed,
the communications
system destroyed, or the fire control system damaged beyond repair. In another two
minutes, the enemy turned off to the northwest toward Tinian and gradually disappeared
off
Bluefin
's radar. The battle was over.

Later, as they cruised gently toward Midway, it was time to deal with the dead. In
all, fourteen bodies, rolled in blankets, were lined up on
Goby
's deck. With the
men from both subs looking on, Harry conducted the simple service that has been the
tradition of the US Navy since the beginnings of the Great Republic:

Unto almighty God we commend the souls
Of our shipmates departed.
And we commit their bodies to the deep,
In the sure and certain hope of the resurrection
Unto eternal life, when the sea shall give up
Her dead
In the life of the world to come.

He looked away as three of the men put their fallen comrades over the side, one by
one.

The subs proceeded toward Midway at nine knots, the best speed
Goby
could make, for
the next six days. To everyone's amazement, not a single Japanese plane or ship was
detected. Unfortunately, the complicated and extensive repairs Krolewitz and Osborne
attempted improved the vessel's condition only marginally. The wounded and the log
were carefully transferred to
Bluefin
, just in case.

In the afternoon of the seventh day, Chief Osborne came to the bridge.

“Harry, we've come to the end. My guess is we've got thirty minutes or so. I doubt
she'll last an hour. Those cells, especially the ones in the forward battery, have
just leaked out too much chlorine gas. It's eaten through the hull somewhere. We
can actually hear it sizzle like a steak on a grill. The pumps are at full blast,
but as of fifteen minutes ago, they're losing.”

Harry put his hand up and spoke quietly. “You don't have to say anything else. I've
felt her lose headway in the last couple minutes. Signal Red to move in closer. Let's
get some lines across; the sea is coming up. Go to dead slow, just enough speed to
maneuver.”

Osborne went below. Harry mashed down on the intercom button and called out to the
entire boat. “Men, it's time to get everyone off. Help bring up the wounded, and
then we'll abandon ship.”

Soon lines were passed and tied to both subs.
Goby
's crew came up on the deck to
leave their ship, one by one, and then in groups. Some made their way across on the
lines drooping in the water, and others dove into the sea and swam across. Most paused
and looked at
Goby
, giving a thought or two to their home. A few saluted, teary-eyed.

Everyone but Harry and Osborne were across within thirty minutes. The remaining diesel
conked out, the lines were untied, and Harry motioned for Duke to go across.

Now he was the only one left, on a bridge starting to tilt noticeably as
Goby
sank
lower in the water. Harry paused for a moment before he saluted, and then stepped
off into the sea, hanging on to a line and striking out for
Bluefin
.

He climbed aboard, and turned to watch
Goby
go.The tired sub foundered quickly, surprisingly
beginning her plunge completely upright and level, as though she were submerging.
Goby
's final location was noted as 169 degrees east longitude and nearly 18 degrees
north latitude, or some 180 miles north of Bikini Atoll and some 1,150 miles short
of Midway Island.

June 18, 1944, Pearl Harbor

Phelps, Harry, and Admiral Lockwood sat in
Bluefin
's wardroom. They had just finished
discussing the mission.

“I think you two did a good job,” the admiral said.

“Thank you, sir,” Phelps said. “Do you have any early indications of how the campaign's
going?”

“Well, you and Jimmy Blanchard bottled up the place real well. We have no indication
at all from the intelligence people that any enemy shipping got in or out. The Marines
hit Saipan three days ago. From what we hear, they've made good progress after landing
at the southwest corner of the island near the straits. Red, I want to talk to you
in a few minutes, but let me talk to Harry first.”

“I'll be on the dock.” Phelps tipped his cap and left. The admiral turned to Harry.

“Harry, I read your report and it's a good one. I think you are too hard on yourself.”

“Sir, I got men killed unnecessarily.”

“I don't see that. You were in a tough spot, a new command with personnel unknown
to you. You were completely on your own.”

“Still.” Harry looked into the old man's eyes. “I feel responsible for the men who
died in the battle. I should have scuttled
Goby
when Osborne came to me with the
report on her condition. There would've been no battle, and we could've ducked the
Chidori.”

“Maybe so. But she could just as well have drummed up
Bluefin
after you scuttled
and sank
Goby
. I've done this for a long time, son, and I have learned that nothing
much happens in war the way it should.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said.

“Harry, I want to give you a new boat. She'll be coming in from the Panama Canal
in a couple of weeks.”

