A Voyage for History

A Voyage for History

a novel

––––––––

Michaele Lockhart

a Michaele Lockhart publication

Copyright © 2013, ©2015 by Michaele Lockhart

––––––––

A Large Slow Target

––––––––

Television viewers and movie goers are accustomed to images of World War II with tanks, trucks, and troops slogging across a grim and hostile European landscape. Most rarely consider how those hundred thousands of men arrived there. Airborne drops of troops accounted for some, but they had arrived from land bases in England. Without the US Navy, the rest could not have arrived to fight. Historians of the period and those who were there know how it was achieved.

D-Day, June 6, 1944, was the singular most dramatic example. While destroyers waited off shore to guard the seas and while aircraft patrolled the skies, a stodgy, sturdy ship known as the LST (Landing Ship, Tank) was singularly responsible for landing on Normandy’s enemy-held beaches and disgorging her load of tanks, trucks, armaments, and men. According to Sir Winston Churchill, in many respects she was the most significant ship of World War II.

The vessel was not even pretty to look at. She was not impressive like a fully-rigged battleship or immensely dramatic in all dimensions, like later aircraft carriers. These stalwart vessels didn’t receive the dignity of a name, but were identified by their hull classification followed by a number.

Not to be confused with the smaller, more vulnerable, open landing craft carrying troops, the LST was a larger classification of ship that could carry up to 120 tanks or trucks and averaged between 280 and 328 feet in length, with a fifty-foot beam and a flat-bottomed, sloping keel that gave it a shallow draft. In a four year period 1,051 LSTs were produced. The sheer volume of work and the capacity of the ship-building industry to accomplish this boggles the mind even today.

The LST’s hull was doubled-bottomed. In later versions, water-tight compartments lined the entire sides of the ships, offering critical protection to engine room spaces. Elevators carried equipment between the lower tank deck and flat main deck, which was used to accommodate additional tanks and trucks. The vessel was designed to ground evenly on a beach, from bow to stern with a slope of one foot per fifty feet, a remarkable design feature. Once beached, the fan tail (actually the bow) would open and drop forward, providing an exit ramp for men and vehicles. Powered by two sturdy diesel engines, the ship’s maximum speed ranged between 10 and 11 knots, hence her well-earned sobriquet, Large Slow Target. And that she was.

The LST had been designed to perform a dangerous task. At the beginning of the war the ships were commanded by Navy Lieutenants. Within months, their commanding officers were Lieutenants JG and then Ensigns: younger and younger men, fresh graduates from the US Naval Academy and other officer training programs, hastily prepared and thrust into the gaping maw of the monster that would become known as World War II.

The ship had proved remarkably safe. By war’s end more than half remained in service. Some were given to other governments, but only twenty-three had ever been the victims of enemy attack. A small percentage was involved in minor accidents, but the ship had served safely and served well. During World War II, on D-Day, the LSTs demonstrated their versatility as improvised hospital ships, bringing more than 41,000 wounded soldiers back across the English Channel.

Other ships that served in those war years were later decommissioned, but with representative classes later restored and converted to floating maritime museums, honoring their contributions and the crews that served on them.

No effort had ever been made to preserve and memorialize even one of these trusty vessels, the LSTs that had done so much for the war effort—until now.

––––––––

Part I

The Quest

––––––––

1

Ikthopanía, Crete, September 1998

––––––––

Charles Hartinger waited on the uneven, wobbly pier that stretched across the small Greek harbor toward the distant cliffs and gazed up into a cloudless sky of what seemed a nearly impossible shade of blue.

Cerulean? Ultramarine? Cobalt? he wondered. There must be a particular name for that color. His wife Kristen would have known, of course; she had known so much—so many things, significant and trivial, that had added to his life. He swallowed once and waited for the inevitable surge of grief to wash over him. Just three years ago.... With time, waves of anger at the unfairness of her death had turned gentler, more like ripples on a beach. At last, it seemed that thoughts of her were starting to bring solace.

Today, over six thousand miles from his own place Hartinger inhaled deeply of the bay’s familiar essence—creosote, saltwater, and diesel fuel mingled with the acrid tang of corroding metal—and felt at home.

We’ve finally done it. He surveyed the decaying remnants of the old harbor. Their plan had appeared nearly impossible from the start. Now that he was actually here, the concept seemed even more daunting. Their quest was over and seventy-two year old Charles Chuck Hartinger, Captain, United States Navy, Retired, had just purchased a fifty-six year old ship.

