My Troubles With Time (11 page)

Firing at close quarters, the cruiser’s guns inflict severe damage on the
Arizona.
We are hulled several times. I see dead and wounded members of our crew lying where they have fallen on the deck.

Then we suffer the most serious blow. There is a massive explosion in number one turret. When the smoke dissipates, I see it, too, has been put out of action.

Now I face a most difficult choice, whether to shift number two turret’s fire to the cruiser or to continue to have it pound the badly damaged fourth carrier. As I consider my options, there is a mighty crash and I am knocked to the desk by an invisible hand.

Dazed, I struggle to my feet. My left arm aches; I touch it and find it bleeding. Debris litters the deck. About me, some of the men on the bridge are attempting to stand. Others are dead or wounded.

I realize one of the cruiser’s shells has hit the bridge. Members of the crew rush to the bridge to assist us. I order one to replace the helmsman, who is dead. It takes me several seconds as I stare out at the damage on the deck before I realize that number two turret has been hit and is also out of action.

Ironically, my next order concerns our battle flag. It has fallen to the deck. I fear, irrationally, that the Japanese cruiser may interpret that as a surrender signal. I order that the ripped and tattered ensign be raised again.

With all of the
Arizona’s
primary armament out of action, I have no choice but to order the helmsman to execute a 180-degree turn and steer for Pearl Harbor. I doubt we can make it. Damage control reports that the pumps are unable to handle the flow of water cascading into our mangled prow.

To further worsen the situation, damage to our engines has reduced our maximum speed to seven knots. I realize that under pounding from the cruiser’s guns, the
Arizona
has only a few minutes more afloat.

A host of Japanese destroyers are rushing to assist the cruiser. I order communications to send a last signal to Pearl Harbor before destroying our code books lest they fall into Japanese hands. I learn that the cruiser’s last salvo destroyed the
Arizona’s
radio antenna, limiting our range to a few miles.

Another officer would give the order to scuttle the
Arizona.
I refuse to do so. It is not for nothing that my classmates at the Naval Academy dubbed me “the Iron Duke.”

Fortune aids me. The fire that had been burning on the cruiser intensifies. Japanese sailors are climbing into their lifeboats. It is about to sink! Turning to the fourth carrier, I see that it, too, is sinking by the stern.

Our mission of revenging Pearl Harbor is accomplished. If the
Arizona
can evade the Japanese destroyers, we have a fair chance of reaching home safely. A sudden squall comes to my aid. I order the helmsman to steer the battleship into its midst. Providentially, a dense fog engulfs the
Arizona
, concealing us from the Japanese destroyers.

Under cover of the fog, I order the helmsman to execute several sharp turns at random intervals. When we emerge from the squall, I see we have been fortunate. We are on an empty ocean. The Japanese destroyers are nowhere to be seen.

For the first time since upping anchor, I leave the bridge to inspect the damage to the ship. Going down into the bow to see for myself the amount of water we are taking in, I am pleased to see that our slower speed has enabled the pumps to keep the water level from rising further.

I recall some experimental techniques I had heard mention in one of my classes at the Naval Academy and instruct the men seeking to staunch the leak how to implement them. The sailors are initially dubious; then impressed when they work.

On my way back to the bridge, I stop at sickbay to see how the wounded are getting on. The
Arizona
left Pearl Harbor with our doctors still ashore, but the enlisted medical corpsmen are doing a heroic job substituting for them.

The senior corpsman catches sight of my injured left arm and says he will dress the wound. I resist until he assures me that all of the other wounded have already been treated. He advises me that I am lucky; it is only a flesh wound. Nonetheless, he bandages it and puts it in a sling.

Returning to the bridge, I gratefully accept a cold sandwich and a cup of steaming coffee from a mess steward. I sit down on the cot, but resist the urge to sleep. Late in the afternoon, the engine room reports that temporary repairs to the engines will permit some increase in our maximum speed.

At nightfall, I relax. We have spotted no ships and seem to have evaded the Japanese fleet. The crew is exhausted. I give orders that all but the most essential personnel rest. Those that can go down to their berths do so. After giving orders that I be awakened if necessary, I permit myself to take short catnaps on the cot.