Harry took a deep breath. “Sir, I would like to resign from the service.”

Admiral Lockwood gaped at him.

“Sir,” Harry continued, “I've been home twice in eight years, once sick and once
with a broken ankle. My wife is just barely holding on to our farm.”

“Harry, we have to see this one to the end, however long it takes.”

“Sir, I've had eight war patrols since '41.”

“So, you think your number is up, eh?”

Harry looked the admiral straight in the eye. “I've almost been killed four times,
sir. I've been sunk twice, losing almost all of the crew the first time and losing
too many this time. Got held down in that depth-charging
off the Carolines for thirty
hours. But mostly, I think, as we get closer and closer to Japan, I've gotten more
and more sick of killing innocent people. This time I saw hundreds of people in the
water from a ship we torpedoed. Mostly women and children, some old men. Some were
already dead and the rest were soon to die. This is closer to murder than war to
me, sir.”

The admiral looked down at the pad, thinking.
This is the second time I've tried
to give him his own boat. He's a good man, but he's taken all he can take. Every
man has a limit and Harry's reached his. I wonder how we get men like him. I just
wonder. I hope the supply doesn't stop coming.

Finally, he looked up at Harry and shook his head a little.

“You have definitely done your share, maybe more. I'm not debating that. This is
what I can do for you. Rusty Clark, a very good man, was killed two weeks ago in
a plane crash at sea. I want you to take his place until the war ends, whenever that
is. You will get no leave, and I will not allow a transfer once you accept this.
You will be one of three officers who meets new boats at the Panama Canal and comes
out with them. You will polish those crews, and evaluate their commanding officers
in the two weeks it takes to get there.

“Harry, tomorrow you'll be promoted to commander, so that you will outrank these
captains. You will have complete authority over the new boats. You will have complete
authority to speak in my name. On your say, I will order the boats to the war zones,
hold them for more training, or consider your recommendation to relieve the captain.
Will you take the job?”

“Yes, sir, I would love it!”

“You will leave tomorrow at 0400. Come to my office this afternoon at 1300 and work
out the details with Bobby Ahern. He'll bring you up to speed.”

The old man stood and saluted. Harry returned his salute, feeling limp with relief.

“Thank you, sir!”

“Harry, you rate it, so you get it!”

The two men shook hands.

“You're dismissed, Harry. Send Red back down.”

Harry rose and went up on deck. He saw Red standing on the dock with
his wife and
waved for him to come back aboard to meet with the admiral. He looked up at the bright
sky, feeling glad to be alive, and thought of his family, thousands of miles away.

Then all he could think about was the girl he had seen in the water.

Dell

Let us now praise famous men, and our fathers in their generations . . .

There were those who ruled in their kingdoms, and were men renowned for their power,

Giving counsel by their understanding, and proclaiming prophecies;

Leaders of the people in their deliberations and in understanding of learning . . .

And there are some who have no memorial, who have perished as though they had not lived;

. . . as though they had not been born, and so have their children after them.

But these were men of mercy, whose righteous deeds have not been forgotten.

—Ecclesiasticus 44

The Five Brothers farm near Dorrance, Iowa, June 16, 2006

“B
illy” Connors Kraig sat with her computer on her lap looking out the old plate
glass window toward the grove of trees on the hill.
The Five Brothers
, she thought,
smiling faintly. On this, the thirteenth anniversary of her father's death, she and
her husband had long lived at the farm. She had thought of the approaching anniversary
for some
time, and was now prepared to write down what she recalled.
I need to do
this now
, she knew,
before I forget.

She had made up her mind that she would tell the story mostly through her mother's
point of view.
Papa had his diary of his war experiences published for us, but Mama's
side has been left out. I'll tell her story.

My mother was Dell Woodson Connors
, she began. She was a strong woman, tall, with
an average figure, average face, and average eyes. Everything about her spoke of
being a farmer's wife. Her features were not delicate, she dressed plainly, and her
topics of conversation were restricted to farm things: crops, animals, the weather,
and the children. She was a good Lutheran woman who never complained, never swore,
and mostly said very little. To her, material things were not of much importance.
Some said that farming was all she knew. Wasn't it true, they said, that she had
been born on the farm, lived there all of her life, and then died there in the same
bed where she had been born?

They didn't keep in mind that she had been a career naval officer's wife for a time.
That life had not been for her though, as she told us so many times. She had given
up that life for the farm she loved. At the end of her life she was a little stoop-shouldered
and her features worn, but she was a happy, contented woman with no regrets. She
often told me, “I've had the best life!”

