And the Lord Shall Raise an Ensign

By Harold Gildston and Phyllis Gildston

"Gordon floated out of the commander's office. He sensed his fortunes had turned 180 degrees. On the pinnacle of a phenomenal high, incandescing like lights on Broadway, he now believed that the backbreaking labor he had performed for his father on the roofs of Brooklyn had a larger purpose. His feet carried him to where his prayer book lay open to the well-worn page containing the sentence" and the Lord shall raise an ensign "

"And the Lord Shall Raise an Ensign" is a World War II male Cinderella story of sorts-with seductive and serendipitous twists. Charles Gordon, a handsome, well-spoken Jew from a poor working-class Yankee family, enters a naval officer's program along with almost exclusively southern classmates.

With some fairy-godmother luck and remarkable feats of derring-do, accomplished despite the erection of malicious and prejudicial obstacles, Gordon eventually becomes an oddball hero among awestruck peers and admiring superiors.

After earning the rank of ensign, an unexpected sequence of events ends with the virgin officer serving brilliantly as the Navy's youngest lead fighter director on an aircraft carrier in the Pacific war zone. Unforeseen and unjust consequences of dangerous liaisons, however, threaten to destroy him completely.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 4, 2007
• ISBN: 9780595820429

Harold Gildston

The late Harold Gildston, Ed.D., served as a lieutenant in the U.S. Navy during World War II. Phyllis Gildston, Ph.D., later ?served? as his wife. As university professors, they specialized in the fields of communication and psychology. Phyllis is currently the Director of a therapy practice in New York. Harold has bequeathed us his experiences in this quasi-memoir.

Book preview

AND THE LORD SHALL

RAISE AN ENSIGN

A Novel

Harold Gildston

Phyllis Gildston

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Lincoln Shanghai

AND THE LORD SHALL RAISE AN ENSIGN

Copyright © 2007 by Phyllis Gildston

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-0-595-37656-8 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-0-595-67537-1 (cloth)

ISBN: 978-0-595-82042-9 (ebk)

Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

This book is dedicated to all American war veterans, living and dead

Let everything that hath breath praise the Lord; praise ye the Lord. And by the hands of thy servants, the prophets, it is written, saying: All ye inhabitants of the world and ye dwellers on the earth, and the Lord shall raise an ensign.

—Isaiah

ONE

A drop of moisture hit a gun barrel. It was followed by another a few seconds later. And another. And another. The moisture on the barrel fizzled its way into nothingness as the temperature was 110 degrees. The perspiration gathered at Gunner’s Mate Johnson’s chin, forming droplets. A constant stream of wetness slipped out from under his helmet. The shirt under his flak jacket had been soaked with sweat for most of the hour that he had been on duty. Johnson remembered the hazardous equipment on the farm in Iowa on which he had worked being dangerous unless one knew how to manipulate it. But the duty to which he was now assigned was intrinsically, unavoidably and, he intuited, fatally dangerous.

Johnson was right. It was the last day of his life.

Three members of the gun crew were faring no better. It was the last day of their lives, also.

Other gun crews around the ship were seen in similar waiting posture. All were serving aboard the U.S.S. Altamarlow, a Knox-class destroyer on picket duty. Task Force Five, which was composed of two aircraft carriers, four cruisers, twelve destroyers and support ships, had just completed launching 48 fighter planes from the deck of the U.S.S. Roi Island. Now the fleet started to maneuver into defensive positions.

The Altamarlow was on station five miles from the carrier it was protecting. About one mile ahead of the destroyer was another, the U.S.S. Winside. A mile behind, the U.S.S. Damerace formed part of the circle of picket ships protecting the main force. A total of nine destroyers encircled the fleet. They were, naturally, the most exposed ships as they took the brunt of any incoming Japanese air-raid. Each and every man could think of someplace he would rather be.

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In the air-conditioned Combat Information Center aboard the Roi Island, Commander Robertson was watching the radarscope over the shoulder of the Fighter Director Officer, Lieutenant Commander Stoppard. The latter, whose face was shining with perspiration, maintained radio contact with the fighter planes the carrier had just launched. The planes were on an interception course, hoping to make contact with the incoming raid as far from the fleet as possible. The farther the contact, the more chance of the Americans shooting down the Japanese before they could reach the fleet. If any of the enemy got through, they would, hopefully, be finished off by anti-aircraft fire from the ships.

Stoppard had the American planes climbing to gain the advantage of height for their attack. The enemy planes were still 60 miles away and closing fast on a direct course. The American chickens were now 25 miles from the fleet, flying at top speed.

