Something in my mind began to shift at that point, and I felt myself relax in a way I had not been able to since December of ‘41. The only way I can describe it is a huge weight which had been pressing unseen upon my spirit had lifted and disappeared.
When I was done telling my story, we crossed the plank back to the dock and, being finished with our task, I handed him the hardhat, flashlight, and coveralls and put my own hat back on.
“If you ever feel you need to visit the Oklahoma again or want to see anything else, just feel free to come back,” the chief said to me.
“Thank you, chief, but I think I’m finished here.”
“Thank you for your story, sir,” he replied with another sharp salute. Returning his salute I turned and walked away leaving the shadows of the battleship Oklahoma forever behind me.
Later that evening, when I returned to the Buffalo, I decided to go down to the ship’s machine shop and work on my handgun. Such visits by the skipper might have been out of the ordinary on most ships, but the metal working tools on board were sufficient for the type of gunsmith work I was frequently doing to my Colt to keep it shooting the way I wanted it to. The crew had even set aside a tool box for me for the finer work on the triggers and such that I was continuously adjusting.
On the radio in the background was a USO show featuring Bob Hope doing an “interview” with a “Japanese Ensign Hari Kari Isasyko, a veteran kamikaze pilot of forty seven missions…”
As I worked at getting the pearl handgrips off of my old gun, I couldn’t help thinking about my visit to the Oklahoma earlier and that old chief. I wondered if he was a wise old man who probably knew I had a story to tell, and I had to tell it. How many of my other Oklahoma shipmates had told their stories to him?
One thing I knew he was right about; it wasn’t nearly what I expected it to be.
My chain of thoughts wandered back to that day in the wardroom before the Japs first attacked, and I found myself thinking of how our meeting went that morning. That kind of light-hearted joking around seemed to be a lot more frequent then, as compared to now. Maybe it was partly because of my promotion to captain, but even before that, there was a lot more seriousness because of the war. A lot of the men were willing enough to fight for their country, but many of them sorely wished to return home as well. “It’s a hard thing to miss your family,” I thought, “but we do still need to do what must be done.”
While I was working to get the rusted screws off of the grips of my old gun, I thought back when I had first found it on the wreck of the Oklahoma. For a moment, I had dared to hope it would still be salvageable with the right tools. But the barrel and slide had become so pitted that the etching could no longer be read, and the barrel would most likely not be able to withstand the pressure of being fired. I knew there was nothing I could do but to clean and polish the grips and put them on my newer gun.
I again recalled how angry Susan was when I had it engraved.
God, I missed her and the kids. It suddenly struck me that James was now three and a half years old. “What had I missed?” I wondered. June was nine. Robert was seven. James was walking, I knew, because I had seen the pictures Susan had been sending. Potty trained? I didn’t know. Talking? I didn’t know that either. I wouldn’t even recognize the sound of his voice. How would he even know who I was?
I had been so busy with the war that taking pictures to send home was rare and he was only a month old when I had sent them home to Ohio. I knew about things like June and Robert being in school and getting good grades from letters that Susan sent me, but other than that, who were my children really becoming? And when would I finally get to see them again?
As I was finishing polishing the handgrips, the chief from the machinist crew came in and greeted me.
“Captain, how are you tonight? Working on the Colt again?”
Chief Jackson was on the Buffalo’s shooting team, which was urged on by me, even though the responsibilities of my rank no longer allowed me to participate. He was a good enough shot who really knew his way around the mechanics of the sport. He was also from the South and had somewhat of an accent to back it up. The crew called him “Stonewall,” supposedly because he was a direct descendent of the legendary Civil War general.
“Yes,” I replied. “I visited my old ship, the Oklahoma, earlier today and managed to retrieve my old sidearm.”
“Really? Does it still work?”
“Not a chance,” I said, handing the rusted old Colt over to him to look at, “but I think the handgrips have cleaned up nicely.” As we continued talking, I unloaded my new forty-five and began to remove the stock wooden grips and replace them with the pearl ones.
The chief whistled and said, “It sure looks like it was a nice one. It’s a shame. Are those grips pearl?”
“Yes. I’m putting them on my new gun.”
“It’s too bad about the rest of this old one,” he said, laying it on the workbench next to us.
“Well, it’s in better shape than the ship I got it off of earlier today, or her crew for that matter. And I’m wondering about the former assistant gunnery officer.”
“You were on board during the attack, sir?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Bad, was it?”
“Yes.”
After an awkward pause, he said, “Don’t worry, captain; I’m sure we’ll get the Japs back plenty enough by the end of this war.”
“At this point in the war, I’m sure we will, Stonewall, but will it be worth it?”
“This war is necessary, sir. What do you mean?” he said, with a cross between protest and surprise in his voice that was unusual for an enlisted man to use on his commanding officer.
“I’m sure it is necessary for the United States, chief. And I’m sure for some reason, which we have yet to understand, when they attacked us, the Japs thought so as well. But I wonder, for the sake of all of us on both sides, if it’s worth it.
“I have a wife and three kids, and one is a son who is three who I haven’t seen since he was a month old. Sure, it looks like we are winning the war right now, but it could still drag on for many more months, and a lot of men, even some more that we know, or even us for that matter, may never see our families again.”
“To defend the freedom of those who are left, I suppose, it is worth it, captain,” he said.
“Yes, I suppose you’re right, Stonewall,” and as I slid my new Colt into my shoulder holster with its replaced grips, I said, “but there are some things from the past that are valuable that we need to hold on to. And maybe it’s just that I’m tired of being on ships that keep getting hit by torpedoes, but I also wonder if maybe we are still carrying some things that we should let go of.” I picked up the rusty Colt forty-five the chief had laid on the workbench and dropped it in the trash can.
“It’s been a pleasure talking to you tonight, chief.”
“And you too, sir,” he said as I left the room.
As a crew, we tried our best to keep up with what was going on in the war, but healing the Buffalo’s wounds was a full-time task, and being out of action prevented us from being in a position of “needing to know.” Most of our information came in the form of the typical officially approved news reports and press releases.
News of the continuing Kamikaze attacks and the progress of the Okinawa invasion dominated the news until that battle was eventually won. The fate of the feared battleship Yamato was greatly celebrated when the news made it back to us.