Hartinger turned cautiously on the narrow pier and watched the Greek dockyard crew at work. Even based on years of experience, it looked like a hopeless task, sorting out one ship—their ship—from a rusty lineup of nautical rejects.

Their endeavor had begun as a joke, later evolving into what seemed an impractical dream, and then had burgeoned into a nonprofit foundation with a nationwide campaign to raise funds and the manpower needed for a crew.

Because of Hartinger and his friends, one LST, the tank landing craft that had made D-Day and other critical offensive operations possible throughout World War II and far beyond, would at last be preserved to honor her contribution to history. The reality of the day began to settle in around him. More than a decade after his retirement from the US Navy, he would once again captain a ship.

In the small basket-shaped harbor of Ikthopanía, over one hundred vessels rocked and clanged against each other, riding with the tides. Trussed together, some ten deep, they resembled oversized rusting sardine tins, jammed between the weathered sets of pilings and planked walkways.

Hartinger zipped his windbreaker closed against the breeze that mercifully arrived with late afternoon to cool the shores of this sun-drenched Greek island. Early mornings stayed cool and brisk, but by midday the land baked under a fierce sun, the air grown totally still. He welcomed the refreshing change.

He looked down past his feet at his wavering reflection in the water below. An elongated face drew in and then separated with each wave, spreading on the rainbow-colored slick of oil and diesel fuel, a constant presence in any harbor. Occasionally his distorted image merged with lengths of braided cord looped around the pilings. Bleached by the Adriatic’s sun and saltwater, the aged rope floated like strands of grizzled beard on the incoming tide. Hartinger was aged by the sea, like his surroundings; he was comfortable with this and at ease in its presence. Miles away from home, he felt happy for the moment here on this foreign dock.

Yesterday he had arrived at one of Crete’s graveyards for ships, where unused, unwanted, or obsolete sailing vessels were destined to spend their final years. Rust, corrosion, and the elements would gradually claim most. An occasional relic might be bought and refurbished. Some would be sold for scrap, parts would be salvaged from others, but most would eventually return to the sea, rehabilitating fishing grounds.

Hartinger and his group had arrived in time to save this one LST, the ship they had known from another time over fifty years ago. He watched as the workers moved with brisk efficiency, disentangling lengths of iron cable from one ship, then another, and isolating the one vessel like experienced wranglers. At 328 feet and weighing 2200 tons, handling the LST was vastly different from roping any calf. The crew connected the ship to three powerful tugs, pulled her away from the others, and nudged her forlorn companions back into place. Within an hour Hartinger’s ship would be tied securely to her own private service dock.

The dark blue ball cap with United States Navy embroidered in gold on its front was the sole indication he wore of his former life, but Hartinger still carried himself like the officer he had been. At slightly over six feet, he had sandy hair more than half-shot with gray, now snugly covered by the hat, and a face that retained a certain boyish quality. The solid sprinkling of freckles was part hereditary and part legacy of forty years spent at sea in an era before the advocacy of sunscreen had taken on quasi-religious fervor.

This was a proud and emotional moment for him and for his group. He surveyed what would soon be his responsibility, recalling the early days of World War II when he had once commanded a nearly identical ship. Those forty men... oh God! Strange, their loss never left him, although during his military career he had witnessed his share of war and death. Grateful for the hat and trifocals, behind them he could hide brimming eyes and stubborn, painful memories. He waited in the afternoon breeze and admired the ship, content to reflect on what he and his friends had been able to accomplish in the past two years.

Their LST was not an elegant ship by any means—she was long, low, and squat. Pale but discernible on her bow were faded letters proclaiming her name, Aeolus, painted in the angular characters of the Greek alphabet. If he remembered correctly, Aeolus was the Lord of the Winds in the panoply of classical Greek mythology. Clearly some official in the Greek Navy had a keen sense of whimsy. He smiled at the thought.

––––––––

The Aeolus, formerly the USS LST-301, was scheduled to be decontaminated—thoroughly cleaned, engines and oil reservoirs removed, and lead-based paint sandblasted off—and scuttled in January of the following year. Hartinger and his Foundation had located her with little time to spare, with the one caveat that they must take her now. They would not have the luxury of months for repairs, to then make their Atlantic crossing in the relatively gentler weather of late spring.