A large, vertical plastic board showed the tracking of the Japanese planes in red and the American planes in blue. The sailor drawing the lines on the board appeared calm but, even in the cold Combat Information Center, his hand gleamed with sweat as he drew. The lines headed toward each other as the Fighter Director Officer told the flight leader to look for the enemy at the ten o’clock position, low.

Interminable seconds ticked. Again, the Fighter Director Officer told the flight leader that he should see the enemy at ten o’clock. No response.

Give me a radio check, ordered Stoppard. He wanted to be certain that they were still in radio contact. The flight commander, dubbed Apple 1 today, started his count to confirm that he heard the Fighter Director Officer 5 X 5.

Tally-ho, the call denoting sighting of the enemy, cut across Apple 1’s count. Apple 4 had spotted them. Bogies at nine o’clock.

A perceptible sigh of relief was emitted by all in C.I.C. The sound of machine-gun fire barked through the speakers in C.I.C. Announcements blared forth on every ship of the fleet. Cheers sprang from the lips of thousands of sailors. The gunner’s mate wiped his forehead for the first time.

Suddenly, a cry of alarm as Apple 1 shouted, Six Zeros got through. Warning announcements immediately sprang forth on every ship. Enemy aircraft heading toward fleet from the west.

Spotters focused their binoculars on the sky and soon picked up six specks, which rapidly turned into enemy planes. The anti-aircraft guns aboard the Altamarlow and the other picket ships closest to the enemy opened up. One Zero dove for the Altamarlow. The gunner’s mate fired his 40mm gun as fast as it could be loaded. The right wing and the nose of the Zero disintegrated but the plane kept coming. It was now a projectile with the shattered remains of a Japanese pilot slumped over the controls.

Moments before his death Johnson stopped firing, staring in fascination as his enemy’s body appeared to float towards him.

Within seconds the plane smashed into the Altamarlow at the position of the gun emplacement. The entire ship exploded and sank within ten minutes.

Image318.EPS

Over the next year, like a movie in a feedback loop, similar scenes will be played out. One day a remarkable young man, fresh out of training, will come aboard the Roi Island and leave a unique imprint.

TWO

While the unnerving scene of a ship’s sinking was taking place in the Pacific, another scene was unfolding thousands of miles away in Schenectady, New York. Leaves crackled and snapped as a young man’s new shoes carried him from the train toward Union College and the V-5 program. It was a strange sound for him; there weren’t many trees around his home in Brooklyn with leaves he could crunch in crisp weather. The snap, crackle, pop jingle of Rice Krispies fame rushed to his mind.

There was nothing outwardly outstanding about Charles Gordon, this chin-dimpled, square-jawed, sloe-eyed Jewish boy from Brooklyn. Oddly, one could not possibly tell, by looking at or listening to him, that he was either Jewish or from Brooklyn. He was the only one among his friends to enlist. The others waited to be drafted, two of whom would be killed in battle. That his older brother had enlisted in the army air corps two years earlier was not in any way determinative—or so Chuck rationalized. Rick enlisted to escape whereas Chuck joined, as he saw it, to help lead the good old USA to victory. The country had afforded his immigrant family safety and opportunity. Risking his life for freedom, if necessary, was his way of saying thank you.

Under his plain, quite threadbare, hand-me-down clothing, one step above homespun, was a hard-muscled young man. Gordon had lifted weights and worked out since he was fourteen but was hardly a fanatic body builder. He believed that his physical prowess could best be accounted for by the work he did for his father almost every day after school—heavy-duty chores such as roofing, shoveling coal, and removing ashes and garbage from the old man’s six family house.

The neighborhood Gordon came from was working-class and rather rundown. Small storefront synagogues dotted the area. Chuck would often bemuse himself with the irony of the reverse thought that some of his best high school friends were Christian. Although his family was orthodox, inhabiting within him was a more maverick, broad-based, and unconventional spirit.

Beneath crew-cut dirty-blond hair, his handsome face surrounded a nose, strong and imperfect, broken when he spent several weeks as a lifeguard. He had slammed into a jetty, face first, saving a swimmer’s life at the Rockaways in Queens. That ended his life-guard career. Now he was out to save the whole country.

The V-5 program was the top of the heap. At the least Chuck had to try to be at the top. He cared not a whit if anyone else knew. Always in competition with himself, it was as if whatever he did was not quite good enough. If it weren’t for his at the ready and sometimes acerbic sharp wit, he would be classified as socially shy. Never did he brag about any of his many accomplishments. Indeed, when confronted by others about one of his feats of derring-do, he would typically blow it off with a witty disclaimer, which always got at least a smile. If he had one major weakness it was his attachment to honor. He would do whatever it took to protect it. It was his anchor to security.

