It was after midnight when Trent finally fell asleep. A single thought had kept him awake for hours. If only I had more time…
Chapter 10
September 2, 1945
USS Missouri
Port of Yokohama, Japan
It was pre-dawn. The USS Missouri was anchored in Tokyo Bay, preparing to host the commencement ceremonies that would receive Japan’s signed surrender and officially end World War II. Already on board were delegates of the Allied Powers, along with representatives from the United States. Leading the ceremonies would be the commander of the Allied troops in the Pacific, General of the US Army Douglas MacArthur. He would be flanked by US Navy Fleet Admirals Chester W. Nimitz and William F. Halsey. The final cog, marking the end of a war that had spanned the globe for six years, was about to officially come to a close. World War II would be officially over.
Below decks, General Medical Officer Jeremiah Trent was on duty, sitting at a cramped desk next to sickbay, preparing to listen in on the Missouri’s internal broadcast of the ceremonies. It had been nearly four years since he left his job as a medical professor at the University of Chicago. After the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, he joined the Army, spending the last two years aboard the USS Missouri. Now, his address was about to change again. He would resume his professorship at the University of Chicago. Lake Michigan’s chilling winds would soon be part of his life once again.
When the Japanese and other delegations were in place, General MacArthur stepped before a battery of microphones linked to the rest of the world. “We are gathered here, representatives of the major warring powers, to conclude a solemn agreement whereby peace may be restored. The issues, involving divergent ideals and ideologies, have been determined on the battlefields of the world and hence are not for our discussion or debate.”
Trent could hear MacArthur’s words as they were piped throughout the ship but, as important as they were, he was paying them no mind. He clutched a wrinkled letter from his wife that had arrived just hours earlier. He knew this historic day would forever be etched in his mind, but not for the same reason it would be remembered by the rest of the world. For long as he lived, each anniversary of Japan’s surrender would be a reminder of the saddest day of his life.
Later, with the ceremonies nearly over, Trent was officially off-duty and went topside. As bad as he felt, he wanted to experience a piece of history that only those privileged to be on board could witness. He arrived just as General MacArthur walked back to the microphones. “Today the guns are silent. A great tragedy has ended. A great victory has been won…”
As MacArthur continued his oratory, Trent marveled at the ease with which such a hardened soldier could turn to statesman. This time he heard all of MacArthur’s words. “As I look back upon the long, tortuous trail from those grim days of Bataan and Corregidor, when an entire world lived in fear, when democracy was on the defensive everywhere, when modern civilization trembled in the balance, I thank a merciful God that he has given us the faith, the courage and the power from which to mold victory. We have known the bitterness of defeat and the exultation of triumph. From both we have learned there can be no turning back. We must go forward to preserve peace.”
Trent battled his temptation to go below. His heart was elsewhere, but he fought through it and stayed for the duration of MacArthur’s speech.
That night, as Trent lay in his bunk his mind was far removed from the earlier ceremonies. He clutched the letter from Mary. The letter was tender, beautifully written. It was also irreversible, brutal. For four long years, the war topside had been tolerable only because of the letters he received from home. It had been two years since Mary wrote informing him that their only child had been diagnosed as severely mentally retarded and would require constant institutional supervision. Working his way out of his personal ennui was a battle he knew he would never win, but he had looked forward to going home. He had no training and very little knowledge about mental retardation, but he was confident he could somehow help. Now, the anticipatory fuel that had allowed him to meet each day head-on since his son’s diagnosis was suddenly gone. He would soon be home, but the son that he watched take his first step on the day he left for the war would not be there to greet him. The letter in his hand was mailed July 17, 1945. The cause of his son’s death listed as undetermined.
While Trent shared Mary’s opinion that the formal statement about the cause of their son’s death was a very cold and distant, for him the words triggered an additional and far different reaction. Until he had a definitive answer for his son’s death, he would never rest until the causation issue was answered. He needed resolution, something that would bring a far more definitive closure than undetermined.
At 3 A.M., Trent still lay awake. General MacArthur’s closing words kept resurfacing. “It is my earnest hope, and indeed the hope of all mankind, that from this solemn occasion a better world shall emerge out of the blood and carnage of the past….”
After agonizing for hours over his own private fear he had quietly carried within for over sixteen years, Trent finally fell asleep just seconds before first light. His past had come back to haunt him. In his quest to create a better world, he had made a mistake. He was convinced that he had indirectly caused his son’s death.
Chapter 11
November 25, 1989
Angels Camp, California
At precisely 2:21 A.M., Samuel Clemens Crockett felt his passion for life take a positive spike for the first time in years. He was about to become a grandfather for the first time but he felt a void he could not quash. He was in the middle of his third two-year term in the U.S. House of Representatives when he lost his wife after a two-year battle with cancer. After Shirley’s death, running for a fourth term lost all its appeal. Every day, her absence still weighed heavily on his heart. They had prayed together for this day.
Two hours and twenty minutes later, near the end of his one hundred thirty mile drive from home, Crockett crossed the Bay Bridge, took the first San Francisco exit and headed north on California Street to Children’s Hospital. Minutes later, he found himself as the lone occupant in the maternity waiting room. For the moment, he had his own private sanctuary. Congress taught him that patience and waiting were sometimes formidable assets, so a few more anxious hours were not going to get in the way if welcoming his first grandchild into the world. He could wait. He closed his eyes, reflecting on his long life as another was about to begin the process anew.
Outside of the six years he spent in Congress, he had spent most of his leisure time studying every facet of Samuel Langhorne Clemens’ life. Born in 1922, twelve years after Clemens death, Crockett’s mother gave him his middle name in honor of her friend Nina, Clemens’ granddaughter, who lived next door to her when she was a child. In the eight years since his wife’s death, he frequently found himself diffusing his ennui by spending even more of his time further honing his scholarly mastery and impressions of the man also known as Mark Twain. The diversion helped take his mind off a grief that only one who has lost a lifelong partner could understand. Even his advancing years cooperated. When his black hair turned white, he grew a gringo moustache that eventually matched his hair giving him an uncanny physical resemblance to Clemens. Taking poetic license, he even found himself unconsciously sharing much of Clemens caustic philosophy by offering opinions or answering questions by quoting Clemens while adding in a little originality of his own. In Angels Camp, he was just called Congressman. Nationally, he had become moderately famous, being called by some as the reincarnation of Mark Twain. He was happy to have the diversion. There was no doubt in his mind that his euphoria was not exclusive. In his heart, he knew he was not alone. He could feel Shirley’s presence. They would share this moment together.
Ninety feet down the hall, her husband at her side, Elena Crockett-Robbins was in the final stages of labor and her usual optimism was being put to a severe test. She managed to breeze through her pregnancy on a cloud of elation, but all that had suddenly came to a screeching halt with each contraction. Giving