The Greek government, who was cooperating with the US State Department as their group’s transaction developed and events unfolded, would frequently dismiss their concerns. Certainly one old ship is as good as another, they would say.

Hartinger found their dismissive Mediterranean insouciance charming but frustrating.

They did not seem to understand. This one particular ship, rocking forgotten in a small Greek harbor, had much in her favor, and her discovery was fortuitous. Most importantly, the Aeolus had not undergone extensive conversions for other purposes. One popular postwar use for the LST was conversion to hospital ships. The commodious troop quarters made excellent surgical wards and operating rooms.

The LST Historical Foundation had sought a ship as near as possible to its original construction, reflecting its use and its mission, a vessel they could restore to become a floating historical museum. It must also be seaworthy—now, there was the catch.

The Aeolus seemed to have remained essentially intact.

Seems to be more tank carriers than there are tanks, one admiral remarked in 1946. Surely he was exaggerating, Hartinger thought. As their Foundation searched, it seemed that his senior officer might have been correct, because they were to be found all over the world, in varying conditions and incarnations.

The LST had been such a safe and useful ship that almost too many of them had remained in sea-going condition, but that was immediately after the war. The United States government sold several to various European countries; it was cheaper and easier to practically give them away than to outfit them for another Atlantic crossing. When first conceived and built, they were considered single-use ships.

Also in the Aeolus’ favor, she had remained in continuous service until recently. Immediately after the war, in the 1950s, she served as a support vessel while the United States worked on radar installations in the Arctic, a Cold War effort if there ever was one. In 1964, she was transferred as grant aid to Greece where she had served until 1991, transporting construction equipment among the islands. Her ship’s radar was hardly state of the art, but Hartinger was grateful she had it at all; her antiquated VHF radio communications system was circa mid-1980s.

One did not make this kind of purchase casually, no matter how noble the cause or sentiment; a safe outcome must be their prime consideration. Before proceeding with the purchase, they had hired a consultant to inspect and determine the condition of the most critical areas: her engines, whether navigational connections were intact (especially the important steering linkages), the stability of drive shafts, plumbing, seaworthiness, the remote possibility of fire code compliance, hull integrity, waterseals (whether they were intact or could be made intact), the electrical systems, and general safety.

The safety consultant was their most costly expenditure to date, but as experienced former seamen, Hartinger and his group knew it was impossible to put any price on safety at sea. The inspections seemed to have been carried out thoroughly. The Marine Safety Consultants, Inc., of Boston, evaluated two ships for their Foundation, but the Aeolus ranked most safe overall, needing the least pre-voyage work on their part, and satisfied most of their particular criteria.

In their written report the consultants concluded, "The Aeolus, formerly the USS LST-301, is safe and intact, once the following stated recommendations for repair are completed; she is seaworthy and well-suited to her stated purpose."

She’s ‘well-suited to her stated purpose’! One man in their group quoted as he finished reading the report. He hooted and raised his mug of beer. Who’re we going to fight?

Does that mean we’ll need to carry tanks and troops? someone else asked, the sort of question a sentimental old seaman might ask after a second martini.

Like many of history’s quixotic exploits, theirs had started in a bar while the planners shared a companionable libation. That was two years ago, in 1996. The American Revolution once had found its tiny early roots in similar congenial settings, while the nation’s forefathers furtively shared a copy of Thomas Paine’s pamphlet, Common Sense, passed back and forth under tavern tables. In that era the possession of such writings would have constituted treason. However, the retired navy captain and his buddies were gathered only for their biweekly evening ritual, Happy Hour at a local fraternal lodge.

At first, it was a casual, blatantly sentimental suggestion.

Bernie, one of their cozy group, said, Talk is cheap, my friends. Why don’t we just go get ourselves one of those goddamn tubs and sail her back here! Conveniently overlooked was one detail: their town lacked an adequate navigable waterway.

Loud cheering greeted his suggestion, followed by raucous jeering. More sober, less maudlin, minds prevailed that evening. Treason was not mentioned, the summer of 1996, but everyone present questioned their mental stability, sobriety, and lack of common sense. Bernie’s words had planted the seed of an idea, one that would germinate, growing in unpredictable ways. Well established, it would send forth roots and tendrils, altering their lives and the lives of men they had never met.

