lot to his ’68 Chevrolet Impala.
As he opened the door and sat inside, it all flooded back.
There was never a face or recognizable voice that went with it. All he could remember
was the outline of a head and a man’s voice. It spoke to him so weakly, so hauntingly,
“Harry, I . . . hurt bad! What happened? The . . . whole side . . . caved in.” The
voice slipped away, but Harry could not move to help. He had tried so hard to move!
Sometimes he awoke in a sweat, thinking he was there in the submarine again, trying
to move. But he could not. He was stunned, and it felt as though a great weight were
on top of him, pressing down, paralyzing him.
It was one of the memories of the war that troubled him the most. He racked his brain
there in the parking lot, as he had thousands of times before. But his mind was blank.
He heard the words and saw the vague shape of the head. The great weight had held
him down, making it impossible for him to move. Yes, I had an excuse, he thought ,
staring forward. I sit here in my car, twenty-seven years later, safe in Dorance,
Iowa, knowing that I was hurt. But it’s never enough, is it? It’s not a good enough
excuse. It’s bad enough that I didn’t help the man, but I don’t even know who he
was. Was he an officer? Is that why he called me by my first name? Or was he an enlisted
man who called me “Harry” just because he was so badly hurt? If he was an officer,
who was it? Was it Don Forbes, or Larry Montain, or Simpson, or Cordell? It might
even have been Walter Wood. They all perished in the sinking . . .
October 14, 1943, Central Pacific
The submarine Mojarra , on which Lieutenant Harry Connors was serving, had been making
an “end run” at a top speed of twenty-one knots on a convoy off the western edge
of Mindanao in the southern Philippines. Several hours earlier, at about 0600, they
had seen a large convoy come out of the mists and head due north, directly away.
The only thing to do was to try to race around the flank of the convoy and get in
front of it for a torpedo attack. A submarine on the surface during the day with
the periscope raised and on four-power could see the smoke from ships for many miles,
while its little silhouette allowed it to remain almost unseen.
Captain Fostel was on the bridge, barking out orders that were obvious to everyone,
as usual. There goes “Hostile Fostel” again , Harry thought, exasperated. The truth
was that Fostel was too old to command a submarine. He wasn’t aggressive enough to
take the calculated risks necessary for successful command, but was quick to blame
that lack of success on others. Harry had witnessed many occasions when Fostel had
ridiculed an officer in front of the crew for some triviality. Mr. Wood, he would
say, you would have done much better if you had done it this way instead . . .
“What does he know about respect?” Harry mumbled to himself. No explanation or excuse
of any type by the victim held any weight with “the Boss,” as he liked being called.
In fact, excuses only made it worse. The captain would stubbornly cross his arms
and frown at the man without responding. Reprimands took the form of unsavory duties
like being on garbage detail, where, just to get it done, the officer would help
“Cookie” dump sacks of garbage overboard. The men, officers and enlisted alike, soon
learned to just accept Fostel’s criticism and scorn, say nothing, and go about their
duties. Named after an insignificant little silver fish, Mojarra was an insignificant
and unhappy boat.
And an unlucky one. It went all the way back to Lake Michigan. Mojarra had been built
at Manitowoc, Wisconsin, and the crew first assembled there for the commissioning.
Fostel first got on everyone’s nerves during the lake trials. That was long before
Harry joined the boat for its third war patrol.
Harry’s friend, Don Forbes, told him about one day on the lake in February of 1942,
with the temperatures well down into the twenties. As
As he opened the door and sat inside, it all flooded back.
There was never a face or recognizable voice that went with it. All he could remember
was the outline of a head and a man’s voice. It spoke to him so weakly, so hauntingly,
“Harry, I . . . hurt bad! What happened? The . . . whole side . . . caved in.” The
voice slipped away, but Harry could not move to help. He had tried so hard to move!
Sometimes he awoke in a sweat, thinking he was there in the submarine again, trying
to move. But he could not. He was stunned, and it felt as though a great weight were
on top of him, pressing down, paralyzing him.
It was one of the memories of the war that troubled him the most. He racked his brain
there in the parking lot, as he had thousands of times before. But his mind was blank.
He heard the words and saw the vague shape of the head. The great weight had held
him down, making it impossible for him to move. Yes, I had an excuse, he thought ,
staring forward. I sit here in my car, twenty-seven years later, safe in Dorance,
Iowa, knowing that I was hurt. But it’s never enough, is it? It’s not a good enough
excuse. It’s bad enough that I didn’t help the man, but I don’t even know who he
was. Was he an officer? Is that why he called me by my first name? Or was he an enlisted
man who called me “Harry” just because he was so badly hurt? If he was an officer,
who was it? Was it Don Forbes, or Larry Montain, or Simpson, or Cordell? It might
even have been Walter Wood. They all perished in the sinking . . .
October 14, 1943, Central Pacific
The submarine Mojarra , on which Lieutenant Harry Connors was serving, had been making
an “end run” at a top speed of twenty-one knots on a convoy off the western edge
of Mindanao in the southern Philippines. Several hours earlier, at about 0600, they
had seen a large convoy come out of the mists and head due north, directly away.
The only thing to do was to try to race around the flank of the convoy and get in
front of it for a torpedo attack. A submarine on the surface during the day with
the periscope raised and on four-power could see the smoke from ships for many miles,
while its little silhouette allowed it to remain almost unseen.
Captain Fostel was on the bridge, barking out orders that were obvious to everyone,
as usual. There goes “Hostile Fostel” again , Harry thought, exasperated. The truth
was that Fostel was too old to command a submarine. He wasn’t aggressive enough to
take the calculated risks necessary for successful command, but was quick to blame
that lack of success on others. Harry had witnessed many occasions when Fostel had
ridiculed an officer in front of the crew for some triviality. Mr. Wood, he would
say, you would have done much better if you had done it this way instead . . .
“What does he know about respect?” Harry mumbled to himself. No explanation or excuse
of any type by the victim held any weight with “the Boss,” as he liked being called.
In fact, excuses only made it worse. The captain would stubbornly cross his arms
and frown at the man without responding. Reprimands took the form of unsavory duties
like being on garbage detail, where, just to get it done, the officer would help
“Cookie” dump sacks of garbage overboard. The men, officers and enlisted alike, soon
learned to just accept Fostel’s criticism and scorn, say nothing, and go about their
duties. Named after an insignificant little silver fish, Mojarra was an insignificant
and unhappy boat.
And an unlucky one. It went all the way back to Lake Michigan. Mojarra had been built
at Manitowoc, Wisconsin, and the crew first assembled there for the commissioning.
Fostel first got on everyone’s nerves during the lake trials. That was long before
Harry joined the boat for its third war patrol.
Harry’s friend, Don Forbes, told him about one day on the lake in February of 1942,
with the temperatures well down into the twenties. As
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