28 August 1945
USS Maxwell (DD 525), anchored one thousand yards off Kanagawa Prefecture, Sagami Bay, Japan
The night passed peacefully, with two destroyers patrolling outside the anchorage to bolster security. Personnel boats patrolling inside the anchorage searched for enemy swimmers, small boats, midget submarines, or any other mischief an enemy might put together. The morning dawned clear and bright, and sunlight glistened off the dew that had collected on the ships overnight.
The water was calm and the Maxwell tugged gently at her anchor as the sun rose higher. Boilers 1 and 4 and generator 2 were on the line providing power. A condition III watch remained in effect on all ships, with radars energized along with a full bridge watch and skeleton crews in CIC, sonar, and all gunnery stations, where live rounds lay in their trays, ready to ram and fire.
Before chow, off-watch sailors flocked to the bridge for “hour-glass liberty,” scanning with binoculars the Japanese shoreline a half-mile away. The firecontrolmen granted access to the Mark 37 gunfire control director atop the bridge, which offered a fine view. Men lined up all the way down to the main deck taking turns for a twenty-second sweep of the black sand beaches of the Japanese Riviera through the stereoscopic rangefinder. On occasion, a shouted “owwwwwieee” indicated that a sailor had managed to focus on a woman.
Wesley Sipes was a second-class radioman who had lived in Yokohama for five years when his father was a dispatcher for American President Lines. He still remembered some of the language and bits about the countryside. With his curious tourist seated at the rangefinder, Sipes would start at Kamakura, explaining that in AD 1250 Kamakura was the fourth-largest city in the world with a population of 200,000. Rich in political history, Kamakura was perhaps best known as home to the massive thirty-eight-foot-tall bronze statue of Amida Buddha. Enclosed since it was built in 1252, it survived an earthquake and tsunami in 1923 that destroyed the surrounding temple. To this day, Sipes would tell his guest, it still sits outside, exposed to the elements. Sweeping the rangefinder from left to right, Sipes would go on to say that Kamakura was also the site of the emperor’s summer palace. More than one sailor muttered something about sending over a few 5-inch rounds for Hirohito’s wake-up call.
In the wardroom, a well-rested Ingram joined Jerry Landa and the off-watch officers at breakfast. He listened to stale jokes as they dined on powdered eggs and milk and good toast made from bread baked by the cooks during the night.
Landa scraped his plate with the last piece of toast, then sat back and raised the message again. “Who is Marvin Radcliff?” he asked Ingram. “And are we really invited to the surrender ceremony?” The message Ingram had received from the Missouri yesterday was an invitation from General Sutherland to attend the ceremony; it was countersigned by Brig. Gen. Otis DeWitt. Ingram and Tubby White had been so busy setting up watches and securing the ship in the anchorage that Ingram hadn’t paid much attention to the message last night.
“Marvin?” Ingram laughed. “Let me see.”
Landa passed it over. “Nice that you got us invited.”
“Well, of course. This is probably one of the most momentous events of the twentieth century.”
“I appreciate that, Todd,” Landa said. “But again, who the hell is Marvin Radcliff?”
“It’s Bucky. Bucky Radcliff. He was the C-54 pilot.”
“Ahhh. He sounds like my kind of guy.”
The PA announcer crackled with, “Officers’ call, officers’ call.”
“Excuse us please, Captain?” The officers stood.
“Of course.” Ingram nodded as they shuffled out. Tubby White had excused himself earlier and was already back on the quarterdeck.
Landa said, “Interesting that they picked the Big Mo. I guess it’s that she’s the newest one of her class.”
“And named for Harry Truman’s home state.”
“Um, politics rears its ugly head. I bet they kick Halsey off his ship with MacArthur and Nimitz coming to town. There just won’t be enough room for all that brass.”
Ingram said, “I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Look there,” Landa pointed. “Does that really say ‘Otis DeWitt’? That little turd is a brigadier general now?”
“That’s right. He works for General Sutherland. What did he ever do to you?” Ingram recalled DeWitt’s description of Landa. It was obvious the two had had a run-in. Ingram didn’t want to get into the middle of whatever it was. On the other hand, he did want Landa to attend the surrender ceremony—along with Tubby White, the C-54’s cockpit crew, and Sergeant Harper and his Marines. It was his price for keeping quiet about the incident at Toro Airfield. DeWitt had put on a great sputtering act of denial but finally agreed to do his best. And he had come through.
Landa said, “Ran into the little jerk one night in the officers’ club tent at Naha. Started getting official with me.”
“That’s Otis.”
“How well do you know him?”
“We took a boat ride together.”
“Come on, Todd.”
“All right. I met him on Corregidor. And then he ended up on the 51 boat with me.”
“No foolin’?”
“All the way to Australia.”
“I’ll be damned. I can’t see it in that officious little peckerhead, but he must have something to have survived that.”
“That’s why General Sutherland hired him. And now Otis is paying us back because of what we did for him up north. See?” Ingram pointed to the message. “He’s invited the whole C-54 crew along with Sergeant Harper and his Marines.”
“And me.”
“And you.”
“But you added Tubby White.”
“I did.”
Landa rolled his eyes. “This must be Ingram’s revenge. First I have to be polite to Lieutenant Commander White. Then I have to say ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir’ to Brigadier General Dewitt. This is bullshit.”
Ingram did his best to cover a smirk.
Taylor Jefferson, a yeoman first class, appeared at the doorway and knocked. “Excuse me, Captain. A boat pulled up with our mail about a half hour ago.”
“Finally caught up with us?” said Landa.
“Yes, sir. We got a ton. It’s going to take us a while to sort it all out. But there was a special delivery letter for you, Commodore.” He walked in and handed it over.
“Thanks, Jefferson.” Landa took the envelope and said, “Son of a gun, it’s from Laura. What the hell have I done now?” He began tearing the envelope open.
While Landa read, Ingram sipped coffee, savoring the moment. Surrender ceremony! The war really was over. No more kamikazes, no more banzai raids. No Communists from the north. The only thing to worry about today was when to refuel. They’d brought in a tanker and—
“Holy shit!” Landa stood and walked about the wardroom.
“Everything okay?” asked Ingram.
“I’ll say! Get a load of this. I’m gonna be a father.”
“That’s great!” Ingram stood and offered his hand. “Congratulations.”
“Yeah, thanks. Cigars come later.” He lowered the letter. “She wants to get married. Like right now.”
“So?”
“Yeah. I think I can work it out. Grab two or three weeks’ leave and go tie the knot. Why not? What do you think, Todd?”
“I have a shotgun in the gun locker that says you better do it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Landa said absently. “Maybe I can bring it off. Hey, maybe take you along too. Get your dead butt out of here for a while.”
“Hold on, I’m taking my men home on this ship.”
“Just a little leave, Todd, to laugh your ass off while I get married. You’ll be right back.”
“I suppose I could.”
Ingram headed for the door as Landa sat to finish reading his letter. “Please excuse me, Commodore, I have to go figure out how we gas up. And congratulations again.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Landa scanned the final page. “Aww, shit.”
Ingram could have sworn Landa’s face had turned the color of the page he was reading. “What?”
Landa looked at him.
“Jerry, what the hell is it?”
“It’s personal, Captain. Now, please, don’t let me interfere with your fueling schedule.”
“Jerry, can I help? I mean—”
“Todd, seriously, it’s nothing I can’t handle. I’ll let you in on it maybe later. Now go.”
“You sure?”
“Positive. Now, please go.”
“Yes, sir.” Ingram walked out.