Within two years, Hartinger and his friends had embarked on their quest, an adventure that none could ever have anticipated or even dreamed was possible.

––––––––

That one summer evening seemed more than two years ago. Chuck Hartinger was on Crete, trying to conduct business in a country where lassitude and good humor were a way of life, and he was struggling with its language and laws.

The attitude of the contractor who currently held title to their ship seemed typical of businessmen throughout the area. A shrewd dealer, he shrugged philosophically, acknowledging the sound economics of hard cash in this turn of events. The Greek government, through their department of reclamations, would pay a mere fraction of what these eager Americans were willing to pay for his tired old boat.

Like others in local government agencies before him, the contractor sighed in what sounded like painful resignation and accepted the check in payment. She would have made a very good reef. He shook his head sadly. Isn’t one old ship much like another, my friend? No?

The curious remark began to sound like a mantra. What was it with these folks?

It was not a significant transaction by anyone’s standards, but international law required a check drawn on a bank in Zurich. Its magnitude lay in what was represented, donations from so many for a cause personal to each man. Corporations, financial institutions, and thousands of individuals generously donated money, resources, time, and their spirit to this cause. According to the ship’s papers, of which there were a disturbingly small amount, the Aeolus would be his—no, theirs, the LST Historical Foundation’s—the following day, pending confirmation of the transfer of funds from the Swiss bank. Locating and buying the ship had been the cooperative effort of thirty-seven men in particular.

Chuck’s close friend Powell had flown to Greece with him. At the moment he was sorting out their accommodations on Crete. Bernie would arrive later in the day, followed by Gary, CJ, and Robby. The rest of the crew would begin arriving within the week: men they had never met, but who shared their dream. After two years of hard work the poker players and drinking buddies would set sail on the adventure of a lifetime.

Within two weeks, they predicted, the voyage itself would at long last be underway. The Aeolus had been built in the United States and that was where she belonged. Now they would honor her memory and that of her valiant sisters. At last they were taking her home.

––––––––

2

Indiana, Summer 1996

––––––––

For several minutes Chuck studied the hand he had been dealt but leaned back, cards clasped against his chest, contemplating his friends gathered around the green baize table. A fleeting image, the silly but popular caricature of dogs playing poker came briefly to mind, and then drifted away on a wandering current of other thoughts.

In any deck of cards there could always be found one wild card, and Chuck decided that Robby was theirs. Probably no one in their comfortable little group knew his full story, but such was the nature of men’s friendships: it wasn’t necessary to know everything about each other.

Bonds of male camaraderie rarely demanded full disclosure. They knew, in that vague way that close friends often intuited these things, that Robby was struggling with personal issues he never discussed and that he had lost one son sixteen years ago, a horrific death following radiation exposure at the Three Mile Island nuclear disaster. None of Robby’s sophisticated miracle drugs could reach his son’s fatally damaged blood cells, not with a crisis of that magnitude. His younger son Rich worked for Bernie’s engineering firm.

Chuck picked up his cards and studied them again. They had not improved in the time the others were considering their next bids, almost as though the future of the Free World depended on their decisions. Kristen would laugh at Chuck’s descriptions of these evenings, his Boys’ Night Out.

What did you talk about? she would ask sometimes.

He usually could not tell her much. The men shared a history and that seemed sufficient, a current that drew them together on the tides of friendship.

Gary drew a card. He seemed to have found something promising; he studiously rearranged his hand. The expression in Powell’s intense blue-gray eyes stayed neutral, a tactic he had undoubtedly perfected during years spent in the courtroom. Bernie peered noncommittally through thick lenses, while CJ displayed more animated interest in the game than anyone else, glancing from one player to the next. His was not a poker face. He smiled in Chuck’s direction, and the group eased back into the shared tedium of waiting.

Robby finally made a move, taking a card and raising the bid by a ridiculously small sum. One.

The others followed suit, chips clattering. Soon an easy silence fell and again lay upon their table. Music spilled from the Lodge’s dance hall, the familiar music of another time that men of their generation enjoyed.

Robby sighed and laid his cards face-down on the table. Holding something—anything—steady in his hands seemed to have become nearly impossible. Chuck noticed that the tremor had become more pronounced. It was odd, he thought, that Robby could wave two fingers to the beat of the music, his hand steady and sure. Like the others probably, he was curious, wondering and wanting to ask, but he never had. Was it Parkinson’s? He would tell them, maybe, someday.