My great-grandfather, Fallon D. Woodson, purchased this land from the US government
in 1868, at the age of twenty-five, as part of the Homestead Act, and built this
house in 1899.

At some time in those early years he purchased some pin oak trees that were to become
the trademark of his farm. By the time I came to live here, the five trees were huge,
large enough that we children could play hide-and-seek among them. But what I recall
most about them was the refuge they afforded my mother. I saw her go to the grove
hundreds of times. No matter what the weather, winter or summer, one hundred degrees
or twenty below, she regularly made her way there. I spoke to her about them many
times, and I always marveled at her response.

“Baby,” as she called me until the time I went off to college at Grinnell, “I love
this place very much, more than words can express. To see these trees Grandfather
planted! And the little graveyard over there with Grandfather and Grandmother, Father
and Mother, Mr. Riser. Our farm, which has been the lifeblood of our generations!
The fields, full of life! It renews me so when I am here. I am in such awe of this
place. It's like a temple to me!” Without fail, her eyes would moisten.

My grandfather, born in 1875, was Ray Woodson, a big man but like a teddy bear. My
mother idolized him when he was alive and later teared up whenever anyone spoke of
him. She grieved for him many years after his death in late 1941. He was six-foot-four
and about 245 pounds, a man as gentle as he was huge. Supposedly, he could lift the
back of a Model T truck off the ground without much effort. I was the only one of
us kids to see him. He died when I was five, after a long illness at a time when
my father had already gone to fight in World War II. I saw him only for a number
of months and was very little. I have always been sorry not to remember him more
clearly.

Mostly, I recall him with his big black dog, Gus. Because I was so small, both of
them looked the size of a house to me! The two of them were always together, to the
consternation of Grandmother. I recall her saying things against the dog, though
I did not know why. Gus was a wonderful dog, at least to me. But when I look at him
now in old photographs, I see a large and shabby-looking animal who would have scared
almost anyone. He looked fierce, like a black wolf, standing next to Grandfather.
I recall hugging him, although I think he didn't like it. His fur was raspy, almost
like a wire brush. He would lick me in the face with a tongue so coarse that it almost
hurt.

On many occasions, Gus was my nanny. If he had somewhere to go for a few minutes,
Grandfather would point at Gus in a special way I can see so clearly even now. He
would say, “Now, Gus, you stay right here with my little Sweetie Pie until I get
back,” and Gus would. I felt completely safe and enjoyed being a “Sweetie Pie.” He
would stand near me and I never saw him lie down when he was watching me. He chased
off many a stray animal that
I am sure meant me no harm. I was told he once faced
down an escaped bull on my behalf.

My grandparents were quite a strange pair. Grandmother was the former Eva Perdue.
She was not even five feet tall. A beauty queen from Des Moines, she had been runner-up
to Miss Iowa in the state pageant held in that city in 1905, when she was twenty.
Ray, a hulking farmer from Dorance, Iowa, 120 miles off, had seen her there.

The next year, when he came to shop for farm implements, he saw her again at her
father's store. She was a beautiful petite woman, with black hair like coal, small
hands, and delicate features. She still fit into a size four dress when she died
in 1963. Despite having worked very little, and knowing nothing of cooking or farming,
she fell in love with and married Ray in the summer of 1906, and came to live here.
Great-Grandfather Fallon was still alive and went to live in the attic.

It has been said of the Woodson women that they have great devotion to their husbands.
Eva certainly fit that mold. In five generations, none of us has sought a divorce.
Eva was completely unsuited to farm life. But because of her great love for Ray,
she remained here, decade by decade, hating everything around her: the hard physical
work of an isolated farm woman, the openness of the Great Plains, the fickleness
of crops, the smells of animals, the milking of cattle, and, more than anything else,
the utter lack of any social life or friends from what she perceived as her social
station. She watched as her hands coarsened and she developed arthritis in them and
in her back from the continual process of kneading bread and lifting things too heavy
for her to lift. I recall her often being in considerable pain.

She was also not the type of woman who took naturally to the process of bearing children.
But she held nothing of her situation against her husband. Eventually, on May 1,
1912, she produced her only child, a robust baby girl whom the overjoyed father named
Della Francine Woodson, but always called “Dell.”