The walk to the campus was over a mile but Gordon found it an exhilarating experience. He was not used to such cold weather by November first. Not wearing clothing warm enough to fend against the wind, his teeth chattered periodically. The streets were lined with stately oaks and poplars. An unusual sight for him. It was like Prospect Park in every direction.

This was the best day of his life and he knew tomorrow would be better. There is no stimulant so potent as the presumption of better days ahead. His heart beat double-time.

Aside from the sandwiches his mother insisted on his taking, he was traveling light. Within the hour he was to change into navy blues, a color he would stay with for three and a half years. Besides the clothes on his back, which he was to mail home, anything else would have been superfluous.

The tall stone gates of the college and some of the buildings could be seen from blocks away. How impressive and different from the drab buildings of Brooklyn College where he had attended one semester.

Signs on the campus directed Gordon to the gymnasium where he received his clothing, sheets, and blankets. Storekeeper First Class Smith laughed out loud when Gordon asked if the blankets could be worn on campus.

Directed to the largest building, Gordon dropped his new possessions on top of one of the steel beds still available, as other recruits hurriedly staked out their own territories.

At 1600 hours, Gordon was back in the gym, dressed in bell-bottoms that felt as odd fitting as they looked. There were about 80 other trainees lined up to listen to Chief Merwin. Some of the boys shuddered at his ferocity. The chief was a bulky toy bull daring anyone to exhibit a red flag. This bull had no neck. A squat head glued onto massive shoulders presented a less than appetizing sculpture. His demeanor said knock this off my shoulder if you dare to everybody under the rank of chief. He had all the polish of an old rumbling freight train. The young recruits were his breakfast, lunch and dinner. Furthermore, he was educated well beyond his intelligence, all the way up to a second year in high school. Seasoned recruits could not figure out how he had gotten this far.

My name is Chief James Merwin. M-E-R-W-I-N. Gordon immediately blurted out the first of his trouble-making statements. His voice seemed to float across the gym as though from an interminable farawayness. Would you spell that again, Chief? Well, maybe it was not his voice which said that, he dared to hope.

A crescendo of guffaws froze as Chief Merwin approached Gordon and fixed on him with a beady eye. What’s your name, sailor?

Since Merwin’s eyeballs were about six inches away, not a scintilla of doubt remained in Gordon’s mind that he was the one being addressed. Merwin’s foul breath, which could have been attributed to a large pig, enveloped Gordon.

Chuck Gordon, sir.

"What’s your full legal name? No way, knew the chief, was the name Chuck" legal.

Instinctively Chuck almost blurted out his birth name. It had been with him until two summers ago. That July he’d tried out for an apprenticeship program for radio announcers at ABC. Out of over six hundred applicants, he was one of ten chosen. He may have come from a tribe of the chosen, but America sure wasn’t ready yet for their names.

Post-audition, at his contract conference with a very rushed, indifferent ABC personnel staff member, he was told that he had to change his name. Gorofsky just will not wash in show biz, pronounced the chain-smoking employee. Chuck complained, noting that radio announcing was not exactly show business. Why couldn’t he just put down a pseudonym on the contract, Chuck asked. The response was swift and definitive: "Look kid, do you want the job or not? I could name for you hundreds of radio announcers and Hollywood stars who had to do the same thing. This is a legal contract and we only accept strictly legal names. You’ve got a week and a half max to pick a suitable American name, legalize it, and sign the contract. You decide and get back to me. Looking over Chuck’s shoulder with a distinct air of dismissal, he called out, Next!"

The moment of hesitation on Chuck’s part prompted Chief Merwin to up his decibel level.

"Didn’t you hear me, kid? What’s your full legal name?

Charles Moses Gordon, sir.

"Oh, Charles Moses Gordon." A knowing glint narrowed Merwin’s eyes. Paydirt! he thought.

"And where are you from, Charles Moses Gordon?"

The one and only Brooklyn, New York, sir.

"Well, Charles Moses Gordon, from the one and only Brooklyn, New York. Yours is the first name I’ve heard today. I’ll remember it."

The way Merwin repeatedly spit out Chuck’s middle name made two things clear. First, Merwin did not exactly take to Jews. And second, it was his own foot in mouth that had needlessly put him into the line of fire. He had only himself to blame if he got hit. Gordon relished exercising his quick wit, sometimes most inopportunely. Yet, at the ripe old age of 18, he had always managed to escape the consequences.