Robby Johnston was the son of a prominent Baltimore physician, but he had never made it to medical school, although that had been his ambition. In the Navy, he had served as ship’s doctor—what other armed services usually called a medic—but returned after the war to complete a degree in pharmacy. As a Registered Pharmacist he probably had never touched a single pill in his entire career, but worked his way quickly into the upper management of a major pharmaceutical company, seduced by the fast-paced glamour of sales and promotion. Tonight a subdued man, someone who appeared much younger than his years, faced them at the card game.

Gary glanced up at the others, questioning and expectant.

Bernie did not bother peeking at his hand but tossed a chip into the center of the table. Ten.

Hmm... too rich for me. CJ laid his cards aside.

I’m out. Powell settled back into his chair to observe the inevitable.

Powell could have easily afforded the losses, Chuck concluded, but after a while it became a matter of principle. Studying his own hand once more, he anticipated the futility of staying in. He held on to the nonsensical mish-mash of cards, an assortment that made as little sense as the group gathered around their card table. They had all served in the Navy, but never with each other. Yet it was this bond, after so many years, that had first drawn them together and now linked them as closely as brothers.

Chuck tried rearranging his hand, first shifting that blasted Jack of Spades, another futile gesture. Robby stayed in the game—like that Jack, their wild card. There was so much about him the group did not know and never would. Through Powell’s wife Mary Lou, Kristen had learned what little there was to know about Robby’s troubled marriage, long-haunted by infidelities. Only now was he trying to stabilize what was left, much like struggling with a ship taking on water.

There was Powell Thompkins, the attorney, who had been Chuck and Kristen’s closest friend for years. Gary Latham, retired after an outstanding career in Civil Service as Writer and Editor and Public Relations Specialist, was one of those men who could not make marriage work but was always trying. His high school nickname, Lothario, stuck with him, although meaning little to a younger generation. He and Janine Bennet, the widow of Powell’s next door neighbor, had been in a close relationship for the past eight years. She was as much a part of his life as if they were married.

Chuck broke the silence that seemed to stretch on. How’s Janine, Gary? No man would dream of asking another why he did not get married, nor would anyone in their group ever ask Gary.

She’s fine. We’re planning a Labor Day picnic with the family.

Monosyllable grunts of acknowledgment passed around the table.

A smiling CJ looked up, interested. Your daughter’s coming here too?

Gary nodded.

It must be nice having them nearby now that Elaine’s married. Carlton J. Washington, the retired university professor of history from Purdue, always saw hope in almost any situation; lacking that, he would usually try to identify its historical significance. There was something unfailingly cheerful and upbeat about him, even when losing badly at cards.

Three other players stuck with their hands, facing Bernie, whom they expected to win, but hopeful to the end. Bernie’s hazel eyes twinkled through the thick lenses, gentle and guileless. Chuck squinted across the table, trying and failing to discern anything helpful in his expression, even when closely examined through his trifocals. Gary, too, tried to read their common opponent, apparently with no results.

When the others matched his ante and drew their cards, Bernie permitted himself a hint of a smile, first a slight twitch of his salt-and-pepper moustache, then a grin that spread slowly up to meet his eyes. Gentlemen, he murmured and laid down his hand, a classic Royal Flush of Hearts.

Chuck, Gary, and Robby displayed their losing hands.

Thank you very much, my friends. He stood, nodding to his companions as he gathered his winnings. Everyone graciously paid out, as Bernie cashed in a towering stack of multi-colored chips.

Lower stakes next week. Okay, Bernie? Powell asked predictably.

Bernie nodded in agreement as he always did. Of course. It was then he volunteered his suggestion, what every man present would later recall. Talk is cheap, my friends. Why don’t we just go get ourselves one of those goddamn tubs and sail it back here?

As on many other evenings, they had reminisced about their Navy days of long ago. None had served with the others, but they had served on one unique ship, at different times, in different places, and in different battles. There were other bonds between them, but this was something apart, something undeniably special.

Let’s see you try it! Cheerful teasing followed Bernie as he prepared to leave. He turned and smiled, waving farewell to his buddies, and departed for home.

It’s ten forty-five. Chuck did not bother checking his watch. We could set Big Ben by that guy. By agreement that was the latest any game would last. Tonight Bernie would be home by eleven, as he always promised his wife Hildy. Dependable, reliable, trustworthy, and a man of his word no matter what. Good qualities to have in a friend.

