War and Remembrance (2 page)

Now it is the destiny of America — for all its faults and weaknesses, the greatest free society in history — to lead the world against a new grim outbreak of evil, a savage stab at the core of freedom on earth, a dark, shocking start to a new millennium. May the Father of all men prosper our arms in the new fight, as He prospered — in the end — the cause of men of good will in World War II, the great and terrible global battle that these two novels portray.

— Herman Wouk

War and Remembrance
is a historical romance. The subject is World War II, the viewpoint American.

A prologue,
The Winds of War,
published in 1971, set the historical frame for this work by picturing the events leading up to Pearl Harbor. This is a novel of America at war, from Pearl Harbor to Hiroshima.

It is the main tale I had to tell. While I naturally hope that some readers, even in this rushed age, will find the time for both novels,
War and Remembrance
is a story in itself, and can be read without the prologue.

The theme of both novels is single. The last words of Victor Henry’s commentary on the Battle of Leyte Gulf give it plainly enough:

“Either war is finished, or we are.”

I have put this theme in the colors and motion of the fiction art, so that “he who runs may read,” and remember what happened in the worst world catastrophe. As to the history in both tales, I trust that knowing readers will find it has been presented responsibly and with care.

These two linked novels tend to one conclusion: that war is an old habit of thought, an old frame of mind, an old political technique, that must now pass as human sacrifice and human slavery have passed. I have faith that the human spirit will prove equal to the long heavy task of ending war. Against the pessimistic mood of our time, I think that the human spirit — for all its dark side that I here portray — is in essence heroic. The adventures narrated in this romance aim to show that essence in action.

The beginning of the end of War lies in Remembrance.

Washington

23 March 1978

Purim, 5738

“Where is Natalie?”

A
LIBERTY
boat full of sleepy hung-over sailors came clanging alongside the U.S.S.
Northampton,
and a stocky captain in dress whites jumped out to the accommodation ladder. The heavy cruiser, its gray hull and long guns dusted pink by the rising sun, swung to a buoy in Pearl Harbor on the incoming tide. As the boat thrummed off toward the destroyer nests in West Loch, the captain trotted up the steep ladder and saluted the colors and the quarterdeck.

“I request permission to come aboard.”

“Permission granted, sir.”

“My name is Victor Henry.”

The OOD’s eyes rounded. In his starched whites with lacquered gold buttons and his white gloves, with the ritual long glass tucked under an arm, this fresh-faced ensign was stiff enough, but he stiffened more. “Oh! Yes,
sir.
I’ll notify Captain Hickman, sir — messenger!”

“Don’t disturb him yet. He isn’t expecting me. I’ll just mosey around topside for a bit.”

“Sir, I know he’s awake.”

“Very well.”

Henry walked forward on a forecastle already astir with working parties in dungarees, who were dodging the hose-down by barefoot deckhands. The iron deck underfoot felt good. The pungent harbor breeze smelled good. This was Pug Henry’s world, the clean square world of big warships, powerful machinery, brisk young sailors, heavy guns, and the sea. After long exile, he was home. But his pleasure dimmed at the tragic sight off the starboard bow. Bulging out of the black oil coating the harbor waters, the streaked red underside of the capsized
Utah
proclaimed the shame of the whole Pacific Fleet in one obscene symbol. Out of view in the shambles of Battleship Row, the ship he had come to Hawaii to command, the U.S.S.
California,
sat on the mud under water to its guns, still wisping smoke ten days after the catastrophe.

The
Northampton
was no
California;
a treaty cruiser almost as long, six hundred feet, but with half the beam, a quarter the tonnage, smaller main battery, and light hull far too vulnerable to torpedoes. Yet after his protracted shore duty it looked decidedly big to Captain Henry. Standing by the
flapping blue jack and the anchor chain, glancing back at the turrets and the tripod mast, with bridge upon bridge jutting up into the sunlight, he had a qualm of self-doubt. This ship was many times as massive as a destroyer, his last command. Battleship command had been a dream; getting the
California
had never seemed quite real, and after all, it had been snatched from him by disaster. He had served in heavy cruisers, but command was something else.

The roly-poly gangway messenger, who looked about thirteen, trotted up and saluted. Altogether the crew appeared peculiarly young. Pug had at first glance taken for junior lieutenants a couple of young men sporting the gilt collar leaves of lieutenant commanders. Surely they had not served the grinding fifteen years that two and a half stripes had cost him! Fast advancement was a sugar-coating of wartime.

“Captain Henry, sir, Captain Hickman presents his compliments, sir. He’s taking a shower, is all. He says there’s mail for you in his quarters, forwarded from the
California’s
shore office. He invites you for breakfast, sir, and please to follow me.”

“What’s your name and rating?”

“Tilton, sir! Cox’un’s mate third, sir!” Crisp eager responses to the incoming captain.

“How old are you, Tilton?”

“Twenty, sir.”

Ravages of age; everybody else starting to seem too damned young.

The captain’s quarters enjoyed the monarchical touch of a Filipino steward: snowy white coat, round olive face, dark eyes, thick black hair. “I’m Alemon, sir.” The smiling astute glance and dignified head bob, as he handed Captain Henry the letters, showed pride of place more than subservience. “Captain Hickman will be right out. Coffee, sir? Orange juice?”