Image327.EPS

At muster, Merwin read off the names of the new recruits in alphabetical order. The name Clemens Ames meant nothing to Gordon. Only because of the murmur of voices, he turned to look at the man who had stepped forward. Gordon saw a black recruit. Although he attended classes with three black students at Brooklyn College, a black naval officer trainee just seemed out of place.

Merwin went on, and hesitated upon reaching Gordon’s name. Chuck stepped forward smartly. Merwin glanced up knowingly from his list. Another pause and Merwin continued. He then informed them that all of them had been selected for the V-12 program to serve their country as deck officers in the navy.

Gordon raised his hand. What is it, Gordon?

Not me, sir. The chief looked at the roster. Your name is here, Gordon. Oh, yes, Mr. Gordon will not become a deck officer like the rest of you. He’s the only trainee in the V-5 program. He hopes to become a naval pilot.

Marines, sir.

Oh, excuse me, the Marines, sarcasm dripping.

The recruits were instructed to find a roommate, report the pairing names to the chief, collect their belongings from the beds they’d temporarily commandeered, and move into permanent quarters at Delta Phi Ship. Responding to the inquiring looks of the young men, the chief explained that the navy had taken over several fraternity houses and tacked on the word ship after the Greek names.

As the recruits left muster, Gordon looked around for a likely roommate but the drawling men gravitated toward each other. With the exception of Gordon, all the recruits came from Alabama or Mississippi. Not having encountered individuals south of New Jersey, Gordon found it curious to hear their slow Southern speech which made them sound as if they had been dislodged from a deep sleep. He also remembered how offbeat he had sounded to his Brooklyn buddies when, at age fourteen, he taught himself to speak just like the radio announcers he listened to and admired.

Gordon tried not to look at Clemens Ames directly. He had no plans to room with a black man. He was not anti-Negro, but rooming with one was a different story. As the other recruits gathered up their belongings preparing to move into Delta Phi Ship, Gordon sat on the edge of his bed to write his first letter home. When he got there, he figured, someone at Delta Phi Ship would need a roommate. No need to hurry.

The last excited drawl died away and Gordon was conscious of Ames’ movements to and from the community bathroom, or the head as he learned to call it.

Three short letters later and 30 minutes before dinner, Gordon decided to walk around the darkening campus. As he was about to get up, blocking his way was a pair of feet that he instinctively knew must belong to Ames.

Hi, I’m Clemens Ames.

Chuck rose and stabilized his glance, fascinated by how white Ames’ teeth appeared against his black skin. I’m…Chuck Gordon. After a split-second but palpable pause, It’s just that I’ve never had a roommate before and.., his voice trailed to another dark instant of silence.

What makes you think I want to room with you? Maybe I just came over to borrow a cup of sugar. The hostility in Ames’ voice was obvious. He turned his back and started to walk to his bed.

Want to try rooming together? Chuck ventured immediately, feeling a mite guilty.

Ames turned around, looked Gordon over, hesitated a full minute and then, mincing no words, said, If you don’t try to make me Jewish, I won’t try to make you black. After another prolonged siege of staring, this time partly staged, Ames cracked a semi-smile and extended his hand. Chuck grasped it.

Gordon was well aware that Chief Merwin’s foregrounding of his middle name had firmly tattooed Jew on his image in every new recruit’s memory bank. He also understood that Ames did not have to put foot in mouth to be pegged since he was pigeon-holed on sight. Chuck anticipated that when Chief Merwin was made aware of this perfect pairing he would see it as an act of divine providence. Not one to suck up, fuck him, Chuck concluded, dismissing all concerns.

The two packed up their things and searched out the Chief, whose only comment was, It figures. Chuck and Clemens glanced at each other, each sensing in his own way that in this milieu he would probably always be seen an outsider.

Their room assignment was #31. Locating Delta Phi, they mounted the front stairs of the rather ancient building. The other boys were already settled in and some had found their way to the large social room. The two new additions were greeted with a mixture of perfunctory nods and stony silence.

A husky blond youth detached himself from the group and approached Gordon and Ames. Grinning, he announced himself as Banyon Stipple, the platoon leader. He had been at Union for two semesters and was just appointed platoon leader for this, his last semester. Stipple did not know there were 31 rooms in the Delta Phi house, so he climbed the stairs in front of the two new recruits. On the top floor he looked into three empty rooms, numbered 28, 29, and 30. Finally he located a stairway leading to an attic. The recruits followed. There they found a little cubby-hole of a room, #31.