The others nodded. Rare qualities, someone contributed.

Chuck tilted back in his chair, the front legs wobbling precariously off the floor. With one hand, he stuffed tobacco into his pipe and then flicked a lighter to the contents. Three deep draws on the aromatic blend ensured the contents were well lit. This one back room at the Lodge was one of the few places where he could smoke indoors. He would need to find a way to give it up when local regulations and ordinances would soon force smokers to stand outside in the driving rain or maybe even a blizzard, simply to enjoy this simplest of pleasures. Damned if that would be a pleasure.

Well, he sighed, I still wonder how he does it! He lifted his chin, pipe angled toward the back door. He settled the chair legs again on the floor, then reached over to collect Bernie’s discarded cards. Amazed as always, he studied the neat alignment of crimson hearts. Except in Bernie’s company he considered himself a fair player, if not quite good. He picked up Gary’s cards, then his own, and studied the others’ in turn. He shook his head.

Gary dismissed their loss with a shrug. It couldn’t happen to a nicer guy. They nodded in unison, then lapsed into a companionable silence, the cards scattered about, the occasional suck and hiss of Chuck’s pipe the only sound at their table.

From the adjacent hall a familiar dance tune poured out its melody. It was a re-recording, many times over, of an old song from their time that many generations had discovered and claimed as their own. A female vocalist softly crooned the refrain, a sultry voice caressing long notes, In Bl-u-u-e Bay-o-o-ou.... Chuck drew on his pipe, marking time with the music.

He reached for the cards, gathering them into a heap, and then began to tap them slowly back into a neat rectangle. He held onto the pack, thoughtfully turning it over and over. Squinting against the smoke that drifted toward his eyes, he spoke from around the pipe stem clenched between his teeth. You know that’s where most of them were built, weren’t they?

What? A surprised CJ turned to Chuck. What was built where? Not everyone had followed Chuck’s train of thought.

What are you talking about anyway? Gary demanded.

The LSTs, Chuck replied, as though there really had not been any other topic of conversation for the past hour. Some of them came out of one shipyard near New Orleans... or was it in Mississippi? They were numbered. Remember? If someone could do the research we’d find out what became of them. Some were sold, a lot were scrapped, some were converted for other purposes.... His voice trailed off, lost in smoke and reverie. The Navy had files on those that had been sunk, but he didn’t mention that.

––––––––

Chuck Hartinger knew too well the fate of one ship. It had been his ship, his very first command, and most of her crew had been rotated off for much needed R&R. Based in Falmouth, England, they were assigned to USS LST-237 and had worked together almost around the clock for five months, ferrying tanks, trucks, troops, and, later, equipment for the Seabees.

In a convoy, they were provided with air cover, but every seaman knew that LST really did not actually stand for Landing Ship, Tank; it meant Large Slow Target. Chuck sighed, remembering. Describing their period off as R&R was an optimistically phrased euphemism. England, enduring wartime shortages and rationing, hardly qualified as a vacation destination. They had received warnings to not venture too far from their homeport, a distance never specified.

The first twenty-four hours ashore were always devoted to everyone’s greatest need, the one most easily accomplished and that involved little threat: sleep. Lieutenant JG Charles Hartinger awoke at one o’clock in the afternoon, suffering the odd disorientation that comes from sleep deprivation followed by an attempt to overcorrect it. He struggled into uniform and wondered whether he should try for breakfast—or was it time for lunch? Should he even bother?

Wandering down to the docks he noticed that his ship had already left port for routine repairs and maintenance, en route to a protected inlet farther north along England’s coast. She had probably sailed before his head touched the bare government-issue pillow that came with the drab, sheetless cots in their temporary shore quarters.

Nearby at the dock, The Red Lion glowed with the warmth of camaraderie mingled with the scent of frying pasties. Chuck managed to squeeze into the busy pub and settled against the high-backed benches lining the room. A pint of pale bitter and two of the fried pasties, their golden pastry disguising unidentified chopped meats, made for a satisfying midday meal, whatever they contained. He glanced up, trying to catch the attention of the pub’s proprietress, and noticed Seaman Sol Blackwell, from his crew, pushing his way through the crowd.

Over here! he called.