Late in the afternoon of the following day, the lookout spots an aircraft approaching. I am about to order battle stations when he identifies it as a navy PBY observation plane. Communications report that it has been unsuccessful in contacting the plane. The pilot, however, recognizes the
Arizona.
He circles the ship and dips his wings to signal he is informing Pearl Harbor of our location.

The crewmen cheer when I inform them over the loudspeaker that we have caught sight of Oahu in the distance. As we draw near to the entrance to Pearl Harbor, a navy tug comes out to meet us. It bears signs of battle damage suffered during the Japanese attack.

Using signal flags, the tug skipper asks if we can use assistance. I proudly tell the signalman to reply that the
Arizona
can make it on its own. We pass into Pearl Harbor, the navy tug following us behind at a respectful distance.

Along the shore, I can see crowds of people gathered. I study them through my binoculars. Many are carrying small America flags. Others hold signs. One says “Welcome Home
Arizona
.” Another bears the legend “God Bless America.” I see one man pointing at our tattered battle flag and excitedly telling his family to look at it. It dawns on me that they are gathered there to welcome us home.

As Battleship Row comes into view around the bend, I gasp. The area is crowded with debris from the ships sunk or damaged during the Japanese attack. The masts of several sunken battleships protrude above the waves. Several repair ships are engaged in attempting to bring order to the chaos.

Obviously, the
Arizona
cannot return to her former mooring. I order the engine room to reduce speed as I consider where to tie up. My dilemma is solved. The lookout informs me a launch has left the navy pier and is speeding to meet us. We slow our speed further as the launch signals it will transfer personnel to us.

I am surprised to see a senior officer climb the rope ladder to our deck. As he salutes the ship, I see his rank is that of a rear admiral!

“Welcome aboard, sir,” I say to him, saluting. “I am Ensign Maynard Snodgrass, duty officer and acting captain.”

He smiles, extending his hand. “It is an honor to meet you, Ensign,” he replies. “The Fleet Commander and the entire Pacific Fleet join me in congratulating the commanding officer and crew of the
Arizona.
Your feat in eluding the attack on Pearl Harbor and single-handedly sinking three Japanese carriers is the most heroic feat in American naval history.”

At this point, the first phase of my fantasy ends. I have reviewed in my mind various conclusions. In my favorite, the Admiral tells me that Congress is meeting to vote me the Congressional Medal of Honor. Moreover, President Roosevelt has dispatched his personal airplane to fly me to Washington for a meeting with him at the White House.

After mooring the
Arizona
at the Site designated by the Admiral, I accompany him in the launch back to the navy pier. A chauffeur opens the door of a navy limousine sporting two-star flags reflecting the Admiral’s rank.

We stop for a few minutes at fleet headquarters, where I give a brief oral report to the assembled senior staff. The gasp in amazement when I tell them the
Arizona
sank the fourth Japanese carrier and a second heavy cruiser after the radio antenna had been disabled.

When I complete my report, the officers cluster around to shake my hand. The Fleet Commander, a full Admiral, shakes my hand tells me he envies me. He would like to speak to me further, to obtain my recommendations as to how he should deploy his remaining vessels, he adds, but there is no time. I must hasten to the airfield to board the President’s plane.

Again, the Rear Admiral escorts me in the limousine. As we race through Honolulu, evidence of the Japanese attack is all around me. Damage is even more apparent as I catch sight of the airport, where piles of debris from the destroyed aircraft ring the tarmac.

The sentries at the airport are expecting us and wave the limousine through the gate without requiring it to stop. As we drive across the tarmac to the president’s plane, I see that the engines are already running. The admiral bids me goodbye and I board the airplane.

I am met by a beautiful stewardess. “Welcome aboard, Ensign Snodgrass,” she says with an admiring smile. “We are honored to have you with us. We have heard so much about you.”

She leads me towards the rear of the plane to a luxuriously decorated compartment. As I settle into a most comfortable sofa, I look around with amazement. I have never seen an airplane outfitted like this. There are Oriental carpets on the floor and nautical prints on the walls.

“This is the president’s favorite room,” she says. “If there is anything we can do to make you more comfortable, please let me know.”