Thus began the heartbreak of my mother's life: that Grandmother never really accepted
her. Mama grew to be five-foot-nine and had her father's physique. There was nothing
in her of the delicacy that Grandmother
treasured, nothing of the frilly girl who
could be dressed in pretty things. Mama's hair was a mousey brown. She had large
hands and feet, and from her first breath, she loved the farm and everything that
went with it.

I suppose the final blow came in 1922, when Mama was ten. While detasseling corn
with a lot of other kids, she caught her left arm in the machine, wrenching it terribly.
Our family doctor, Oscar Deluse Karnes, examined it. He said the ulna was too badly
fractured even to be set, and amputated it just below the elbow. Grandmother had
a definite eye for beauty. Now she looked at her daughter and saw a gawky child who
was plain and crippled.

But Mama made the best of the world she was given. I never recall a time when supper
was not on the table or housework was not done. Occasionally, when she was mixing
something and the bowl would get away from her, she would say to me so sweetly, “Would
you help me?” I never recall an unkind word coming out of her mouth or an unkind
act of which she was a part.

Grandmother's eye for what she perceived as good-looking gave me my father, Harry
Connors. He was born in 1915, on the farm next door, the fourth child of Dour and
Emma Connors. Grandmother often talked to me admiringly about Emma. “She had the
most attractive features, a beautiful figure—and her black hair!”

Grandmother spent many an afternoon with Emma, perhaps to the deficit of her chores.
They were not able to enjoy each other's company for long: the influenza epidemic
in the spring of 1919 ended it.

She told me the story many times: how everyone thought the disease would concentrate
in the congested areas in the east and not hit the farm country. With deep emotion,
she told of the almost daily bad news in 1918, at the end of “the war” (World War
I), of troops embarking for Europe and half of a company coming down with pneumonia
and dying quite quickly. Only the third wave came as far west as Iowa. One day, her
dear Emma called on the party-line phone and said they were ill.

“I worried over her all that day,” she would say. “When I heard nothing the next
day, I told Ray to start the Model T and we rode over to the Connors' place. I had
to go, but I wouldn't risk my Ray's health. I told him to wait in the truck. I walked
up on the porch and called inside through the screen. I
remember the wind blew softly
by my face. There was no answer, so I walked in. I never can forget that smell. My
eyes focused on the floor of the parlor. It was much changed, having been turned
into a makeshift sickroom. There on the quilts were my dear Emma and Dour and three
of their boys. My heart just broke in two for that lovely woman and her family!”

She would stop for a moment, unable to control her tears.

“All of them were dead, strewn there on makeshift beds. It was a terror. The Lord
take these old eyes if I'm ever to look upon such a thing again. Despite the weakening
afternoon light I could see their lips, so blue, and the purplish-blue tinge of their
skin, which sent a chill up my spine. I have that chill sometimes now when I think
of them. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I could see they had spat up blood toward
the end. Then I saw movement to the right, where the light was particularly dim.

“There, sitting bolt upright in a chair, was your father! The three-year-old turned
toward me, but said nothing. He needed his mother! But she couldn't go to him!”

Grandmother's lower lip quivered. It made me cry too.

“The least I could do was to take Emma's boy! I grabbed him up, ran out on the porch,
and tore his little clothes from him. I rubbed camphor all over his body, which at
the time was thought to quell the flu's path into the body. We washed him again in
the yard when we got home, and he never showed any signs of the plague.”

With his slight features and black hair, Grandmother took Papa as her own. I suppose
Mama did not mind; she had her Ray.

Mama and Papa were a wonderful pair from the beginning. As an only child, Mama needed
a playmate, and being three years older, she could help care for him as a big sister
as well. In time, he grew to be five-foot-ten, but never weighed over 165 pounds.
For all practical purposes brother and sister, they formed a bond that defied distance
and logic.

One of my most vivid memories is of my mother completely disconsolate one morning
during the war. It upset my little world and made me afraid. I think about it often.

I came downstairs before the others that day. I saw Mama in terrible
anguish: sitting
on the side of her bed, rocking back and forth, weeping and mopping her hand over
her face. The bed was still made from the day before. She remained there all day,
except for helping a little with dinner. In her room, she buried her face in her
skirt, without any noticeable recognition of her family about her. We attempted to
ask her things and soothe whatever was wrong. But she did not respond, and after
a few minutes we gave up and left her alone. By evening, she was so shattered as
to go to sleep with her clothes on at 5 p.m., which I saw her do only one other time,
near the end of her life.