The young man nodded and slid onto the bench beside him, his white Dixie Cup cap folded and grasped tightly in his hands. Sir, Blackwell began. He paused, swallowed hard, and tried again. Sir, your ship—er, our ship—was sunk by Gerry air fire this morning. Captain Halstead asked me to go around and find as many of the crew on leave as I could. He bent his head for a moment, silent beside his commander.

Blackwell must have thought Chuck had not heard him. Chuck remained rigidly silent. This was his first personal experience ever with death. Approximately twenty-four hours ago these men, his shipmates and his crew, had been alive: laughing and working and swearing and sweating and living and breathing. Now, twenty of those men who had been like brothers to him, plus an additional twenty maintenance crew whom he had known, although not as closely, were gone. Everyone, killed.

He could not have known it at the time, but he had just experienced survivor’s guilt, something he never quite recovered from. Barely twenty-one, Chuck had become a much older man in a matter of minutes. The month before, he had received his wife Alice’s delayed but giddily upbeat letter confirming her now advanced pregnancy, their soon to-be-born child. The joy he had felt then evaporated, knowing that these forty men were forever separated from their children, wives, girlfriends, and parents.

He had heard Blackwell correctly. His officer’s training and obligations responded, rising through the depths of shock. Did Captain Halstead have any orders for me? Are we to return to his office?

Blackwell stared into his hands and folded cap, as though expecting some answer to appear there if he looked long enough. No, sir, not exactly.... Again, he swallowed hard.

Neither of them spoke for several minutes. Chuck stood up, stretching to extricate himself from the cramped space behind the small tables. He groped on the bench for his hat. The two men left the pub together; within ten minutes they were back in their commander’s office. As the crew’s immediate commanding officer, Chuck would write the required official letters of condolence to families. Finished at last, he handed the unsealed envelopes to his commander for official censorship and review.

Within a week his men had received new assignments, the remaining cadre of the USS LST-237’s crew dispersed among other ships and commands. Chuck wrote to his young wife, knowing that censors would remove any specific data, therefore he had mentioned none. He tried to convey, subtly, that there was a recent disturbing experience where I was close to the loss of people I had known and grown to love. He had wanted to share it with someone, even if his wording was necessarily obtuse.

After that day in the pub his path never again crossed that of Seaman Blackwell, whom he thought might be a career sailor, or any of his former crew. Later, toward the end of a nearly forty-year career in the Navy, Chuck would find this unusual. With frequent transfers and temporary duty assignments, it was common and expected to see familiar faces in new ports. However, there was never anything normal about wartime.

––––––––

Chuck?

He turned, feeling Powell’s hand on his arm. His pipe had grown cold.

You okay, buddy?

The others at the table were looking at him too.

Yes. Just thinking... remembering.

You couldn’t help it. None of us could, Powell said gently. Not any of it.

That was one thing special about being with people who knew you. You didn’t need to actually talk about what you were thinking.

––––––––

3

––––––––

Later, Powell would be grateful for the cloak of invisibility granted to all of them by the label of senior citizen. If any of the hired staff at the Lodge had actually bothered to listen, they might have reported the group’s activity as suspicious, if not highly inappropriate. Within a matter of months, the men progressed from quietly playing cards in one corner of the Lodge’s bar to plotting to purchase a ship.

Powell could imagine being called before the Superior Court and forced to endure a hearing to establish his mental competency. As an attorney with a mixed practice he had overseen such proceedings before. No matter how they were conducted, they were always unpleasant and demeaning.

Changes at their Thursday night Happy Hours were insignificant at first. They joked about the ship often, especially when Bernie won at poker, which happened on a regular basis.

Are you putting that into your special boat fund? CJ or Gary would tease.

My driveway isn’t big enough. It’s one of those older neighborhoods, Bernie reminded his friends.

Next they singled out Chuck. Don’t you still have that big place with a three-car garage? We could park the old tub there! Powell had once asked why Chuck chose to stay on in the sprawling house, alone after Kristen died, but did not raise the subject that night.

Chuck thoughtfully sipped at his scotch and soda and looked up as he shuffled the deck of cards. Yes, but our neighborhood association won’t even allow people to park their RVs in driveways. Afraid that leaves me out. Good try, though. He raised his glass toward the others, acknowledging their efforts.

Don’t even look at me, Powell interjected, never suspecting that anything would come of their rambling conjectures. Some guys