The spacious outer cabin, the steward, the handsome blue leather furnishings, the kingly desk, elated Pug Henry. Capital ship command would soon be his, and these perquisites tickled his vanity. He couldn’t help it. A long, long climb! Many new burdens and no more money, he told himself, glancing at the batch of official envelopes. Among them was a letter from Rhoda. The sight of his wife’s handwriting, once such a joy, punctured his moment of pride, as the overturned
Utah
had gloomed his pleasure at walking a deck again. In a wave of desolate sickness, he ripped open the pink envelope and read the letter, sipping coffee served on a silver tray with a Navy-monogrammed silver creamer.

December 7th

Pug darling —

I just this minute sent off my cable to you, taking back that
idiotic
letter. The radio’s still jabbering the horrible news about Pearl Harbor. Never in my
life
have I been more at sixes and sevens. Those horrible little yellow monkeys!
I know we’ll blow them off the face of the earth, but meanwhile I have one son in a submarine, and another in a dive-bomber, and you’re God knows where at this point. I just pray the
California
wasn’t hit. And to cap it all I wrote you that perfectly
ghastly, unforgivable
letter six short days ago! I would give the world to get that letter back unread. Why did I ever write it? My head was off in some silly cloudland.

I am
not
demanding a divorce anymore, not if you really still want me after my scatterbrained conduct. Whatever you do, don’t blame or hate Palmer Kirby. He’s a very decent sort, as I think you know.

Pug, I’ve been so damned lonesome, and — I don’t know, maybe I’m going through the change or something — but I’ve been having the
wildest
shifts of moods for months, up and down and up and down again. I’ve been very unstable. I really think I’m not quite well. Now I feel like a criminal awaiting sentence, and I don’t expect to get much sleep until your next letter arrives.

One thing is true, I love you and I’ve never stopped loving you. That’s something to go on, isn’t it? I’m
utterly
confused. I just can’t write any more until I hear from you.

Except — Natalie’s mother telephoned me not half an hour ago, all frantic. Strange that we’ve never met or spoken before! She hasn’t heard from her daughter in weeks. The last word was that Natalie and the baby were flying back from Rome on the 1.5th. Now what? The schedules must be all disrupted, and suppose we go to war with Germany and Italy? Byron must be wild with worry. I have never held it against him, I mean, marrying a Jewish girl, but the dangers, the complications, are all so magnified! Let’s pray she gets out, one way or another.

Mrs. Jastrow sounds perfectly pleasant, no foreign accent or anything, except that she’s so
obviously
a New Yorker! If you get news of Natalie, do send the poor woman a telegram, it’ll be a kindness.

Oh, Pug, we’ve plunged into the war, after all! Our whole world is coming apart. You’re a rock. I’m not. Try to forgive me, and maybe we can still pick up the pieces.

All my love

Rho

Not a reassuring letter, he thought, if wholly Rhoda-like. The passage about his daughter-in-law deepened Pug’s sickness of heart. He had been burying awareness of her plight from his mind, laden with his own calamities and, as he thought, helpless to do anything about her. He was in a world crash, and in a private crash. He could only take things day by day as they came.

“Well! Is Alemon treating you right? Welcome aboard!” A tall officer with thick straight blond hair, a froglike pouch under his chin, and a belly strained into two bulges by his belt burst from the inner cabin, buttoning a beautifully ironed khaki shirt. They shook hands. “Ready for some chow?”

Alemon’s breakfast, served on white linen with gleaming cutlery, was better than anything Victor Henry had eaten in months: half a fresh pineapple, hot rolls, steaming coffee, and a rich egg dish with ham, spinach, and melted cheese. Pug said, by way of breaking the ice, that he had short-circuited protocol and come aboard this way because he had heard the
Northampton
might be leaving soon with a carrier task force to relieve Wake Island. If Hickman wanted the change of command before the ship left, he was at his service.

“Christ, yes. I’m mighty glad you’ve showed up. I hate to go ashore with a war starting, but I’ve been putting off minor surgery and I’m overdue for relief.” Hickman’s big genial face settled into lines of misery. “And to be frank, Henry, I have wife trouble back home. It just happened in October. Some deskbound Army son of a bitch in Washington —” the thick shoulders sagged in misery. “Oh, hell. After twenty-nine years, and her a grandmother three times over! But Ruth is still gorgeous, you know? I swear, Ruth has got the figure of a chorus girl. And left to herself half the time — well, that’s been the problem right along. You know how that is.”

So often, Pug thought, he had heard such plaints before; the commonest of Navy misfortunes, yet not till it had struck him had he remotely imagined the searing pain of it. How could Hickman, or any man, discuss it so freely? He himself could not force words about it from his throat; not to a minister, not to a psychiatrist, not to God in prayer, let alone to a stranger. He was grateful when Hickman turned prominent eyes at him, ruefully grinned, and said, “Well, the hell with that. I understand you’ve had duty in Berlin and in Moscow, eh? Damned unusual.”

“I went to Moscow with the first Lend-Lease mission. That was a short special assignment. I did serve in Berlin as naval attaché.”

“Must have been fascinating, what with all hell breaking loose over there.”

“I’ll take the
Northampton.
“

At Victor Henry’s harsh tone of disenchantment with his years ashore, Hickman cannily winked. “Well, if I do say so, Henry, she’s a good ship with a smart crew. Except this big fleet expansion’s bleeding us white. We’re running a goddamn training ship here these days.” Hickman pulled the ringing telephone from its bracket on the bulkhead. “Christ, Halsey’s barge is coming alongside.” Gulping coffee, he rose, put on his gold-crusted cap, and snatched a black tie.