The plane taxies down the runway, passing other aircraft whose departure has been delayed to permit us to take off.

As we head eastward, Hawaii disappearing behind us, a mess steward appears. “Would you like something to eat?” he inquires respectfully. “We have a fully equipped kitchen on board.”

I realize that I am ravenous. It is not surprising. I have hardly eaten for several days. I choose grilled pork chops from the dishes he suggests.

About a half-hour later, I am served a delicious meal at a table covered with an embroidered linen tablecloth. The dinnerware bears the presidential seal. Hot buttered biscuits and fresh applesauce accompany the pork chops. It is a hard choice, but I eventually elect to have the apple pie a-la-mode for dessert rather than the chocolate ice cream sundae with fudge sauce. The mess-steward smiles as I empty my plate and congratulate him on the sumptuousness of the food.

The stewardess returns and inquires if I would like to retire. She informs me that a berth has been prepared for me and leads me to it.

“Would you like pajamas?” she asks. “We have an extra set of the president’s on board. I’m sure he would not mind.”

Without waiting for me to replay, she brings the pajamas. I awkwardly attempt to unbutton my uniform shirt, unable to use my left arm, which is still in a sling.

“Let me help you, Ensign,” she says and starts to unbutton my shirt. She then unties and removes my shoes and socks. My protests are ignored; she removes my trousers and undershirt.

She is leaning against my bare back. I cannot help but feel her firm breasts through her uniform. I am not unaccustomed to having beautiful women press themselves against me. I sense I have only to indicate my willingness and she will disrobe and climb into bed with me.

This erotic element of my fantasy is a relatively recent addition, originating in my teens. Still, it is pleasant and I have made it permanent.

As I look at the stewardess, I am conscious of my desire to make love with her. However, I am too exhausted. It would not be fair to disappoint her by giving a less-than-perfect performance.

“Thank you so much,” I say, grabbing the pajamas and stepping back. “If you can turn out the light, I’ll turn in.”

Her disappointment is reflected on her face. “If there is anything I can do for you, Ensign, anything…” She emphasizes the last word as she turns off the light and leaves.

I awaken the next day as the plane sets down for refueling at San Francisco. I smell the aroma of freshly cooked bacon and look around as the mess steward enters the cabin. He hands me a cup of hot coffee and says with a big smile on his face, “The cook was so pleased you liked the dinner last night that he made up a big stack of apple pancakes for your breakfast. He knows you are partial to apples.”

Expressing my appreciation at the cook’s kindness, I sit down at the table and enjoy my breakfast. Looking through the cabin window of the parked plane, I see a crowd lining the airport fence.

The stewardess enters as I am finishing. She looks as beautiful as ever. “They’re here to welcome you,” she says, pointing in the direction of the crowd. “There are so many of them that the police are having difficulty keeping them off the tarmac.”

“I’ll be back in a minute,” I say as I arise and walk forward to the plane’s door, which is open. I see the pilot, an Army Air Corps Major, supervising the refueling. Turning toward the crow, I wave at them. They cheer repeatedly as I return to the compartment.

The stewardess sees me rub my face. It is covered with stubble.

“I have not had a chance to shave for several days,” I say apologetically.

“Let me help you,” she says and leads me to a wash basin. She removes my pajama top and shaves me expertly. I see the look of interest in her eyes. The night’s sleep has left me feeling much better. Before I can say anything, the mess steward enters, bearing my uniform.

“It was awfully dirty,” he says. “We cleaned it up as much as we could, but some of those stains are still there.”

I am surprised he was successful in restoring the uniform to as good a state as he has. He busies himself with arranging the cabin while the stewardess helps me dress. Under the circumstances, I can do nothing more than thank her politely as she finishes.

She leaves for a minute and returns holding several newspapers. “Major Conway,” she says, “Thought you might enjoy looking at these San Francisco papers.”

I settle back on the sofa and pick up one the papers. The headline covers the entire top of front page. It screams in bold letters “
SNODGRASS SINKS JAPANESE FLEET
!!!” The headline on the second newspaper is equally large. It says “
SNODGRASS’S REVENGE
.”