Were the two boys six feet tall, they would have had a problem. But Gordon was 5’10" and Ames about an inch shorter. The ceiling crowded them and the walls smothered them. A tiny window indicated dark; it was nighttime. Two steel cots, two dressers, and two chairs completed the amenities.

Contrary to Chief Merwin’s anticipation, neither recruit complained. The homes they came from were not exactly luxurious.

At 1800 hours, all the recruits went to the dining hall to partake of a gourmet dinner, Gordon quipped to himself, consisting of a slice of American cheese between slices of white bread. A two-ounce cup of ice cream topped off the feast.

It was announced that muster would be held outside the gym at 0500 the next morning. The men were to wear the light bathing trunks they had been issued plus a thin skivvy shirt. An upper class man winked at Gordon and said, You’ll love it.

Upon returning to their room, Gordon and Ames were greeted by the sight of all of their clothing thoroughly soaked in water and tied in knots. They looked at each other and started to disengage the clothes, which was not easily done.

Shit! Gordon shouted. Laughter from downstairs greeted his exclamation. It took them over an hour to untie all the garments.

The pair stretched the clothes out on the floor to let them dry. Everything, including their dress uniforms, was wrinkled beyond belief. Stipple knocked on the door and was about to step inside when he noticed that there wasn’t an inch of stepping room available. With a sad shake of his head, he informed them they weren’t the only ones being hazed. He also let them know that he asked Chief Merwin if they could move downstairs to one of the more comfortable rooms. There were three empties after all. But the chief was saving the rooms for next semester’s recruits.

Their troubles weren’t over for the night. At 2200 hours all lights had to be turned out. Gordon got into his cot and immediately his feet found a bottle under his covers. He reached down and pulled it toward him. Hearing a gurgle of water, he stopped. The gurgling didn’t. Quickly shifting the bottle upright, he threw back his covers to discover that he was holding a milk bottle partially filled with water. The rest of the water had already drenched the bottom of his bed. A string had been attached from the metal bars at the foot of the bed to a cork, which was contrived to fit into the neck of the bottle. His pulling on the bottle had unplugged the cork with saturating results.

Shit, again. Laughter, again.

Gordon spent the night in as close to a fetal position as he could. Asleep for a few hours, a steam whistle jolted him and Ames from their beds. The luminous dial on Gordon’s watch read 4:50. Ten minutes to get dressed and reach the gym. The two young men trembled in their still damp trunks. They out-shivered all the other recruits in the 29-degree temperature. But the events of the previous night and their early morning thermal discomfort were only imperceptible ripples on the ocean of troubles to come.

When Gordon spied Chief Steuben he did a clichéd double-take. Of medium height and with not an ounce of fat on any part of his body, his jet black hair in an ultra short crew-cut over a hard but handsome face, Steuben could have been a doppelganger of Gordon’s errant big brother, Rick—only Steuben was about 10 years older. He pulverized each recruit with a strangely familiar hostile glare. Gordon prayed it was all surface similarity. But something inside whispered—no, more like shouted—that there was a deeper connection. He could not possibly have guessed at this moment how accurate his gut instinct was.

Chief Steuben led all the officer trainees in 30 minutes of stretching exercises and then a one-mile run around the college track. Sometimes Steuben would hum as he put the trainees through their paces, with a melody about as varied as the sound of a General Electric power station. Gordon took solace in noticing the chief was wearing the same outfit as the trainees. That lasted five minutes; then Steuben’s shorts were covered by long johns. No such comfort for the trainees.

After a quick shower for all, Stipple led the trainees on a march to the mess hall. This time the feast was cold fried eggs, at least 20 minutes old. Gordon took two of them and a couple of slices of bread. He ate the whites and then stabbed at the yolks. No luck. A yellow cover hardened over the yolk, which could only be lifted and cast aside to reach the edible part beneath.

Chief Merwin walked among the young men dining. Like the chow, Gordon? asked the chief from behind the recruit as he eyed the yolk covers at the side of Gordon’s plate.

Yes, thank you, Chief, it’s terrific, smiling much too expansively. Then Chuck blinked his eyes three times like a shy young maid as he continued to stretch out the smile. Good thing they can’t punish you for body language wit, hoped Gordon.

Um-hmm, and Merwin moved on, a bit baffled.

Back at Delta Phi, programs were handed out. Gordon looked at 20 credits of course work, up from the 12 he had taken at Brooklyn College. Included were Calculus, Navigation, English, Naval History, Geology, Engineering, and Gym.

Although excited by his first day of classes, Gordon’s eyelids fought gravity. Most stimulating to him was Mahan on Naval Warfare, the text for the Naval History class. Within the first week,